Chapter 5 His Name, Her Voice #2
Inside are earrings. Small teardrops of amber set in delicate gold, warm against the dark lining.
"They're beautiful." I lift one from the box and turn it in my fingers. "Beatrice, these are too much."
"They're exactly enough." She watches me examine the setting. "I saw them in the shop window months ago and thought of you. The color reminded me of the groves at sunset."
I ought to try them on and let her see how much I like them. But my hands aren't steady, and the thought of wearing something beautiful right now feels wrong somehow. I don't want to force a smile for her when she has been so kind.
"I wanted to show him my blend tonight." The words escape before I can stop them. "The one I've been working on. I finally got it right, and I wanted him to smell it on me and notice."
"The perfume you're wearing now?" Beatrice leans slightly closer. "It's lovely. Different from what you usually wear."
"It's the cedar you can smell now." I set the earring back in its box. "I finally found the right balance. I wanted to let him try the earlier one beside it, so he could tell me what he thought."
My voice wavers on the last word. I press my lips together and look at the candles instead of at Beatrice, watching the flames dance in the still air of the dining room.
"I'm not angry that he works." I need her to understand this. "I know the estate is struggling. I know there are problems that need solving. But tonight wasn't about the work. Tonight was about us, and he knew that, and he's still not here."
"He knew." Beatrice lowers her eyes to his untouched glass. "You told him the time yourself."
I touch the velvet box with one finger, tracing the edge. "I sent him a message earlier. He hasn't answered."
"I'll talk to him myself." I pick up the earring again, turning it so the amber catches the light. "When he comes home. When he can actually listen instead of thinking about whatever crisis is keeping him at that office."
"And if he doesn't come home tonight?" Beatrice glances toward the hall, where we would hear his steps if he came in.
"Then I'll talk to him tomorrow." I return the earring to its place in the lining. "But I'm not going to chase him, Beatrice. I'm not going to beg him to remember that he has a wife. Either he wants to be here or he doesn't."
The dining room feels very quiet after that. The candles flicker. The food sits untouched between us. Through the window, I can see the distant lights of the estate office, small and yellow against the darkness.
"I remember your wedding." Beatrice brushes a loose piece of ribbon away from the serving dish. "The way Rafael couldn't stop looking at you during the ceremony. The officiant had to repeat the vows because he missed his cue."
"He was nervous." I remember trying to steady him without making it obvious to the guests. "His hands were shaking when he put the ring on my finger."
"He couldn't wait to marry you." Beatrice reaches across the table and touches the velvet box. "I don't understand how he can leave you sitting here now."
"I need him to remember without being told." I meet her eyes. "I can't do that for him. I've been trying to do that for him for months, and it doesn't work. He has to want it himself."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods.
I close the box properly and set it beyond my place setting, away from the food. I'll wear the earrings another day. They are a gift from people who thought about what I would like, and I want to enjoy them.
Beatrice settles back in her chair. She has taken off her coat, and it occurs to me that she has been here a while without even a glass of water.
"Have you eaten?" I gesture at the tomatoes. "They're going to be ruined if someone doesn't eat them soon."
"You should eat." Beatrice draws Rafael's unused plate closer and reaches for the serving spoon. "I'll keep you company."
"I'm not hungry." But I pick up my fork anyway, because she's right, and because the alternative is sitting here staring at food I can't bring myself to touch.
The tomatoes are good. I made them well, layered the basil just right, added exactly the right amount of oil. At our reception I kept stealing the crisp topping from his plate. He moved it closer so I wouldn't have to reach. I put down my fork long enough to swallow before trying another bite.
Beatrice eats beside me in silence, not offering empty comfort or useless advice. She's good at this, I realize. She lets me take my time without filling every pause. When I reach for the bread, she passes it to me. I don't have to tell her I'm all right.
"I'm not going to wait up for him." I set down my fork, the plate only half empty. "I've done enough waiting."
"You've done more than enough." Beatrice stacks our plates and carries them to the sideboard. "What would you like to do with the rest of the food?"
"Save it." I blow out the candles, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. "I'm not starting again when he comes home."
Beatrice doesn't laugh, but her mouth curves in something that might be approval. "That's fair."
We clear the table together, refrigerating the chicken and putting the bread away, storing the almond cake in the pantry for some future occasion that actually deserves it.
The wedding wine goes back in the cellar unopened.
I don't want to drink it alone, and I'm certainly not going to drink it with my mother-in-law while my husband works late on our anniversary.
By ten o'clock the dining room looks like nothing happened here.
The candles are out and the dishes put away. I leave the linen where it is and pick up the velvet box with the earrings inside. Beatrice has gone back to her own rooms, leaving me with a hug and a promise to check on me in the morning. I thanked her for staying before she left. I wish
I hadn't needed her to.
Moments later, I carry my phone upstairs with Beatrice's gift, put the earrings in my jewelry drawer, and change out of the blue dress.
The fabric whispers against my skin as I hang it back in the wardrobe, smooth and unworn for anything that mattered. I pull on soft trousers and a loose top, something comfortable, something that doesn't expect anything from the rest of this night.
The perfume still clings to my wrists, but I don't wash it off. It's mine. I made it for myself.
I'm not going to wait up for him.
I say it in my head like a decision, but my body doesn't cooperate.
I pick up the novel from my nightstand, and find the place I marked.
When I turn the page, I realize I haven't taken any of it in.
The story that made me laugh last week can't hold my attention now.
I set it aside on the bed and get up again.
The notebook with our wedding menu is on my dresser, where I put it before getting dressed for dinner. Now I pick it up and flip through the pages, past the lists I made and the notes I scribbled and the pressed flower from our reception that I tucked between the pages years ago.
There is a wine stain beside the dessert I crossed out before we settled on the final menu. Rafael knocked the glass over while trying to convince me to keep it. I was irritated about the notebook then. Now I run my thumb over the mark.
I close the notebook and put it in the drawer of my nightstand. Some things are better kept out of sight.
The house is quiet around me. I get into bed and set my phone beside it, volume on. If he wants to explain, he knows how to reach me.
Saturday was real. He wanted to be with me that afternoon. I didn't imagine it. But one good day doesn't make up for tonight, and I'm tired of doing the math, adding up the good moments and subtracting the bad ones and trying to make the numbers come out in his favor.
The clock shows nearly midnight when the phone finally rings beside the bed.
I reach for it, and Rafael's name appears on the screen. At last. I had so much to say to him earlier. Now I don't even know where to begin.
I lie back against the pillows and answer.
"Sera?" The voice is low, almost a whisper. I lift my head from the pillow. That isn't Rafael. It's Marisol.
My hand tightens on the phone. I can hear something in the background, a chair shifting, then Rafael's voice, blurred enough that I can't make out the words.
"He's not feeling very well." Marisol's tone is soft, intimate, the voice you use in a dark room with someone you're taking care of. "I'm with him at the office. I've been looking after him."
She is there. He hasn't answered my message, and she is answering his phone.
"Is he all right?" I sit up, pulling the covers off my legs. "Should I come?"
"I think you should." Behind Marisol's whisper, I hear his voice again. I strain to catch the words, but she speaks over him. "Come to the estate office, Sera. I'm here with him."