Chapter 1 Too Certain of Forever #2
"I'm comfortable." He settles farther into the pillow with the unreasonable satisfaction of a man who has won something. "Stop rearranging us."
I leave my foot where it is and kiss the underside of his jaw. For a while we lie there without solving anything, and I enjoy him.
When he finally gets up for his morning calls, I stay under the covers a little longer, smiling at the ceiling.
***
My workshop is the old sitting room at the end of the east wing. Beatrice helped me set it up after the wedding. She has never called it my little hobby, and I love her for that.
Morning sunlight falls across the bottles on my workbench. Most of my equipment is still packed away at my parents’ house. I spent years collecting those pieces, then left them behind because I would come back for them soon.
I’m getting tired of my own definition of soon.
I pull out the stool and reach for the amber bottle I mentioned to Rafael.
The blend is only three days old. I dab a little on my wrist and smile at the neroli. No matter what else I experiment with, I always come back to it.
There’s a faint metallic note in the new bergamot, though. I catch it beneath the neroli and jot down a reminder to use my usual supplier.
Then I lift my wrist again, turning it toward the window while I imagine Rafael leaning close enough to notice.
I want him to ask what I’ve changed and stay for the answer. But even if he doesn’t, I’ll still be here tomorrow, trying again. There are pages of ideas in this notebook that have nothing to do with him.
My thumb catches beneath the next page.
A soft knock at the door makes me look up.
"I thought I might find you here." Beatrice stands in the doorway, wrapped in a dove-gray dress, her silver-streaked hair pinned up in the style she favors for mornings.
She's been beautiful her whole life, and age has only sharpened it into something more interesting.
"The light is good in here this time of day. "
"The light's always good in here." I cap the bottle and set it aside. "That's why I chose this room."
"You chose well." She crosses to the workbench, her eyes moving over the rows of bottles with genuine curiosity. She's never pretended to understand what I do, but she's never dismissed it either. "Rafael mentioned you wanted to show him something."
"He remembered?" I set down the pencil I've picked up again. Perhaps I didn't need to explain myself quite so much upstairs.
"He mentioned it on his way to his study. Something about smelling things and trying not to insult you." Her mouth curves. "I told him you'd know if he pretended to like it. His father still thinks I can't tell when he's stopped listening to my garden plans."
I laugh and move my open notebook out of her reach before she can read the crossed-out verdict at the bottom. "Then why do you still show him?"
"Because I enjoy informing him that the hedge he likes is coming out." She studies a squat blue bottle without disturbing it. "What are you working on?"
"A variation on my usual scent. Trying a new base note." I hesitate, then add, "I'm not sure it's working yet. The bergamot I'm using has a different character than I'm used to."
"You'll figure it out." Beatrice says it with complete confidence, like it's not even a question. "You always do. That's what I've always admired about you, Serafina. You don't just accept things the way they are. You keep adjusting until they're right."
The words land somewhere soft and unexpected. She says it as if I still have customers waiting for samples. I glance at the old labels tucked into my notebook, my own name printed above an address I no longer use.
"I should go down for breakfast," I say, not because I want to leave but because I can feel myself getting emotional and I'd rather not cry in front of my mother-in-law before nine in the morning. "Rafael has calls, but he said he'd make time later."
"Go. I'm having breakfast with Corrado on the terrace." Beatrice moves aside to let me reach the cupboard. "May I borrow the blue vase? The little one beside your notebook?"
"As long as it comes back." I give my blend another careful sniff, then touch a little behind each ear. I want Rafael to recognize it before I tell him. He used to turn toward me before he heard my steps.
"I'll send it back with flowers." She lifts the vase, pleased with her find, and I leave her choosing which roses will fit it.
***
The dining room faces east, which means by the time I arrive, the morning sun is streaming through the tall windows, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
Rafael is already at the table when I enter, his phone face-down beside his plate for once, a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow.
He looks up when I come in, and something in his face shifts, a small movement toward attention that feels like a gift after so many mornings of distraction.
"There you are." He sets down the bread he was reaching for. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost in your workshop."
"I was talking to your mother." I slide into the chair beside him, reaching for the coffee pot. "She found me lurking among my bottles."
"She likes your bottles. She says they're prettier than anything in the formal rooms." He watches me pour my coffee and add milk. "Did she take anything?"
"A vase. Willingly surrendered." I reach across him for the jam, my wrist passing close to his face. He moves his cup out of my way. Nothing more.
"You should label the rest before she finds places for them." He picks up his bread, then pauses. "I do want to see your workshop. Later. I wasn't just saying that."
"I know." I'm not sure I know, actually, but I want to give him the chance to prove me wrong.
We eat in something close to comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that used to fill our mornings before the crisis started demanding all his attention.
I let myself enjoy it, the simple pleasure of sharing a table with someone you've loved your whole life, watching him turn a slice of bread over to find the side he wants to butter.
Then his phone vibrates against the table. He turns it over and reads the notification before setting it beside his plate again.
"Can that wait until we've finished?" I have barely touched my coffee. I would like to finish one conversation before the next one starts.
"It should." He cuts a piece of bread but leaves it on the plate when the phone vibrates again.
"We haven't picked a time for the workshop." I set the jam between us. "Would after lunch work?"
He starts to answer, then hesitates at another notification.
The prices they get for bulk fruit have been falling, and reliable buyers have stopped placing orders. He worries about keeping the grove workers employed; I know some of their families as well as I know my own.
I know the groves as well as he does. I grew up on the neighboring land, walked these orchards since before I could read.
But he hasn't asked me what I think, hasn't included me in the desperate scramble to find new buyers and keep the workers employed.
He has Marisol for that now.