Chapter 1 Too Certain of Forever #3
"Let me answer this first." He picks up the phone, and I wait with my hand still beside the jam. "Marisol has an update on the buyers. She's on her way."
"Marisol." I say her name carefully, like handling something fragile. "I didn't realize she was coming by today."
"She was supposed to come later, but she's free now." He types with one hand, the other resting beside his abandoned breakfast. "I asked her to come straight over."
"That's good." I take another sip of my coffee, watching him over the rim of my cup. "I'm glad she's helping."
"She's been incredible." His thumb moves across the screen, sending the message, and I see the small satisfied nod he makes when he's handled something. "The way she understands the market, the angles I'd never think of on my own. I don't know what I'd do without her right now."
I know what he means.
Of course I know. Marisol Verdi is my best friend, and I have been recommending her to people for years. Still, I wish he sounded half as relieved when I walked into a room.
"I know the groves too," I say, and I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds. "If you ever want another perspective."
"Of course." He sets the phone down, but it's still face-up now, and I can see the screen light up with another message. "You know I value your opinion, Sera."
Do I know that? When was the last time he actually asked for it?
"Then ask me." I leave my bread untouched. "I know you're busy. I can still listen."
"I know you can." He lays his hand over mine, but his attention catches on the screen as it lights again. "Let me get through this morning first, all right?"
"Then you should probably finish eating." I gesture at his half-full plate. "You think better when you're not hungry."
"You sound like my mother." He finally takes a bite, watching me as if we've settled the matter.
"Your mother is a wise woman." I ease my hand out from under his so I can eat, too. There is no reason my breakfast should go cold with his.
He laughs, and the sound is almost enough to ease the tightness in my chest.
Almost. But even as he turns back to his breakfast, I can see his mind is already elsewhere, already in the study with the contracts and the numbers and whatever Marisol is bringing him. I know the land; she knows how to sell what comes from it.
Why has that made her worth listening to and me someone who can wait?
I finish my coffee in silence.
After breakfast, Rafael kisses my forehead and heads toward the front hall to meet Marisol.
He has not answered my question about after lunch.
I could follow him and ask again, but I have made myself clear.
Instead, I go through the side passage toward the courtyard, meaning to take the longer path back to my workshop.
The courtyard is the heart of the estate, a wide stone-paved space with jasmine climbing the walls and green shoots appearing beneath the windows.
In the center, an old fountain trickles steadily, the sound of water mixing with the morning birdsong.
The wind is gentler down here than at our bedroom window, and I breathe deeply, letting the familiar scents calm me.
I'm still in the side doorway when I hear it.
Laughter. Rafael's laughter, the real kind, the kind that comes from deep in his chest and transforms his whole face.
I turn toward the sound. She has arrived already.
Marisol Verdi is standing by the courtyard gate, her dark hair catching the morning light, dressed in a silk blouse that manages to look effortless in the way that takes hours to achieve.
She's holding two cups of coffee from the café in town, paperwork tucked under one arm, and she's smiling up at Rafael with the easy confidence of someone who belongs exactly where she is.
Rafael is already there with her, leaning against the gate post, his whole body angled toward her, breakfast apparently forgotten.
Whatever she's said, he's still laughing at it, his face open and unguarded, the tension that's been living in his shoulders temporarily gone.
I recognize that ease. I had it upstairs this morning, his legs tangled with mine and both of us arguing about a childhood fishing spot. I want to be glad he hasn't lost it again to the day's worries. From the shelter of the side doorway, I watch him reach for the coffee she brought.
Marisol gives him the cup and says something that makes him grin. I can't hear the words over the fountain. She shifts the paperwork beneath her arm, holding her own coffee away from the pages, and he takes the folder for her without breaking off their conversation.
Neither of them has noticed me by the doorway. I could cross the courtyard and say hello. She's my friend. He's my husband. It should not take a decision.
Then his phone rings.
I wait for him to interrupt her. I know the apologetic gesture, the raised finger asking for a moment that becomes several.
But Rafael glances at the screen, silences it, and puts it in his pocket. Marisol keeps talking.
Apparently, some conversations are worth finishing.