Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
AMELIA
The door clicks shut behind Max. The air is still heavy with the lingering warmth of our shower. My skin tingles, flushed and alive, every nerve humming with the memory of his touch. I press a hand to my chest.
I feel almost delirious with happiness.
It’s the kind of joy that is so fierce it feels like it could burst through my ribs, painting the world in colors I haven’t seen in years. Max loves me.
Max loves me.
But then guilt comes. Sara’s face flashes into my mind—her bright smile, her kindness, the way she opened her home, her family, to me. Yet I’m betraying her, stealing moments with her husband, moments I justify by the injustice I suffered because of a lie my father told.
I’m a thief in the perfect life she has built for herself, and the weight of it presses against my lungs, making each breath a conscious effort.
I shake my head, hard, as if I can dislodge the guilt like a stubborn stone.
I take a deep breath. I’m not stealing her husband.
I’m just borrowing him for two weeks. That’s all.
He was mine before he was hers. Today, I will choose joy, choose Max, choose the fleeting time we have.
It’s mid-summer, the Chicago air full of the promise of long, golden days.
The house feels too quiet, too vast without Max’s presence, so I decide to take Jason outside and lose myself in the garden’s vibrance.
I slip into a light-blue, cotton sundress that skims my knees.
The neckline dips just enough to catch the sun’s warmth on my collarbone.
My hair, still damp, falls in loose waves over my shoulders as I slip into a pair of sandals and head downstairs.
I find Jason in his den, sprawled on a sofa, his small frame hunched over a handheld game. He looks up briefly, a smile breaking his focused concentration, before he returns his attention to his screen.
“Hey, Aunt Amelia.”
My heart tugs, a tender ache for this boy who’s become so quickly dear to me. He’s such a good kid. “Hey, Jason,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Wanna help me in the garden? I’m going to cut some flowers for the house.”
I really thought he would say he had to finish his game, or he’ll join me later, but to my surprise, he immediately looks up, his game forgotten, and scrambles to his feet.
“Yeah!” he says, his keenness a spark that lights me up. I didn’t really expect this much enthusiasm from a boy his age. “I’ll show you where the purple ones grow. You can put them in your room?”
I laugh, nodding, and take his hand, his small fingers warm and trusting in mine. “Definitely. Let’s see what we can find.”
We step outside. The sprawling garden is a riot of color under the midday sun.
The air is heavy, scented with honeysuckle and warm earth, the buzz of bees a soft hum beneath the rustle of leaves.
The lawn stretches wide, dotted with flower beds bursting with roses, lavender, and vibrant zinnias, their petals swaying in a gentle breeze.
I spot a gardener in the distance, his weathered hands busy with a pair of shears, his straw hat tipped low against the sun.
I thought Max had given all the staff a vacation. Maybe he will leave later.
“Good morning!” I call, waving, and he straightens, his lined face creasing into a grin as he wipes sweat from his brow with a bandana.
“Good morning, Miss Fitzwilliam,” he calls back, his voice gruff but warm, his eyes crinkling at Jason. “You’re here, too. Have you come to make trouble in my garden, young man?”
Jason giggles. “We’re here to pick flowers, Mr Hill,” he says, bright and happy.
“Is it okay if we cut some flowers, Mr Hill?” I ask politely.
“Call me Tom. Of course, you can. That’s what they’re here for,” he says with a nod. “Here, you’ll need this.” He hands me a small pair of secateurs.
I smile and take the tool. “Thank you, Tom. And you must call me Amelia.”
Jason leads me toward a bed of purple dahlias, their blooms bold and velvety. I kneel, the grass tickling my knees through the sundress.
“Okay, Jason, you can pick the ones you like, but be gentle—cut just above the leaf node, like this.” I demonstrate, snipping a stem with a soft snap, the dahlia’s head heavy in my hand, its scent earthy and sweet.
Jason watches, his gray eyes wide with focus, and mimics me, his small hands careful but unsteady. “Like this?” he asks, proudly holding up a long flower stem.
“Perfect,” I say, ruffling his curls, my heart swelling at his effort.
I’ve tended the garden back home for years, a quiet ritual to comfort myself after Max left, and this feels familiar, healing—kneeling in the dirt, the sun warming my shoulders.
We move through the beds, collecting a bouquet of dahlias, lavender sprigs, and a few white roses, their petals soft as silk.
Tom joins us, his gruff voice offering tips, pointing out a patch of marigolds that “need a bit of love.” I nod, listening, my hands brushing Jason’s as we work together, the flowers piling up in the basket.
Jason holds up a lavender sprig, sniffs it deeply, and sneezes, a tiny, adorable sound that makes me laugh.
“That’s enough now. Let’s take them inside and find a vase,” I say, brushing dirt from my hands.
“These are gonna look awesome on the table,” he says, his cheeks flushed from the sun.
“They will,” I agree, gathering the flowers in my arms.
We wave goodbye to Tom, who tips his hat in response, and heads back to the house. The kitchen is cool, the air is still scented with the morning’s coffee, and I love it. I pull a vase from one of the cabinets, and Jason helps me arrange the flowers. His fingers are clumsy but eager.
“You’re good at this,” I say, nudging his shoulder, and he beams, his shy smile breaking wide, a rare glimpse of the boy beneath the quiet.
My chest aches with a fierce, protective warmth, but as always. it’s laced with guilt. Jason, Max’s son, is the most important piece of the family I’m endangering with every stolen moment.
“Okay, buddy, you did great. Thank you for your help. Want a sandwich ? I promise, even with my terrible cooking skills, I can make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich. ?
He brightens. "Really? Mummy doesn't like it when I have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."
I grin. "But you're on vacation, aren't you?"
"Yup. That's what Daddy says."
"Well then. You're allowed."
"Yay."
"Go back to your game, and I'll bring your sandwich and a glass of milk up to your room."
His eyes widen. "Really? I’m allowed to eat in my room?”
“You’re on vacation, right?”
“Right,” he says, rubbing his little palms together.
“Well then… off you go.”
“Thanks, Aunt Amelia," he yells as he runs up the stairs.
I watch him go, then carry the vase to the dining room.
I set it on the walnut table, and the flowers are a bright burst against the polished wood.
The house is quiet again, the summer sun filtering through the open windows, and it is beyond peaceful.
I head to the kitchen and make Jason’s sandwich.
I pour a glass of milk and take his lunch up to his room.
I put Jason’s lunch next to him, and he is so engrossed in his game, he mumbles his thanks and reaches for his sandwich without taking his eyes off his screen.
I think of Max as I close Jason’s door and walk down the hallway.
I miss him so terribly, it's like a physical ache. The studio is a haven with sunlight pouring through the tall windows, bathing the bookshelves and easel in a golden glow. The air smells of turpentine and old leather. My dragon painting waits, its emerald scales shimmering. I pick up a brush and dip it into a blend of green and yellow. My strokes are bolder today, each one infused with the joy pulsing through me, the memory of Max’s hands, his lips, his love.
The newly growing dragon’s wings take shape, no longer grounded but soaring.
The colors I notice are richer and more vivid than before—hopeful and defiant. This makes me happy because fused with this new energy, I just might be able to meet my deadline in two weeks.
With that in mind, I work faster, my brush moving with urgency, my agent’s email lying quiet in the back of my mind.
When exhaustion creeps in, I am satisfied with the work I have done and set the brush down, and stumble to the chaise lounge by the window.
Its deep blue velvet is cool and inviting.
I sink gratefully into it. The fabric is soft against my arms and legs, and the sunlight warms my face like a gentle caress.
Curling my sundress under me, my mind drifts to Max’s voice saying, “I love you, Amelia”.
It makes me smile. Soon, the room fades, the bookshelves blur, and my dragon’s eyes watch me as I slip into sleep.