The husband diet, p.1
The Husband Diet, page 1
Also by Nancy Barone
THE HUSBAND DIET TRILOGY
The Husband Diet
My Big Fat Italian Break-up
Storm in a D Cup
OTHERS
Snow Falls Over Starry Cove
Starting Over at the Little Cornish Beach House
Dreams of a Little Cornish Cottage
No Room at the Little Cornish Inn
New Hope for the Little Cornish Farmhouse
THE HUSBAND DIET
Nancy Barone
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the UK in 2014 by Bookouture
This edition first published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
Copyright © Nancy Barone, 2014
The moral right of Nancy Barone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB) 9781803287652
ISBN (E): 9781803287638
Cover design: Nina Elstad
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Caveat
Apology
About the Author
Acknowledgements
An Invitation from the Publisher
To my Tuscan Sisters.
Prologue
‘Miss Cantelli?’
I looked up from my desk at the two beaming men in suits. ‘Yes, Mr. Lowenstein?’
‘Can you see our favorite client out, please?’
‘Certainly, sir. This way, please, Mr. Smith.’ I obliged with a courteous smile and ushered the satisfied duck with the golden eggs out of the office then returned to my desk.
‘Have you locked up for the night, Miss Cantelli?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And have you sharpened all the pencils?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Ira.’
‘OK,’ my boyfriend grinned. ‘Let’s go home, honey.’
Home was just over the threshold of Ira’s spare bedroom, from which he operated his newborn company, Tech.Com.
Once in the living room, he slipped his tie off and sighed happily. ‘That’s two excellent clients in two days, Erica,’ he rejoiced as he gave me a smacking kiss on the mouth. ‘At this rate we’ll be a known brand within a year!’
I smiled. Ira was on top of the world. Was now the time to tell him?
‘I need a smoke. Order a pizza or something – we’re going to celebrate. Back in a mo,’ he promised and let himself out through the back door of the small apartment we’d rented together.
It was the second week of October and the snow had fallen, plunging fall right into the dead of winter. The afternoon before, Ira and I had been sipping hot chocolate by the window, naked under the patchwork quilt, admiring the red-and-orange landscape. And just like the sudden onset of winter had fallen upon us, catching us unprepared, so had some unexpected news of my own.
I sighed, changed into my nightie and studied my stomach. I wouldn’t be showing for another couple of months. Could I wait that long before telling him? Slipping into my galoshes and throwing a coat over my bare shoulders, I ventured out into the tiny backyard of our first home together. Not exactly a gazelle, I slipped and slid, desperately trying to stay upright, flapping my arms frantically to stay on my feet. He watched me, puzzled and helpless, and before I could even yelp, I landed on my ass in a heap of snow.
‘You OK?’ Ira laughed as he ditched his cigarette and came over to crouch next to me.
‘Argh,’ I huffed. ‘Sure.’ Considering my ankle hurt, that I’d snapped a nerve in my back and looked like a homeless streetwalker, I was peachy.
He smiled down at me, his face red from the cold. How to tell him? It was way too early in our relationship – he’d only asked me to move in with him and into his company just a few weeks before. How could I spring this on him just as he was starting out, and with minimal damage to our relationship?
I looked around, stalling as he helped me up. Our backyard had suddenly become a layer cake of mud and snow. Depending at what angle you scraped your boots into the ground, you’d get either dirty wet brown caking or the purest, whitest snow. A bit like our present situation. If I could rub my galoshes the right way, it could be a clean, happy start to the rest of our lives. If I scraped haphazardly, I’d find only mud.
I looked at the love of my life, the man of my dreams. Ira Lowenstein was the one I wanted to be with and if we were going to build a family together, here was step one. A little too early, perhaps, but I knew we’d be OK.
‘Come on,’ he said with a grin and pulled me up, using both hands for balance, I hoped, and not because I was beyond the one-arm job.
He pulled me close and kissed my lips. His nose was cold.
‘It’s a mess, this backyard, isn’t it?’ he said.
I nodded, rubbing my cheek against his shoulder.
‘Ira…’ I swallowed, my heart rate picking up, already tap-dancing against my ribs and in my ears.
I had to tell him. It was now or never. But I kept holding my breath, hoping I’d turn blue in the face. And maybe even be rushed to a hospital where the doctor would finally emerge and put Ira out of his misery with a ‘It was touch-and-go there for a while, but now she’s perfectly alright and thankfully, so is the baby.’
To which Ira would blink and whisper, ‘Baby? I’m going to be a father?’ And he’d be so happy, he’d take me home and we’d celebrate with nice hot chocolate and glazed doughnuts.
Ira chuckled, bringing me back to reality. ‘I know, I know. I’ve been neglecting the garden. But I promise, as soon as spring comes, I’ll put up a nice deck for you and we can have BBQ parties and invite all your friends, OK?’
‘Maybe even a swing set for kiddies,’ I suggested, watching him as my heart leaped into my throat.
Was that the right way to introduce the news? How was I supposed to know?
A glance in his direction told me it probably wasn’t, because his red face went snow-white.
‘Well,’ he tittered. ‘It’s a bit too soon to talk about that. Maybe one day – who knows?’
My heart thudded against the bottom of my stomach, dead still. Geronimo. ‘Ira… I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ he said.
It wasn’t a ‘What did you say?’ what. It was a ‘Please tell me you’re joking’ what.
‘Three weeks at the most.’
Ira scrambled and slipped on the ice. I steadied him. Not a good start. His face was sweaty, his eyes wide.
I sighed. ‘Look, I know you’re shocked. Even I can’t believe I’m going to be a mother. But it’ll be OK.’
He looked at the ground for a long time, as if trying to find insect footprints in the snow. After what seemed like forever, he glanced up.
‘I’m not sure I’m ready to be a father just yet, Erica,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we should consider our options.’
I blinked. ‘Options?’ I whispered, understanding but hoping I hadn’t.
‘We’re much too young to start a family. We have a company – our livelihood to nurture. How is a baby going to get our lives into gear?’
And then, the realization. The painful truth. I was too numb to move. But I could still think, and I could certainly still speak.
‘You don’t love me, do you?’ I whispered.
Any man in love with his woman would have been overjoyed to learn she was expecting a baby from him. At least the men in my historical romances would.
He looked at me for a long moment, like when you examine fruit at the grocer’s before buying it. Please say you love me
Ira sighed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. ‘Of course I do, silly. Now why would you get so dramatic?’ And then he kissed me tenderly and broke into a grin. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s get married and have kids.’
I stopped holding my breath. ‘Really?’
Ira tapped my nose gently. ‘I love you – you love me. Hell, how hard can it be?’
1
Comical Visions of Murder
Time: fast-forward to a few years later, to any night of the year. It doesn’t make a difference.
‘Ow! For Christ’s sake, Erica! Can’t you keep this place tidier?’ Ira grumbled as he tripped over our son Warren’s baseball glove in the hall.
Oh, God. Here we go again. I could have sworn Warren had put the glove away when I told him to. I did tell him to – didn’t I? I bared my teeth at Ira in a lame effort to smile. One of these days I’d get lockjaw besides migraines. Had I subconsciously left that glove there to trip him?
Place: our new large white-brick house on 3566 Quincy Shore Drive, Boston. Good piece of real estate. It had taken many years and a lot of sacrifices to buy it and make it our home. Ira’s company still didn’t earn enough to keep us afloat, despite what he always said. And I was happy to do my bit.
But who knew I’d end up like this? Married with children at thirty-four, with thoughts of comic murder drifting through my mind – like clobbering my husband over the head and shoving him in the oven to roast for a couple of days before anyone asked about him. Not that anyone would miss him.
Have you ever, just for a moment, wished your husband would disappear into thin air, or at least to another country far, far away? Or, more simply, go back to being the guy you married ages ago? What the hell had happened to us? I wondered every day. What had started out with a promise of love had in the end become routine, mundane, deathly dull.
I remembered the days I used to serve him his espresso coffee (in bed) in an elegant cup and saucer, but then we’d gone on to just the cup minus the saucer and after Warren was born, Ira was making his own and using styrofoam cups.
And now I was having murderous daydreams, in which I wiped him out of my sight with a single swat of my hand, or pushed him off a cliff (not that there were many on my daily route to work, back from work, picking up the kids and grocery shopping).
But I wasn’t the only one faltering. At least I had a reason – many, actually: a full-time job, two kids, a house to run, meals to prepare, laundry to do. While Ira had become a ghostlike presence, appearing late at night and disappearing in the wee hours.
‘Are you having an affair?’ I’d asked him brusquely one rare Saturday he was home.
He’d looked up from his paper, his eyes wide, studying me, and finally sighed. ‘Erica…’
‘Just please tell me, Ira. No beating around the bush.’
‘No, I’m not having an affair. Besides, when would I even have time?’
He had a point there. Ira was always at work. Assuming he was at work and not, say, bonking the cashier from the bakery opposite his office building.
He put the paper down and squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘And thanks for dropping this on me the one time you see me at home relaxing, by the way.’
‘When else would I ask you when you’re never around? Ira, the kids and I never see you anymore,’ I said, lowering my voice from attack mode to a more persuading pitch. ‘We miss you.’
His face softened. ‘I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m always so busy. I’m overwhelmed. There’s just so much to do and so little time, and Maxine only has two hands.’
His secretary was a college student who came in after her classes to do the paperwork while Ira concentrated on trawling for new clients. He paid her next to nothing, but it was still more than he’d ever paid me. The story of my life. I sighed. Time to make a deal.
‘Maybe we could arrange something. If you could spend one day a week with us – like maybe Saturday – then I’ll spend some time on your accounts. How’s that?’
His eyes widened. ‘Really? You’d do that?’
‘Of course. We’re a family. And it’s time we remembered that.’
Ira nodded, his eyes searching mine. ‘OK. Thanks. I appreciate it.’
And then he did something he hadn’t in a long time. He folded his paper and came over to kiss me on the cheek. I wished it had been on my mouth.
‘Things will get better, Erica. The business will pick up and I’ll have more time for you, Maddy and Warren – for all of us.’
I nodded. ‘I know. It’ll be OK.’
That had been three years ago.
Still today, he’d come home and bury himself in his paper or surf the net (in search of more golden egg-laying ducks that would supposedly save his company), taking little interest in Warren, who was now twelve, and Maddy, who was eight. It seemed at times that he simply endured their presence, always too tired to play with them or help them do their homework. The truth was that by the time he got home, I’d already fed, washed, played and homeworked them, so there was nothing left for him to do. Except to do me. Which he hadn’t in ages, by the way.
What had gone wrong? Exactly when had we started taking the slide? Ira’s work was absorbing him completely, killing any other interest in family life. Not that he’d ever been a real family man. He’d tried. He’d tried so hard. But year after year he became more and more detached from us all. We never went places together anymore. He never came to parents’ night or to the family reunions at my aunts’ Italian restaurant.
He was always cranky but refused to tell me why, no matter how many times I’d sat him down to try to get to the bottom of it. I’d even suggested marriage counseling, but he always said I had too much imagination.
And then one day, it simply got worse.
‘Erica, you know I don’t like eggplant! If you can’t even keep track of the basics, just quit your job already!’
Yeah. And then with what he earned, for the rest of our lives we’d be having our dinners chez le Salvation Army.
I scooped up Maddy’s dolls and Warren’s baseball glove, plunked them in their toy bins and rushed the kids through dinner and off to bed, anxious for the next day to come. If I could only slow the reel down while I was at work or with the kids and my best friend, Paul, and speed up the dreaded few hours Ira was home, my whole life would be made.
I quickly grilled Ira a steak and defrosted a caponata – my grandmother’s amazing onion, potato and red pepper dish, minus the eggplant upon which he frowned. But my homebaked (actually, the hotel’s in-house baker’s I’d passed off as my own) apple pie shut him up almost instantly and he was happy. Until I’d decided to strike the iron while it was hot (mainly while he was home) and talk to him once again about the major root of our arguments.
Life was becoming too hectic and expensive here in the States. Working hours were longer than downtime. Our work–life balance was unbearable. I wanted to go back to my family’s homeland in Italy, Tuscany. At one time it had been our common dream. Tuscany would be our haven, the place we’d planned to move to for a life change.
We’d always wanted to buy an old stone farmhouse with haylofts, granaries and tobacco towers and spend our time restoring them before renting them out to paying guests. We’d produce wine and olive oil, and I’d swap my job as manager of the uber-luxurious Farthington Hotel with hanging laundry and sweeping out rooms, because they’d be our rooms, our property. And our children would see more of us. Us. What a nice ring it had.
As I’ve never suffered having a boss very well, running my own business felt like second nature. I’d stay at home and run the business, bake pies, get a couple of dogs (or maybe not – Ira’s allergic) and watch the kids playing in the open fields. Ira would oversee the crops and boss everyone else around. We’d been determined for that to happen one day. Even the kids had grown up under the idea of Tuscany.
Back then, Ira used to say, ‘Wow, yeah, absolutely.’ Then he switched to ‘Someday,’ and finally just to a lame smile without a comment. And lately, the smile had disappeared, too.
But I wasn’t giving up on our family dream – he’d have to crack sooner or later. So, to get the ball rolling again, I suggested we enroll the kids on an Italian language and culture course.
