3. Once Upon a Late Night #2
The most cherished instance was the night when Chiara had hugged Vi.
She still didn’t know how to begin to process what had happened, from the sketch of the gown she couldn’t stop thinking about, to the slender arms gently encircling her shoulders, how that skin had felt on hers, and how long it had been since Vi had another human’s warmth seep into her.
Those faint scents of verbena and patchouli had worked themselves into her dreams.
She couldn’t stop thinking about that either.
How Lilien Haus—which was all about lilies, since they were its symbol, and the flowers were everywhere—still smelled faintly of the earthy notes of those other two plants, so distinct from the sweet, cloying scent of lilies.
How one woman, whose presence was largely unseen—except for the occasional seemingly random, bright pink post-it note that was simultaneously perfect in its placement—had imprinted herself so much on everything that Vi could always tell when she was present, up high in her ivory tower, in the studio on the top floor.
And with that, Vi was back to her fairytales. She almost shook her head at herself for being fanciful and romantic and for walking a perilous line. The ring on this princess’ finger was very much a reminder of her marital status.
On her second work day she’d seen Chiara’s long, slim fingers twisting and twirling that too-large ring in what Vi now, days later, realized was a nervous tell.
Well, there’d been plenty to be anxious about in that particular moment, when Frankie had stalked from one end of the studio to the next like a caged animal, her hands flying, tugging at her own hair, picking up and slamming down various objects.
The loud noises sent Binoche running down to Aoife’s floor—never having done that before—which was what had attracted Vi up to the fifth floor to begin with.
“…I don’t have time for this, Chiara! Lilien doesn’t have time for this!
We talked about whatever it is you think this will turn into, but for fuck’s sake.
.. Son of a bitch. Ow.” A pair of scissors had slipped Frankie’s grip and, with a heavy thud, landed on her rather grotesquely militarized boot, but not before nicking her hand.
She yelped and brought the wound to her mouth, with several droplets of blood falling to the floor.
And as Vi watched, Frankie plucked up the offending scissors and flung them across the room.
Chiara flinched but otherwise didn’t move, and Frankie stormed away past Vi and down the stairs, still sucking on her bleeding hand.
As the sound of those heavy boots running down the stairs quieted, Chiara seemed to shake herself out of whatever stupor she was in and took several steps towards where the floor was marred with crimson drops.
A remarkably steady hand—in such contrast with Vi’s own shaking ones that were also holding the trembling cat—reached for a napkin, and Vi held her breath as Chiara knelt down and wiped away the stain.
Vi must have made a sound, because the amber eyes snapped up and for a second, held her paralyzed.
Vi couldn’t move to save her life. So freezing it was, since there was no fighting that gaze, and there was no fleeing it either.
Not without permission, without an absolution for breaking some house rule.
Thou shall not covet your boss’ wife, thou shall not… , thou shall not…
And then Chiara closed her eyes and swallowed, her gulp painfully loud in the silence of the large space, and Vi wanted to run to her, to hold her, to do something.
But the eyes did not open, and before Vi could act, Chiara quietly murmured, “don’t,” and Vi’s breath whooshed out of her as if she’d been struck in the solar plexus.
So she’d set down Binoche, turned around and had run as if her life depended on it, trying not to think of blood on those elegant, long-fingered hands and the too thin platinum band that felt too insubstantial to contain all the emotions a marriage was supposed to.
* * *
Now, Vi could see the band from her vantage point in the entryway, catching the light off the many lamps that were on in the studio despite the evening light still holding strong in the Parisian June evening. She coughed to make her presence known and was pleased that Chiara didn’t startle.
“I heard you coming up the stairs, Ms. Courtenay. I also know you were mocking my cat just now.” She had admired the hands earlier, but the voice…
Vi was no writer, and she didn’t consider herself particularly eloquent on her best days.
Still, she’d be hard-pressed not to use cliches like ‘smoky whiskey over hand-chiseled granite stones’ when describing that sound.
The gravel was there, but so was the softness, like a silk ribbon that wrapped itself around you and didn’t let go.
Vi was so enraptured by the sound of it, she almost missed Chiara’s follow-up.
“…you aren’t particularly stealthy about it either. ”
“How did you know I was mocking the cat?” Vi stepped into the bright lights and poked out her tongue at Binoche, who stuck her injured leg demonstratively in the air and started washing herself.
“I guessed, Ms. Courtenay.”
“Well, I don’t think Brioche here minds that much.” As if to contradict her, the cat meowed. Vi could swear it sounded like a profanity.
“What are you? Five?” Chiara’s mouth twitched in a valiant attempt to hide the smile that was creeping up.
“Six. And you’ll see, she’ll answer to her name yet.”
“Her name is Binoche. A proper, regal name. You calling her a baked good is just beneath her!”
“Well, she is kinda small, so being beneath her is difficult.”
They looked at each other for a long moment before bursting into laughter as the cat ungracefully plopped down on her bed and proceeded to ignore them.
Vi took a second to relish in the gorgeous smile that was still on Chiara’s lips as their laughter subsided. Warm and teasing and a little mischievous.
What was air? What was sanity?
Heaven help her, she was just a poor lesbian. Was peace too much to ask for? But there would be no peace for the moment, and so Vi went for the second best thing.
“So someone from the third floor raided Aoife’s fridge and ate my food while I was running around corralling the seamstresses and their wayward orders.
” Vi was ridiculously pleased with herself when Chiara’s smile widened into a grin, except it revealed a set of the most ridiculously attractive dimples, and Vi almost genuflected.
Why me? I am not your strongest soldier...
“Anyway, she sent me up with your food, and I was wondering if you would maybe, perhaps, pretty please share?” She inflected her most pitiful tone into the words and tried for her best Puss-in-Boots, wide-eyed expression.
It must have worked, because Chiara rolled her eyes, and those rarely seen laugh lines mischievously peeked at Vi even as she motioned her closer.
The sketch that Vi had seen a week ago was on prominent display on the workstation, and Vi realized that there were certain things that had changed about it.
“Ivory. You chose the color!”
But it wasn’t just the color. Now that Chiara had settled on the theme, the gown positively screamed wedding and threw itself at you like a bridal bouquet. Small details were added here and there, a tuck, a piece of lace, and there was very little doubt left about what was in front of her now.
Vi narrowed her eyes and assessed the drawing, cataloging the brilliant additions, her imagination picturing the dress on a model, the newly acquired ivory flowing down in complete harmony with the moment, the occasion, the sentiment.
She turned to Chiara who was observing her with a curious expression, head tilted as if in contemplation, and Vi’s heart stuttered in expectation of whatever it was she would say.
Would she think she was weird? An oddity, as her family often referred to her, for these silly spaced-out moments of hers?
But Chiara didn’t say anything, her eyes still drawn to Vi’s face as she nodded, then bit her lip in what Vi was coming to realize was also a characteristic gesture. Chiara stepped away and the moment was broken.
“I have. You opened the door for me, Ms. Courtenay. So I guess you’ve earned this. Come, follow me, and I’ll open one for you. Despite you mocking and tormenting my cat.”
She moved with that dancer’s grace toward the set of windows only to unlatch one and climb through it, beckoning Vi to follow her.
Vi’s mouth went dry, her palms sweaty and her heart in overdrive.
Heights were not her strong suit. In fact, heights were not her suit at all.
She meekly followed Chiara, shaking like a leaf all the way.
A few turns, a few stairs, and they were on the roof of Lilien Haus with Paris all around them, the Eiffel Tower soaring on the other bank of the Seine, the myriad of roofs rising and falling, making the skyscape unforgettable.
Vi turned around, trying to both not look down and still give the impression of taking in her surroundings, only to run headlong into Chiara’s assessing look from earlier, accompanied by the same head tilt.
“It’s so strange, Ms. Courtenay. It took you a week to straighten out those hellions from Rue de Bretagne.
Quite a feat since nobody has managed until now.
To ingratiate yourself to Aoife, who is quite a prickly specimen, if I may say so, as her best friend.
And now I find myself compelled to welcome you here, where so very few people ever step foot. What is it about you, Ms. Courtenay?”
Her face didn’t show much, eyes hooded and reserved. With her fear momentarily forgotten, Vi didn’t know how to answer the question, or even if she should. She’d been allowed into the inner sanctum. It remained to be seen why and for how long.