50. Chapter 50
C rispin
The days fell into a rhythm like the tide at their doorstep. Neither of them spoke of it, as though naming it might jinx the fragile balance they'd found.
Crispin would rise early, long before the sun reached the windows of his sea-facing room.
He'd sit in a chair by the window, bundled up in a dressing gown against the cold salty wind, taking his video calls with his camera angled strategically to hide the faint shadows under his eyes.
Board members, legal updates, transitional strategies-it all played out in quiet, clipped tones.
Then, once his calls were done, he would find her.
Always.
Sometimes it was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as she prepped pastry with her brows furrowed in concentration.
Other times it was in the garden behind the inn, where she worked on the flowerbeds, the sea wind tugging her braid like a teasing child.
"Need help?" he'd ask. And he would give it his best effort if she grumbled 'yes. '
"Can you not turn every pillowcase into a crumpled sock?" she had asked dryly when she'd had to redo the bed. But there was this warm fuzzy feeling in her chest because he followed her around like a lost puppy, like he was afraid she would disappear.
So, she let him try.
And each day, when evening came and she settled with her quilting frame and threads, Crispin would open his laptop and work in silence. Sometimes they spoke of little things, good memories of their first year together. Words that filled the spaces but didn't scratch at wounds.
"I booked my room for a month," he mentioned one night, quietly, without looking up.
Aria didn't answer, but she didn't ask him to leave, either. She didn’t want him to stay on some days, but she didn't think she could bear it if he left.
Two weeks passed like that. Measured in steaming cups of tea, the fluttering of a baby's foot, the faint hum of machines from the kitchen.
But not every day was soft.
Some days, pain erupted from nowhere, like a stitch pulled too tight.
Once, she lashed out, her voice sharp as a serrated knife, when he asked her if she would consider coming back to London with him .
"I remember everything, you know. The way you used to look at me...like I didn't belong in your world. Like I was a complication you could do without."
He stood still, hands by his sides. "You weren't a complication. You were everything that made it bearable."
And then the tears would start, and Crispin would go quiet, like he knew how fragile their truce was. That nothing was forgotten or forgiven yet.
Another time, she'd been folding laundry in the back corridor when she suddenly dropped everything, tears slipping down her face without warning. "Just leave me alone," she whispered.
He reached for her but she pulled back. "I mean it, Crispin."
He stood there, his throat tight. "I can't. I just...can't. I'll be quiet. I'll keep my distance. But don't ask me go away again. I cannot bear not to be near you."
That night, he returned from a walk with a tiny bag from a local boutique. Inside was a soft maternity gown with soft, cloth-covered buttons on the front. It was lavender, her favourite colour, with small white flowers.
"For when the baby comes...for feeding...you know," he said awkwardly. "I thought zips and hooks would be a bad idea."
Another day it was a tiny plush rabbit rattle. A week after that, a baby onesie that said Made with Mischief .
Once, she found him sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, frowning at his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Googling the perfect baby mobile," he said, not looking up. "Debating between neutral tones or stars and moons."
Her heart did something odd in her chest as she stared at him.
And then he started with the books...
One afternoon, Crispin came back from town with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, his face unusually shy. It had taken Aria a while to realize that Crispin had a public outgoing persona and a shy private one that he only ever let a few see. Like her.
"I brought something," he said, hesitating near the doorway of Aria's workroom, but he was obviously excited.
She looked up from her quilting frame. "What now? Another onesie?"
"No," he said, holding the bag like a peace offering. "Well. Books...for the baby."
He placed them carefully on the table: Guess How Much I Love You. The Gruffalo. Peepo. Goodnight, Moon .
All the classics. It seems he had gone a little overboard.
"I thought we could start," he said, awkward. "They say the baby should be able to hear by now. Around twenty-four weeks, right? And apparently, they can recognise voices... So, I figured, maybe...she should know mine."
He looked so tentative that Aria couldn't bring herself to shut him down.
So that evening, after dinner, he pulled up a chair beside her, opened the first book, and began to read. His voice, a sexy bass, polished from years of boardrooms and interviews, softened as he read, warm and playful.
"Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed, held on tight to Big Nutbrown Hare's very long ears..."
The first time, he didn't ask to touch her belly. He just read, hands carefully holding the book on his lap.
But the next night, he did.
"Would it be alright...if I put my hand there? While I read?"
Aria hesitated.
Then nodded.
He placed his palm lightly over her bump, reverent. As he read, the baby kicked once, sharp and sudden beneath his hand.
Crispin froze. "Did you feel that? "
"I think he likes your voice," Aria said quietly.
"Then I'll keep reading," he whispered, awe threading through his tone.
Every evening after that, he brought a different book.
He'd ask, always, before touching her-never assuming.
She grew used to the warm weight of his palm, the low murmur of his voice, the way he sometimes paused to press a kiss to the curve of her stomach when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
Sometimes, when she wore pyjamas, he would sneak a feel of her bare skin with his warm hand.
And though she still wasn't ready to say the words he so clearly ached to hear, she let him fall in love with the baby in real time.
Some nights, when he thought she had dozed off, he'd sit by her side, one hand resting over her belly, and whisper, "It's your daddy. I'm here."
Lule called often. Her voice came bright and brash over the speaker, peppered with sarcastic wisdom and concern. Crispin would always greet her respectfully, though never without wincing at her teasing.
He called his mother once. Aria was sitting in her usual chair, completing a sunny yellow quilt for a baby boy.
"Hello, Mom."
A pause.
"No. I'm fine. Please don't...don't do that thing where you make it about you."
Another pause .
"I didn't say that. I'm just...tired."
His voice was flat, distant. He hung up with a sigh.
Later that week, Aria told him, quietly, "You should tell Alice."
He looked up sharply.
"You said she'd be thrilled," she added.
He swallowed and nodded. And as if to pre-empt her, in case she changed her mind, he rang Alice at once. When she picked up and Crispin proudly conveyed the news, she shrieked so loudly, Aria heard it.
"Are you serious? I'm going to be an auntie? You colossal idiot, why didn't you tell me sooner?!"
She smiled faintly at the sound.
But that smile faded when she caught part of a later call. Crispin's voice was low, answering Dorian.
Her expression twisted like she'd smelled something unpleasant. She scowled and walked out of the room.
Crispin watched her leave, then apologised before hanging up.
That evening, he watched her trace long sweeping lines of embroidery across a deep navy quilt.
"What's this one for?"
She paused, thread in hand. "It's a doggy quilt," she said. "For a disabled woman. She had to put her golden retriever down. He was sixteen. Slept beside her bed every night for over a decade."
Crispin swallowed. "You're making it for her?"
Aria nodded. "She sent me photos. He had a little white patch over one eye. I'm sewing it in. "
He looked at her, chest full. "I'm so proud of you," he said.
She glanced at him and then back at her needle. Her fingers didn't stop moving. "Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I do. And I think you know that."
She didn't reply, but later that night, when she passed him his cup of tea, she let her fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary.