Chapter 4 At Seven #2
We work together for the next hour, sorting through equipment I haven't touched in far too long.
My distillation apparatus, carefully wrapped in protective cloth.
My precision scale, still in its original case.
The blending tools I saved for years to buy, each one chosen for a specific purpose I can still remember.
"This one first." I point Rafael toward a case near the door. "It's the most fragile. The glassware needs to go on the back seat where it won't shift."
He picks it up and pauses, testing the weight. "What's in here?"
"My distillation setup." I move another case out of his path. "The pieces are delicate. If they break, I can't replace them easily."
"I'll be careful." He carries it out toward the car, his steps measured and deliberate.
My father watches him go with an expression I can't quite read. "He's being helpful today."
"He offered." I pick up a smaller case, one I can manage easily. "I didn't ask."
"I noticed." My father hefts another case and follows me toward the door. "Your mother says you've been quiet lately. When she calls."
"I've been thinking." I don't elaborate. My father has always known when to push and when to let things be. He chooses to let this be.
We make several trips, carrying cases from the storage room to the car.
Rafael handles the heavy ones without complaint, asking before he lifts anything whether it needs special care. He's good at this, I realize. Once he is here, he takes care.
But I was clear about wanting him in my workshop weeks ago, too. I shouldn't need a heavy box to make my time worth his.
I'm reaching for a case with a difficult latch when Rafael stops me.
"Let me get that one." He's beside me before I can argue, his hand over mine on the handle. "The latch is catching. Your fingers are right against it."
"It's fine." But I let him take it, watching as he adjusts his grip to avoid the spot where the metal bites. "I've been dealing with that latch for years."
"Doesn't mean you have to keep dealing with it." He lifts the case smoothly. "Which of these are fragile? I want to know what to put on top."
I show him the padded compartments and the cases that need to stay upright. He rearranges the trunk to fit them, leaving space for the last box. By the time we're finished, the back seat and trunk are full, but everything is secure.
"That should be the last of it." My father closes the trunk and steps back to survey our work. "Unless you want the old practice bottles. They're still in the cabinet upstairs."
"I have enough bottles." I lean against the car, pleasantly tired. "These are the pieces I actually need."
"Then come inside for lunch before you go." My father's tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "Your mother will never forgive me if I let you leave without eating."
We eat on the terrace overlooking the groves, the same view I grew up with, the same table where I learned to argue about the sweetness of fruit.
My mother has made more food than four people could possibly finish, and she keeps pressing second helpings on Rafael like she's trying to make up for years of missed meals.
"Do you remember the harvest festival?" My father gestures toward the grove with his fork. "The year you two decided to build a fruit stand and sell oranges to your own guests?"
"We came home with a pocketful of coins." Rafael grins at the memory. "Before your mother shut us down for pestering the guests."
"You were seven." My mother shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You'd stolen the fruit from our own trees and priced it higher than the market rate."
"We had overhead." I reach for another piece of bread. "The sign alone cost us a whole afternoon."
"The sign said 'Best Orenges.'" My father's eyes crinkle. "You insisted the spelling was a stylistic choice."
"It was memorable." Rafael catches my eye across the table. "People still talked about it years later."
"People talked about how we couldn't spell." But I'm laughing now, the memory surfacing warm and whole. We were ridiculous children, convinced we could run a business with stolen fruit and a misspelled sign. We were ridiculous together.
After lunch, my parents walk us to the car. My mother hugs me longer than usual, and my father shakes Rafael's hand with something that might be approval.
"Take care of those tools." My father opens my car door for me. "They're worth more than you paid for them now."
"I know." I slide into the driver's seat. "I'll bring you a sample when I make something I'm proud of."
"I'll hold you to that." He steps back and waves as I start the engine.
The drive home is quieter than the drive out, but it's a comfortable quiet. Rafael rests his hand on the console between us, and after a few minutes I reach over and take it. His fingers close around mine without hesitation.
We're almost back to the estate when his phone sounds with a message.
He reads the screen, then turns off the sound without typing an answer.
"Don't you need to answer?" My hand loosens in his, ready to let go.
"It's not urgent." He sets the phone face-down on his leg. "Just a question about the schedule next week. It can wait until we've unloaded."
I keep my hand in his. For once, I won't be finishing alone while he goes to deal with something else.
"Thank you." I squeeze his hand. "For coming today. For helping."
"Thank you for letting me." He squeezes back. "I wanted to see what you're working with. It's impressive, Sera. The equipment, the knowledge. I forget sometimes how serious you are about this."
"You shouldn't forget." He was there when I bought some of these tools. I want him to remember that woman without a reminder. "It's who I've always been."
"I know." His fingers tighten around mine, keeping my hand with his. "I'm going to do better at remembering."
We unload the car together, carrying cases up to my workshop and finding places for everything.
Rafael follows my directions without trying to improve on them, asking where things should go and putting them exactly where I say.
By the time we're finished, the packing cloths are folded away and my old tools are within reach again.
"You have everything you need now." Rafael surveys the room with something like satisfaction. "The whole setup."
"I have everything." I open the scale's case, pleased to see it on my own bench again. Tomorrow I can get straight to work.
Rafael comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"I'm glad you did this." His voice is low near my ear. "I'm glad I got to be part of it."
I lean back into him, letting myself enjoy the moment. We've had so few of these lately. Moments where he's fully here, fully present, not already thinking about the next crisis or the next meeting.
"So am I." I turn in his arms and look up at him. "I liked having you here. Not just for the heavy lifting."
"It was an easy choice." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "You're more important than a schedule question."
He kisses me then, soft and unhurried, and I let myself believe that maybe this is what turning a corner feels like.
***
The following evening, I find Rafael in the dining room, moving a large flower arrangement to the sideboard.
"What are you doing?" I lean against the doorframe, watching him test its weight before setting it down.
"Thinking about the anniversary." He gestures at the cleared table. "I'd rather be able to see you across it." "It's this week. I wanted to make sure I had the day right."
"Thursday." I cross to stand beside him. "I was going to talk to you about it, actually."
"What did you have in mind?" He pulls out a chair and sits, gesturing for me to take the one beside him.
"Dinner here." I sit down and face him properly. "Just the two of us. I'll cook. Nothing elaborate. Just us, at this table, with food we actually want to eat."
"I'd like that." He turns his chair toward mine, leaving his arm along the back of it. "What time?"
"Seven." I watch his face as I say it. "Can you be here at seven? Really here, not sending a message at six saying you'll be late?"
"Seven." He nods once, firmly. "I'll block the whole evening. No meetings, no calls, no interruptions."
"You've said that before." I don't mean it as an accusation, but the words carry their own weight.
"I know." He takes my hand between our chairs. "You shouldn't have had to ask again. Thursday at seven. I'll be here."
I want to believe him. After yesterday, after the equipment and the drive and the kiss in my workshop, I want to believe that something has actually shifted.
"There's something else." I curl my fingers around his. "Do you remember what we ate at our wedding? The first course?"
"The tomato thing." His brow furrows. "With the basil. And something crunchy on top."
"Close enough." I smile at his attempt. "I was thinking I'd make it again. Start the meal the way we started the marriage."
"I love that idea." He squeezes my hand. "I love that you remember it well enough to recreate it."
"I remember everything about that night." I hold his gaze. "The food, the music, the way you kept stepping on my feet when we danced."
"I've improved since then." He affects an offended expression. "Marginally."
"Marginally." I let myself laugh. "I'll believe it when I see it."