Chapter 14 The Day I Laughed Again
SERAFINA
The coffee stand is busy, the line stretching past the nearest vegetable stall.
I join the end of it while Rafael stands beside me, still holding my mother's basil and his bag of salted almonds.
The morning sun is warm on my shoulders, and the smell of fresh coffee mingles with the market's usual mix of herbs and citrus and baking bread.
"Water for you?" Rafael shifts the basil pot to his other hand. "Or have you changed your mind about coffee?"
"Water." The smell of coffee still makes my stomach uncertain, even though I miss the taste. "You can have whatever you want."
"Coffee." He studies the menu above the cart. "A double espresso. I was up early."
"Why?" The question comes out before I can stop it. I'm not sure I want to know what keeps him awake these days.
"My mother called." He moves forward as the line shifts. "She wanted to know whether she could call you or whether giving you space meant she had to sit on her hands forever."
"She can call me." I picture Beatrice holding her phone and trying to outlast her own curiosity. "Tell her I'm not issuing visiting permits."
"I'll let her know." He puts down the basil long enough to find his wallet. "She'll be pleased. My father's had to listen to all her questions instead."
We reach the front of the line, and I order my water while Rafael asks for a double espresso.
The woman behind the cart knows him by sight, asking after his parents, and I watch him answer with the same easy warmth he showed the vendors earlier.
This is who he is when he's not drowning in crisis. I'd almost forgotten.
We find a spot on the low wall near the fountain, close enough to hear the water splash but far enough from the crowd to talk without shouting. Rafael sets the basil between us and cups his espresso in both hands, breathing in the steam before he drinks.
"There's a festival this weekend." He nods toward a poster tacked to the lamppost across the square. "The citrus harvest fair. I saw the signs going up yesterday."
I look at the poster. Bright colors, hand-drawn lemons, Saturday's date in bold letters. I remember this fair from childhood, the games and the food stalls and the competitions that got more ridiculous as the day went on.
"I'd forgotten it was this weekend." I turn the bottle against my wrist, enjoying the coolness. "Papa will want to know who won the largest-lemon competition. He never accepts the verdict unless he's inspected every entry."
"It saves him entering his own." Rafael sets down his empty cup. "No chance of losing if you stay on the judging side of the fence."
That is unfairly accurate. I have to take another drink to hide my smile.
"Are you going this year?" I keep my voice neutral, curious.
"I was thinking about it." He looks at me, and I can see him weighing his next words. "Would you want to come? With me, I mean. If you're not doing anything else."
I should say no. I should maintain the careful distance I've been building, the boundaries that keep me safe from hoping too much.
But the poster is bright and cheerful, and the morning has been good, and some part of me wants to see him covered in mud from whatever ridiculous competition they're running this year.
"Maybe." I turn the cap of my water bottle between my fingers. "I'll think about it."
"No pressure." He picks up the basil pot, cradling it carefully. "Just let me know. I can pick you up, or we can meet there, or you can decide at the last minute that you'd rather stay home. Whatever works."
"I said maybe." I raise the bottle to hide another smile, too late to stop him seeing it.
We walk back through the market together, stopping at a few more stalls.
Rafael buys some olive oil from the man who knew his name, and I pick up a jar of honey from a woman who tells me her bees are already working the orange blossoms. By the time we reach the edge of the square, I'm carrying two bags and Rafael has the basil, the olive oil, and his salted almonds tucked into a canvas tote he bought from someone's grandmother.
"I should get these home." I gesture toward my car, parked on the side street. "Mama will wonder whether I bought her one plant or an entire garden."
"Of course." He doesn't try to extend the morning or ask when he'll see me again. "Thank you for letting me walk with you."
"Thank you for the almonds." I hold up the bag, nearly empty now. "And for finding the right ones."
"She's already promised you next week's bag." He hands me the basil to put on the floor behind my passenger seat, then steps back with his own shopping. "Let me know about Saturday."
I watch him walk away, the canvas tote bumping against his leg, and I realize I'm already planning what to wear to the festival.
***
Saturday arrives bright and warm, the kind of spring day that makes everything feel possible. I spend the morning pretending I haven't decided to go, then give up the pretense around noon and text Rafael that I'll meet him at the fairground entrance at two.
His response comes within seconds: I'll be there. I've packed a picnic if you feel like staying after the fair. And the grass will probably still be muddy, so sensible shoes.
I look at the heeled sandals I'd been considering, then push them back into the wardrobe.
I choose a simple dress with a cardigan over it, comfortable shoes that I won't mind if they get dusty, and I leave my good jewelry at home. I'm going to watch the competitions, not sacrifice a favorite pair of shoes to them.
The fairground is already crowded when I arrive, families with children, couples holding hands, groups of teenagers showing off for each other.
The smell of roasting meat and fried pastries fills the air, and somewhere a band is playing something fast and cheerful.
I scan the crowd for Rafael and spot him near the entrance, looking at his phone.
He's wearing a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, and dark trousers that look like they've seen better days. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he ran his hands through it too many times on the drive over. When he sees me, his face breaks into a grin that makes my stomach flip.
"Good choice." He pockets his phone and glances at my shoes. "There's a patch of mud by the gate that's already claimed a sandal."
"How fortunate I have a guide." I fall into step beside him as we enter the fairground. "Are you staying on dry ground?"
"For now." He gestures toward the stalls lining the main path. "Food first? Or do you want to look around?"
"Look around." I want to see what's happening before I commit to anything. "Where is this mud you've been warning me about?"
Rafael points toward the far end of the fair. "I saw the contest enclosure when I arrived. It's impressive."
We wander through the fair, stopping to watch a group of children chasing each other through an obstacle course and a woman demonstrating how to weave baskets from willow.
There's a contest for the largest lemon, which is won by an old man who looks like he's been entering this competition for decades, and a pie-eating contest that leaves three teenagers covered in custard.
Then we round a corner and I see it.
A fenced enclosure lies beyond the games, its churned earth wet and shining.
Inside, a handler stands with a small pig on a lead, explaining the rules to the entrants.
The goal is to guide it through the open gate at the far end.
The prize is a hamper from the food stalls, displayed on a table outside the fence.
"No." I turn to Rafael, who is trying very hard not to laugh. "Absolutely not."
"The greased pig chase." He studies the entrants, then the gate they're supposed to reach. "I could do that."
"You're not serious." Then he begins unbuttoning his shirt, and I have to stop watching his hands before he notices how completely they've distracted me.
Focus, Sera. This is not the time.
"Hold this for me?" He passes me the shirt, still warm from his body. "I'll wash before I go anywhere near our food."
"I haven't agreed to a picnic with a mud-covered man." I fold the shirt over my arm. "There are limits, Rafael."
"Then I'd better keep you on this side of the fence." He takes off his shoes and tucks his socks inside them, leaving them by the prize table.
Then he's gone, climbing into the enclosure with the other competitors, and I'm left standing there holding his shirt and trying to process what just happened.
He is studying the far gate as though there's a correct solution and he means to find it. I know that look. I used to see it just before he challenged me to a race he was certain he could win.
The handler releases the pig, and chaos erupts.
The animal is small but quick, darting between legs and changing direction every time someone gets close.
Rafael is faster than I expected, keeping pace with the pig without trying to grab it, steering it gently toward the pen at the far end of the enclosure. He's completely focused, mud splashing up his legs and chest, his bare feet sliding on the slick ground.
I'm laughing. Actually laughing, out loud, in a way I haven't in longer than I can remember. The sound surprises me, bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest, impossible to stop.
Rafael glances toward me, and his grin is blinding.
Then the pig makes a break for it, and he has to dive to cut it off, sliding through the mud on his knees and coming up looking like a swamp creature. The crowd roars with laughter. I'm laughing too, my hand pressed over my mouth, tears streaming down my face.
He gets back to his feet, mud dripping from his hair, and guides the pig the last few feet into the pen. The handler closes the gate, and the crowd cheers.
Rafael won.
He climbs out of the enclosure, mud covering him from head to toe, and makes his way toward me. I'm still laughing, unable to stop, and he's grinning like a man who just conquered the world instead of chasing a pig through the mud.