Chapter 6 My Seat
SERAFINA
The call ends with Marisol's voice still in my ear. Come to the estate office, Sera. I'm here with him.
I set the phone on the nightstand and sit for a moment in the dark, letting the words settle.
He's not feeling very well. She's been looking after him.
She's there with him, at midnight, on our anniversary, and I'm here in soft trousers and a loose top wondering what exactly I'm supposed to do with this information.
I get up and find my shoes by the wardrobe, the flat ones I can walk in. My coat is hanging by the bedroom door where I left it this morning, and I check the pocket for my keys before pulling it on. Phone goes in the other pocket. That's everything.
The hallway is dark as I make my way downstairs, and I move quietly past Beatrice's door. She went to her rooms after we cleared the table and put the food away. The amber earrings she gave me are in my jewelry drawer, still unworn. I don't want to wake her. I don't want to explain.
Outside, the night air carries the sweetness of the groves, that particular late-March smell of blossoms and approaching warmth.
The estate office is down the hill, past the packing sheds, a separate building that used to feel like an extension of home.
I could walk, but I don't want to. I want to get there and see what's happening and understand why Marisol called me instead of Rafael.
The drive takes only a few minutes. I park beside Rafael's car, noting Marisol's tucked in next to it, and turn off the engine. Through the office windows I can see lamplight, warm and steady, bright enough to show me that someone is still inside.
I remember when we used to come here together.
After we were married, I helped Rafael unpack his father's books from the boxes Corrado had left stacked against the wall. We spent an entire afternoon deciding where everything should go, arguing about whether the agricultural manuals belonged near the window or by the desk.
He wanted them where he could reach them easily. I wanted them where the light wouldn't fade the spines. We compromised on the middle shelf and celebrated with wine from the cellar.
That was before everything became about crisis management. Before every conversation turned into a problem that needed solving.
I get out of the car and walk toward the door.
The front room is empty when I step inside, the desk lamp casting familiar shadows across papers I don't recognize. The door to the inner office stands half-open, and through it I can see the edge of the old sofa, the one Corrado used to nap on during long harvest days.
I push the door wider and stop.
Rafael is on the sofa, reclined against the cushions with his eyes closed. His shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. He looks exhausted. He looks like someone who pushed himself past the point of sense and finally gave out.
And Marisol is bent over him.
One of her hands rests on his shoulder, the other braced against the armrest beside his head. She's close enough that her hair brushes his bare skin, close enough that from where I'm standing, the space between them looks like something I shouldn't be seeing.
She straightens when she hears me, unhurried, and adjusts the sleeve of her blouse with a small precise movement. Her face shifts into something apologetic, something that expects understanding.
"Sera." She lets her hand rest on the sofa beside him. "You came."
I don't move from the doorway. I don't know how to move from the doorway when the image in front of me is still burning itself into my memory.
Rafael's eyes open at the sound of my name. He turns his head toward me, slow and heavy, and I watch him try to focus. "Sera." His voice is rough, barely there. He doesn't move otherwise. He just lies there, looking at me like he's not entirely sure I'm real.
"What happened?" My fingers tighten on the doorframe as I search his face. "Is he all right?"
"He's exhausted." Marisol moves away from the sofa, putting distance between herself and Rafael in a way that feels deliberate. "He's been working too hard for too long. His body finally caught up with him."
I watch his chest rise and fall, trying to settle the alarm that brought me here. She sounds certain that he needs rest. I want to believe her about that. But I still have the image of her bent over him in front of me, her hair against his skin.
"Why is his shirt unbuttoned?" I turn to her. She has straightened her own sleeve, but she hasn't moved to cover him.
"This isn't a good time for a scene." Marisol's voice is gentle, the way you talk to someone who's being unreasonable. "He's had a hard day. We all have."
"That's not an answer." I stay in the doorway, one hand still on the frame. "I asked you a question."
"And I'm asking you to keep your voice down." She glances at Rafael, then back at me. "He needs to rest. Whatever you want to discuss, it can wait until morning."
Whatever I want to discuss. She says it like my anniversary dinner is a minor scheduling conflict. Like the hours I spent waiting, the table I set, the candles I finally blew out, all of it can be filed away for a more convenient time.
"I waited for him all evening." I keep my voice low, controlled, even though something inside me is starting to shake. "I made dinner. I wore a dress. I sat there until I couldn't bear it anymore and blew out the candles myself. And you're telling me this isn't a good time?"
"I understand you're upset." Marisol crosses her arms, and I recognize the gesture. It's the same one she uses in meetings when someone challenges her position. "But standing here making accusations isn't going to help anyone."
"I haven't made any accusations." I let that sit between us for a moment. "I asked why his shirt was open. You haven't answered."
"Because it doesn't matter." Her voice sharpens slightly. "What matters is that he's worn himself out trying to save this estate, and instead of being grateful for everything he's sacrificed, you're interrogating me about buttons."
Grateful. As if I don't know what the estate means to him. As if I haven't spent months listening whenever he would talk, trying to find something I could do. What does she think I wanted tonight? A husband who abandoned every responsibility, or a few hours with the man who promised them to me?
"I offered to help." I take my hand off the doorframe. "Weeks ago. I offered to be part of the work, to carry some of the weight. Do you remember what you told me?"
Something flickers across her face. "That was different."
"Was it?" I think about the buyer meeting, the one I tried to join. The way she told me to leave it to them. The way Rafael turned back to the buyer before answering my offer. "I offered to walk the buyer through the terrace groves. You said you had it handled."
"Because I did have it handled." Her voice rises slightly before she catches herself. "That's what I do, Sera. I handle things. While you're up at the house working on your perfume, someone has to keep this place running."
My perfume. She says it the way she said hobby all those weeks ago, like my work is a pleasant distraction rather than a skill I spent years developing. But I don't take the bait. I've had enough conversations with her to know when she's trying to redirect.
"You used to ask for samples." I watch her face carefully. "Before any of this started. You used to want to be the first to try my blends."
"Things change." She lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. "We've all been busy."
"Things have changed." I can hear my own words getting harder, but I won't soften this for her.
"Specifically, things between us have changed.
These past months, you've known more about my marriage than I have.
You've known his schedule, his worries, his fears.
You knew he was afraid his father regretted retiring before I did. "
"He told me that in passing." Marisol's voice is careful now. "During a late meeting. It wasn't a secret."
"It was a secret from me." I hold her gaze. "His wife. The person who should have heard it first."
"Maybe if you'd been here more often, you would have." The words come out sharp, and I see her register them a moment too late. "I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it?" I wait where I am, giving her the chance to take it back.
She doesn't answer. In the silence, I hear Rafael shift on the sofa, a small sound of movement that draws both our attention. His eyes are closed again, his breathing slow and steady. He looks peaceful, almost. Like someone who has finally stopped fighting something.
I want to go to him. I want to cross the room and touch his face and ask him what's happening, what any of this means. But Marisol is standing between us, not physically blocking the path but occupying the space in a way that makes crossing it feel like an intrusion.
"Sera." Rafael's voice again, muzzy and distant. He hasn't opened his eyes. "Sera, are you there?"
"I'm here." I move toward the end of the sofa, close enough that he should hear without my raising my voice. "I came when Marisol called."
"She's upset." Marisol moves toward the sofa, toward him. "Don't worry about it. Just rest."
Don't worry about it. She says it to him like I'm a minor disturbance, something to be managed rather than addressed. She's speaking for me, interpreting me, inserting herself between us the way she's been doing for months.
"Give us a moment." I turn to Marisol, leaving my hand on the back of the sofa. "I'd like to speak to my husband alone."
"He's in no condition for a conversation." Marisol positions herself near the head of the sofa. "Whatever you need to say to him can wait until he's feeling better."
"That's not your decision to make." I stay beside the sofa rather than retreat to the door. "He's my husband. This is our anniversary. I have a right to speak to him."