Chapter 2 The Hour He Forgot #2
"We started in the courtyard." Rafael indicates Marisol's takeaway cup. "I can offer evidence."
Beatrice's eyes move to me, standing slightly apart from the table with my arms loosely crossed. I see her take in my position, the way the space is arranged around Rafael and Marisol's collaboration. Her frown is subtle, there and gone before anyone else notices, but I catch it.
"Don't let me interrupt." She moves toward the door. "Serafina, I'll be in the garden later if you want to walk."
"I'd like that." I straighten a stem brushing the window glass, reluctant to turn back to the table just yet.
Beatrice leaves, and the room feels slightly smaller without her.
Marisol is already pointing at something on the map again, drawing Rafael's attention back to whatever strategy they've been developing.
I listen for a few more minutes, contributing where I can, but the conversation has moved into territory I don't know, names and histories that belong to their shared months of crisis management.
"I should check on something in my workshop." I step back from the table. "Rafael, what time works for this afternoon? You mentioned wanting to see my blend."
He looks up, and I watch him calculate. "One? I should be free by then."
"One, then." I hold his gaze long enough to make sure he's heard me. "I'll be there."
"One o'clock." He catches the pencil before it rolls off the map and lays it down beside his cup. I leave him there and take the blue vase with me.
***
There is a supplier return to finish in my workshop, two unopened bottles from a batch I tested earlier in the week. The supplier has agreed to take them back; all that remains is the packing and a note identifying the batch.
I pack it properly, wrapping each bottle in cloth the way the supplier prefers, and write out the return label in my clearest hand.
I put the vase on the sill, away from my smelling strips, and finish the parcel.
There's time for a walk before lunch. I carry the box downstairs to the outgoing post near the courtyard, where the estate's packages wait for the afternoon courier.
Beatrice is already in the garden when I emerge, cutting roses from a different trellis than the ones she brought me earlier. She looks up at the sound of my footsteps and waves me over with her pruning shears.
"You escaped." She snips a stem and adds it to her basket. "I wasn't sure they'd let you leave."
"I let myself leave." I tuck the parcel safely beneath the post table's canopy and join her among the roses. "I even improved the map. They can't say I did nothing."
"You looked uncomfortable in there." Beatrice cuts another bloom, her voice carefully neutral. "Watching them work."
"Did I?" I keep my own voice light. "I was just trying to follow along. They've been at this for months. I haven't."
"You never took a chair." Beatrice points with the closed shears. "Hold that stem for me, will you? The one bending toward the wall."
I reach for the rose she's indicated, careful of the thorns, and hold it steady while she cuts. We work in silence for a few minutes, the simple rhythm of it soothing something that's been jangling in my chest since the workroom.
"Did something happen before I came in?" Beatrice frees a fallen petal from the cuff of my sleeve. "You looked upset."
"Rafael told Marisol something he hadn't told me." I hold the next stem steady until she cuts it. The fear is his. I won't hand it to his mother just because he handed it to my friend. "Something I would have liked to hear from him."
"Have you told him that?" She puts the shears in her basket and waits for my answer.
"Yes." I release the branch. It springs back toward the wall. "He said he was sorry. We're supposed to spend some time together this afternoon."
"Good." Beatrice lifts the basket, then pauses. "And if you want to walk with me again tomorrow, you don't need an excuse about the roses."
I take the other handle to help her carry it. I don't trust myself with an answer quite yet.
We leave the flowers by the terrace doors, and I spend the rest of the morning finishing a letter to my old supplier.
For the first time in months, I ask about a new sample instead of simply returning one I don't want. After a quick lunch, I head upstairs.
The clock in the hallway shows twelve forty-five when I climb back toward my workshop. I have enough time to put out the smelling strips and open a window. He isn't used to being surrounded by so many scents; I want him to enjoy it.
I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear his voice.
"Sera." Rafael appears on the landing above me, already dressed for something more formal than map-reading. "I was looking for you."
"I'm here." I stop on the step below him, looking up at his face. "I was just heading to my workshop. It's almost one."
"I know." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture I've come to recognize as his tell for bad news.
"That's what I needed to talk to you about.
The buyer we've been trying to reach, he's available now instead of tomorrow.
He moved his whole schedule around. Marisol thinks if we don't take the meeting, we might lose our chance entirely. "
I feel my expression freeze into something careful and neutral. "So you can't make one o'clock."
"I'm sorry." He does look sorry, his eyes soft with it. "I wanted to be there. You know I did."
"What time can you actually come?" I ask the question calmly, practically. "Give me a real time, Rafael. Not a maybe."
"After dinner?" He thinks for a moment. "The meeting shouldn't run past six. We'll eat together, and then I'll come to your workshop and you can show me everything you've been working on. Properly. No interruptions."
"Dinner and the workshop after." I repeat it back to him. "If something changes, tell me before I'm sitting there waiting."
"I will." He reaches out and touches my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. The gesture is gentle, almost wondering, like he's reminding himself of my features. "Thank you for understanding. I know I've been asking a lot of your patience lately."
"You have." I let myself lean into his touch for just a moment. "But patience isn't infinite. Eventually, I need you to actually show up."
"I will." He shifts out of the way of someone carrying clean linen up the stairs, drawing me closer to the rail with him. "Tonight. I swear."
He kisses my forehead and disappears back down the stairs, and I continue up to my workshop alone, trying to decide if I believe him.
His text arrives at six, when I'm already in the green dress, the one Rafael complimented at a party two years ago.
I've refreshed my perfume, the neroli-bergamot blend I wanted to show him, and the table is set for two. Nothing elaborate, just the good plates and a bottle of wine that I thought might complement the meal I've prepared.
Meeting running longer than expected. Won't make dinner at 7. Will come as soon as I can. I'm sorry, Sera. I know I keep saying that.
I read the message twice, then set my phone face-down on the counter.
The sauce is ready, and the dry pasta is weighed beside the pot.
I made his favorite, the one Beatrice taught me when I first moved into this house, with tomatoes from the estate's greenhouse and herbs from the kitchen garden. I started cooking at five, planning and preparing, wanting everything to be ready when he walked through the door.
I put the wine away unopened.
The sauce can wait until I want it, and so can his portion.
I eat my portion alone, sitting at the table I set for two, watching the light outside the window fade from gold to purple to deep evening blue.
The food is good. I tear off another piece of bread and use it to gather the sauce. Being disappointed is no reason to let my dinner go cold.
When I'm finished, I cover Rafael's portion and put it in the refrigerator. I wash my plate, dry it, and put it away. The pasta will keep until tomorrow if he doesn't want it tonight. I leave a note on the container so he won't have to wake anyone to ask where his dinner is.
The grandfather clock strikes eight as I settle into the sitting room with a book I've been meaning to finish.