Chapter 8 A Life Beyond Him #2
"The Saturday before our anniversary, when he helped me set up the workshop.
" I lean against the dresser, needing something solid at my back.
"He was there. Really there. His phone buzzed once, and he looked at it, and then he put it away and kept working.
He chose to stay." I swallow against the tightness in my throat.
"I know that was real. I know he meant it.
But one afternoon doesn't undo months of absence. One good day doesn't make a pattern."
"No." Beatrice passes me the last blouse, and I fold it into the next drawer. "It doesn't."
"What happened after I left?" I hear myself ask the question before I decide to. "Friday morning. After I drove away."
"Corrado checked on him at the office, as we arranged." Beatrice fits the empty box lid underneath the box. "He's home now."
"And since then?" I keep the drawer open, although there's nothing left to put in it. I hate that I still want to ask.
"He asks if I've heard from you." Beatrice gets up and lifts the garment bag from the closet door so I can open it. "I told him I was bringing these today. He wanted to come. I said I hadn't invited him."
"Thank you for that." I take the bag and hang it inside the closet. I asked for my clothes. I shouldn't have to prepare myself for him every time a car comes up the drive.
"Serafina." Beatrice stays beside the closet while I close its door. "What I said before you left still stands. You are family to me. To Corrado. Calling a lawyer doesn't change that."
I believe her. That's the strange part. I believe that she loves me, that Corrado loves me, that this family I married into would keep me even if Rafael doesn't. But it doesn't change anything. Love isn't the part that's broken.
We stand there for a moment, not speaking. I want to hug her, but I'm afraid I'll cry and make it harder for her to leave. She touches my arm before stepping back.
"I should go." She moves toward the door. "Let your family take care of you. And call me if you need anything else brought over. Corrado can manage the heavy things when you're ready for them."
"Beatrice." I stop her at the door. "Thank you. For bringing my things. For not trying to change my mind."
"It's not my mind to change." She looks back at me, her eyes bright but steady. "Whatever you decide, I want you to know it was your choice. Not something I talked you into or out of."
I nod, and she leaves, and I listen to her footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the front door closing behind her.
Then I fold the empty box flat and tuck it beneath the bed. The dress is put away. That will do for today.
By the time I call Fiorella that evening, I've spent an hour going through my formulas without choosing a single one to show anyone.
She answers on the second ring, her voice warm and surprised. "Serafina. I've been thinking about you since the market. Is everything all right?"
"Not exactly." I'm sitting at my desk with my notebook open, the trial bottles lined up beside it. "I wanted to ask you something. About work."
"Work?" I can hear her settling in, the creak of what might be a chair. "What kind of something?"
"I'm leaving my husband." The words come out steadier than I expected. "I called a lawyer this morning. And I've been thinking about what comes next."
The chair stops creaking at her end. "Oh, Sera. I'm sorry." I'm glad she can't see me trying to decide what expression belongs on my face.
"Don't be." I pick up one of the trial bottles and turn it in my fingers, watching the liquid shift inside the amber glass. "It's been coming for a while. I just finally admitted it."
"What are you going to do?" The question lands without pity. I can answer it without having to tell her what Marisol said to me.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about.
" I set the bottle down and flip to a page in my notebook, one I've been studying since this afternoon.
"I'm thinking about leaving Sicily. Starting over somewhere else.
France, maybe. I have some contacts in Grasse from years ago, people I've exchanged formulas with.
I don't know if any of it would lead to real work, but I want to find out. "
"Grasse." I hear a drawer close at her end, then the scrape of something across a counter. She's making room for this conversation. "What are you thinking, employment? Your own label?"
"I don't know yet. Something." I trace my finger over the formula on the page, a blend I've been refining for months.
"I know I'm good at this. I know my work is worth something.
But I've been doing it in isolation for so long, just me and my workshop and the occasional commission. I want to know if it could be more."
"I liked what you brought me after you replaced the bergamot." She remembers the work itself. I've spent so long explaining why I want to do it that her answer catches me off guard. "You made room for the cedar without losing the brightness. I'd like to smell the next version."
"That's the one I'm working on now." I look at the trial bottles on the desk, the amber glass holding months of experimentation. "Or trying to work on. I brought some samples with me when I left, but most of my equipment is still at the Visconti house. I can't do much until I get it back."
"What do you have with you?" I hear paper being pulled toward her. Apparently she's not prepared to let me dismiss the idea because my scales are in another house.
"The formulas." I turn to the index at the back of the notebook. "Everything is written down. And three trial bottles, the most recent versions of the blend. Enough to evaluate, maybe. Not enough to produce."
"Then you can start choosing what to show." Her pen taps the counter while I search for a blank page. "Samples, when you have them ready. A short note about each one. Something that makes them want to talk to you."
"I've been thinking about that." I've been thinking about it all day, actually, ever since I finished trimming my mother's herbs and went upstairs to look at my notebook with new eyes. "Which formulas would you include? If you were trying to demonstrate range?"
"I'd start with the citrus blend you brought me. Beyond that, I'd need to smell them." Fiorella doesn't pretend to know work I haven't shown her. "What have you got that's unlike it?"
I turn back through the book until I find a page with a stained corner. "Jasmine and black pepper. I liked where it was going, but I never finished it."
"Bring me that when you're ready." Her pen starts moving again. "And the citrus first, since you have it. I'll tell you what I think, if that's what you want."
"It is. Even if you hate it." I mark the jasmine page with a scrap of paper. "I'd need to source the jasmine again. And the pepper. I used a specific variety that was hard to find."
"I can help with the jasmine. I have a supplier in Tunisia who owes me a favor.
" There's the sound of writing on her end, a pen scratching on paper.
"Give me a week and I'll see what I can do.
In the meantime, work on what you have. Get those trial blends as close to finished as you can.
You want something to show people? Start with what's already in your hands. "
I go back to the jasmine page and look at the notes I made almost a year ago, the careful observations about how the pepper changed the floral character, made it sharper and more alive.
I put it aside to work on the citrus blend.
For a while, I'd even forgotten how much I liked it.
I write its name on the blank page and leave room underneath for the work it still needs.
"Fiorella." I lay my pen across the page before I can add another idea to the list. "What do you actually think? About France. About starting over."
"I haven't lived there. I couldn't tell you whether you'd like it." She doesn't rush to reassure me, and I appreciate that more than I expected. "But I can help you choose what to show people."
"I don't know what I really want yet." I put a question mark beside Grasse at the top of the page. "I just know I need options. I need to believe there's a future that isn't this."
"Then ask about the work before you decide about the move." Fiorella waits while I write that down. "Would you still want to make these perfumes if you stayed in Sicily?"
I look at the names on my page. Of course I would. I wanted to make them before I picked up the phone.
"Yes." I underline the citrus blend. "And I want you to try this one. Can I call you when I've checked the samples?"