Chapter 11 Don’t Let Go #2
Fiorella lifts her own strip and closes her eyes, breathing slowly. I watch her face for reactions, the small movements that tell me whether something is working or falling flat.
"The transition is cleaner than I expected." She opens her eyes and reaches for a notepad. "You're right about the cedar. It's doing its job, but there's room to push it further. What were you thinking?"
"A little more cedar in the next trial." I cap the bottle and set it on the table between us. "I want the warmth without losing that first bright impression."
"Show me." Fiorella pushes the notepad toward me, and I start sketching out the formula changes I've been considering.
We work for almost an hour, going back and forth over adjustments and possibilities.
Fiorella knows scent the way I do, from the inside out, and talking to her makes my brain work in ways it hasn't since I left the Visconti house.
By the time we're finished, I have two pages of notes and a clearer sense of what the final blend needs.
"This is good work." Fiorella leans back and studies me. "You sound more like yourself today than you did on Monday."
"I've been trying to focus on what I can control." I gather the pages and tuck them into my bag. "The work helps."
"How are you doing? With everything else?" She asks it directly, the way she asked about my marriage on Monday when I first told her. No tiptoeing around it.
"I don't know." It's the most honest answer I have. "Rafael's been... different. Since I left. He's actually listening. Actually asking what I want instead of assuming."
"And you don't trust it." Fiorella stops gathering the used strips, leaving me room to answer.
"I've heard promises before." I look at the amber bottle on the table between us. "I need to see if this one lasts longer than a few days."
Fiorella sets a clean sheet of paper over the discarded strips. "Then bring the next trial here when it's ready. Whatever you decide about him, we can keep working."
I think about the test I threw away yesterday, the secret I'm still carrying alone. There are decisions I'll have to make soon whether I'm ready or not. But I'm not going to rush into them just because someone else is finally paying attention.
"I asked him to bring some of my equipment to my father tomorrow." I tuck the capped trial bottle beside my notes, then stand and shoulder my bag. "Small things I can use in the temporary space at my parents' house. It felt strange, asking him for something."
"Strange how?" Fiorella holds the curtain aside but waits instead of ushering me through.
"Like I was giving him permission to be part of my life again." I move toward the curtain. "Even just dropping off a box."
"They're your tools." Fiorella follows me to the front of the shop. "You don't have to leave them there to prove you're angry."
I want to laugh at that. She makes it sound so simple. "I'll remember that."
The bell over the door chimes as a customer enters. Fiorella glances toward the sound.
"I should let you work." I shift my bag on my shoulder. "Thank you for the feedback. And for listening."
"Come back when you have the next version." She squeezes my arm once. "I want to see where you take it."
I step outside into the afternoon sun. The street is quiet, a few people walking past, the ordinary rhythm of a small town on a Friday. I start toward the square where I parked.
Rafael is standing outside the hardware store two doors down, a paper bag in his hand. He looks up at the same moment I notice him, and his expression when he sees me is pure surprise. He wasn't expecting me either.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he closes the distance between us, stopping a careful few feet away.
"Sera." He shifts the bag to his other hand. "I didn't know you were in town."
"I was visiting Fiorella." I gesture vaguely behind me. "What are you doing here?"
"Hinges." He holds up the bag. "For one of the shed doors. The old ones finally rusted through."
Such an ordinary errand. Such a normal reason to be standing on a street corner. I don't know why that surprises me. Did I expect him to have some elaborate explanation, some crisis that demanded his presence?
"I heard about Marisol." I stop beside the hardware shop's display of terracotta pots, letting a woman with a shopping trolley pass between us. "Beatrice told me yesterday."
"I should have done it months ago." His jaw tightens. "I should have seen what she was doing."
"Yes." I'm not going to let him off the hook for that. "You should have."
He lowers the bag of hinges. "My mother said she'd told you. I didn't ask her to make a case for me."
We stand there on the sidewalk, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders. He looks tired, the circles under his eyes darker than they were on Wednesday. He's not sleeping either.
"How is the estate?" I hear myself ask the question before I decide to. "With everything changing?"
Rafael's eyebrows rise slightly, surprise flickering across his face.
"It's complicated. The buyer contracts are still uncertain.
The branding work Marisol was handling needs to be picked up, but that's manageable.
" He pauses, something shifting in his expression.
"I keep wondering whether my father regrets retiring.
Whether he thinks he left me in charge too soon. "
I heard him tell Marisol that only a few weeks ago. I remember stopping where neither of them could see me, holding a question I no longer knew how to ask. Now he is waiting for my answer.
"You're finally saying that to me." I keep my voice neutral. "Instead of to her."
"Yes." The paper bag creases under his fingers. "I told myself I was keeping the worry away from you. But I wanted you to think I had it under control."
"You let her see you frightened." I remember the relief in his voice when she answered him. "You wouldn't even let me ask what was wrong."
"She was there for the work. I could tell myself it was part of her job to hear it." He meets my eyes again. "With you, I wanted to come home having solved it. Then I stayed away because I hadn't."
I don't know what to say to that. Part of me wants to accept it, wants to believe this is the beginning of real change. Part of me remembers all the other times I waited for him to see what was right in front of him.
"I need to get home." I adjust my bag on my shoulder. "My parents will be wondering where I am."
"Can I walk with you to your car?" He asks it carefully, like he's expecting me to say no. "I won't keep you."
I should maintain the distance I've been building. But he's not pushing, not demanding, not assuming he has a right to my time.
"Fine. But just to the car." I turn toward the square before I can make accepting a short walk feel like a decision about the rest of my life.
He falls into step beside me, keeping space between us. We walk in silence for half a block before he speaks again.
"My mother said you asked for some equipment." His voice is quiet, meant just for me. "The droppers and the small scale. I'll bring them tomorrow afternoon, if that still works."
"To my father." I keep walking, not looking at him. "I'm not ready to see you at the house yet."
"I understand." He stops at the corner, waiting for me to cross first. "Whatever you need, Sera. However you need it."
We reach my car. I stop beside it and turn to face him.
"I'm not forgiving you." I dig my keys out of my bag. "I want you to understand that. Asking for my things, letting you bring them over, that's not forgiveness."
"I know." He stays where he is, three feet away, his hands occupied with his bag of hinges. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm asking for the chance to earn it. Slowly. On your terms."
"What does that even look like?" I unlock the car but don't open the door. "What are you actually offering?"
"I don't know yet." The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. "I've been trying to figure that out. What I can give you that isn't just words. What actions actually mean something after everything I've done."
"Start by doing what I asked." I open the car door. "My things go to my father. Please don't use the delivery to get him to let you in."
"I won't." He steps back to give me room to get in. "I'll call him about a time."
"Thank you." I slide into the driver's seat, relieved that I didn't have to explain why it matters.
He stands on the sidewalk watching as I pull away. In the rearview mirror, I see him raise his hand once before turning back toward his own car. Such a small gesture. Such an ordinary goodbye.
I drive home with my notes from Fiorella on the seat beside me.
At a red light, I nearly reach for my phone to tell him one of her suggestions. The light changes before I decide whether I want to.
***
Late on Saturday afternoon, I find my father in the kitchen and tell him I'm going to walk the north grove.
He looks up from his newspaper. "The weather's supposed to turn later. After dark, they said, but these things can move faster than predicted."
"I'll be back well before then." I pull on my walking shoes and grab a light jacket. "I want to collect some orange blossom while it's still at peak. I'll take the path past the old irrigation channel and loop back. An hour at most."
"Take your phone." He folds the paper and sets it aside. "Rafael is coming by around five with that equipment you asked for. I can handle the handoff if you're not back yet."
"I should be." I check my pocket to make sure the phone is there. "But thank you."
The orange blossom is heavy on the trees this time of year, white flowers filling the air with sweetness.
I've been wanting to collect some for my work, fresh petals I can experiment with even in my temporary setup. The small scale Rafael is bringing will help. I can at least do basic measurements, test some ideas, keep moving forward.