7. Chapter 7
A ria
The lemon-scented polish clung to her gloves as Aria buffed the banister, the rhythmic motion a kind of lull. Outside, the garden sloped away into a misty blur, white roses trembling in the breeze.
The Lackenbys' house was all soft light and order. No clutter, no misaligned picture frames, no untamed corners. Every vase held the same flower, trimmed to the same length. Even the silence here felt posed.
She moved upstairs, feather duster in hand, and reached the little alcove at the top landing-a half-moon table, a tray of envelopes, a gilt-edged photograph of the family taken in Italy. She wiped around it, careful not to leave smudges.
Again, her mind wandered. The morning had brought a sense of unease. It was insidious, something that had crept up on her over the last few months.
Crispin and her had danced around each other, enjoying the ebb and flow of attraction.
"Boys can never be your friends, Aria. They always have something else in their mind," Mami used to tell her, even when she was only eight.
At first, they had never defined what they were .
In the beginning, they were somewhat friends. A few stray kisses did not make lovers.
She caught herself lingering, hand still against the polished wood.
There'd been late nights after his work and her shift, dinners where he'd spoken freely about his mother, who was a quiet force behind gallery wings and youth programs, and his father, the Midas-like tycoon who made his fortune through things Aria didn't understand: mergers, capital shifts, billion-dollar concepts.
His family expected him to show excellence and carry on the legacy. There was no room for deviation, or for less.
Crispin had laughed about it once, over kebabs. "Sometimes I feel like a puppet cut from gold. I shine and dance to their tune, but I can never leave the stage."
Aria hadn't known what to say, so she merely nodded. Her own family had been different. Her mother had cooked with love while her father had built bookshelves and furniture .
He had a sister, Alice. Aria got the impression that she was clever but not quite as clever as Crispin, though he spoke of her with adoration.
She had joined the company straight after business school.
And his best friend, Dorian, was always in the background like a second shadow.
They both belonged to that cool, perfumed world of boardrooms and mergers.
Aria sometimes felt like a half-finished sketch in comparison.
Back then, his name would pop up in the suggestions on her mobile.
The society pages loved him. Always at some gala with some poised woman on his arm.
A blonde with courtroom charm, a model with skin like deep mahogany and a glittering smile.
Once, an Indian doctor who looked like she might have stepped out of Vogue.
And of course, Helga.
The Nordic one. Perfectly pedigreed. Cool and composed. She made sense in his world. Her smile held when the flashbulbs went off. Alice, Crispin's sister, had attended Guildford High School with her.
Aria had Googled her once, or maybe three times.
Just to see. And to remind herself that their relationship? Situationship? -it had a short shelf life.
There had been whole stretches when she didn't hear from Crispin-sometimes weeks. Then a text: You'd like the mural on 3rd and Clement. Or he'd show up, hair damp from rain, smile crooked, and they'd fall into their familiar rhythm again. Coffee. Quiet. That charged, electric feeling of almost.. .
She straightened the envelopes, returning to the present.
The house was still. The scent of polish mingled with blooming hydrangeas from the open window. April was here and so was a hint of spring.
She was no stranger to longing, but this was something else. Like something precious was slipping through her fingers.
Downstairs, the antique grandfather clock struck twelve.
Aria stepped back from the alcove, smoothing the cloth along her wrist. There was more to do-more silver to shine, more rooms to return to perfection, and only an hour to do it before her next job.
But inside, something stirred again.
Just that old, familiar pull. She had learned to ignore it, but there it was again.
The longing for something that may never be.