Chapter 16 Beneath the Citrus
SERAFINA
Tuesday morning, Rafael arrives at ten as promised. I'm waiting in the courtyard with my bag, all three trial bottles wrapped in cloth beside my notebook.
"You brought everything." He opens the passenger door for me, glancing at the bag. "Even the one you took home yesterday."
"I want to compare them fresh." I slide in and settle the bag on my lap. "Yesterday I was too busy explaining to actually listen."
"That's fair." He starts the car. "I asked a lot of questions."
"You asked good questions." I watch the familiar road unfold between our families' groves. "Today I want you to smell them side by side without me telling you what to notice."
At the workshop, I set up the three bottles in a row while Rafael watches. I push a bottle toward him instead of preparing the strips myself.
"Open the first one." I hand him a clean strip. "Just breathe it in. Don't try to describe it yet."
He uncaps the bottle carefully, wets the strip, and lifts it to his nose. I watch his face instead of preparing my own comparison. Yesterday I talked too much. Today I want to see what he notices on his own.
"This one is brighter." He sets it down and reaches for the second without prompting. "Sharper at the top."
"Keep going." I leave my notebook closed while he works through all three, laying the strips in order on the bench. For once, I have no intention of helping him find an answer.
"The third one stays with me longer." He picks it up again. "The others fade faster."
"That's partly the cedar." I feel something warm settle in my chest. He's actually paying attention. "I'm still working on the balance."
"So the third is closest to what you want?" He leaves that strip beside my notebook, waiting for my verdict instead of supplying one.
"Close." I cap the bottles and set them aside. "I want to try one more adjustment before I'm satisfied."
"I need food." I rub the back of my neck, only now noticing how long we've been bent over the bench. "And probably water. I forgot to drink anything."
"Come and eat." He waits while I gather the used strips. "The bottles will survive an hour without us."
In the kitchen, he sets out bread, cheese, sliced tomatoes, and cold chicken while I fill two water glasses. We eat at the small table, with my notebook left in the workshop.
"Thank you." I tear into the bread, hungrier than I realized. "This is good."
"There's a gathering this Saturday." Rafael sets down his water glass. "The annual growers' meeting. It's mostly neighbors, people we've both known forever. I thought you might want to come."
"As your wife?" I put down the bread. I want to know whether this invitation requires us to look like a happy couple.
"As yourself." He meets my eyes steadily. "I'd like to introduce you as someone who's working on something new. Not promising anything about the estate yet, just saying you're exploring ideas with citrus botanicals. If you're comfortable with that."
I think about it. A public event, neighbors who've known us both since childhood, the chance to talk about my work without having to pretend it doesn't exist.
"I'd like that." I'm surprised by how much I mean it. "What time?"
"Saturday afternoon. I'll pick you up at two." He reaches for another piece of bread. "It's casual. Just people catching up, sharing what they're working on. Nobody expects formal presentations."
"Good." I steal a tomato from his plate. "I don't have a presentation."
"You have ideas." He doesn't take the tomato back. "That's enough."
***
Wednesday afternoon, I drive to Fiorella's shop. She's expecting me. I texted Monday asking if we could talk about botanical sourcing, and she suggested I come by when the shop was quiet.
The bell chimes as I push open the door. Fiorella looks up from behind the counter, where she's reorganizing a display of dried herbs.
"Serafina." She sets down the bundle in her hands. "Perfect timing. I just made tea."
We settle into the back room with cups of chamomile, and I tell her about the ideas I've been developing. The possibility of estate-grown essences. The questions I don't have answers to yet. The need to understand what the market actually wants before promising anything.
"You're thinking about this the right way." Fiorella turns her cup between her hands. "Too many people start with what they can produce and assume someone will want it. You're asking what people need first."
"I don't want to waste Rafael's resources on something that won't work." I take a sip of tea. "Or my own time."
"There are people I could introduce you to." She sets down her cup. "Suppliers who work with small producers, perfumers who prefer traceable ingredients. Nothing guaranteed, but conversations worth having."
"I'd appreciate that." I feel a knot of tension loosen in my chest. "I've been so focused on the technical side that I haven't thought enough about who might actually buy the results."
The bell over the shop door chimes. Fiorella glances toward the front, then back at me.
"Let me see who that is." She stands. "Stay here. Finish your tea."
I hear her footsteps, then voices. One is Fiorella's, calm and professional. The other makes my stomach drop.
Marisol.
I set down my cup and move to the doorway, staying just out of sight.
Through the gap in the curtain, I can see them near the counter.
Marisol looks different from the last time I saw her in Rafael's office, after our anniversary had passed without him.
Thinner. Darker circles under her eyes. Her hair is pulled back hastily, not styled the way she usually wears it.
"I'm looking for Serafina." Her voice is too bright, too eager. "Someone said they saw her car outside."
"This is my shop." Fiorella's tone is polite but firm. "I don't discuss who visits me."
"Please." Marisol takes a step closer to the counter. "I just need to talk to her. Five minutes. I need her help."
My help? After everything she did, she wants me to fix this for her?
I push through the curtain before I can talk myself out of it.
"What do you want?" I stop beside the counter, leaving its corner between us.
Marisol's face lights up when she sees me, the familiar eager expression that used to make me put down whatever I was doing.
"Sera." She moves toward me, and I hold up a hand to stop her. "I'm so glad I found you. I've been trying to reach Rafael for weeks, but he won't take my calls. I thought maybe you could talk to him for me."
"Talk to him about what?" I keep my hand raised. We are not greeting each other with a kiss.
"About rehiring me." The words come out in a rush. "Or at least giving me a reference. I can't find work anywhere. People have heard things, and they won't even interview me. If Rafael would just explain that it was a misunderstanding..."
"A misunderstanding." I keep my voice flat. "You opened my husband's shirt while he was unconscious with fever. You called me from his phone to make sure I'd see it. You staged the whole thing to look like something it wasn't. That's not a misunderstanding."
"I was trying to help him." Her voice rises, taking on a desperate edge. "He was sick and alone and you weren't there. I was just taking care of him."
"You were positioning yourself." The anger I've been holding back starts to surface. "You wanted me to find you like that. You wanted me to think something had happened between you."
"Nothing did happen." Tears are forming in her eyes. "I would never... Rafael and I never..."
"I know you didn't." I cut her off. "He told me. But you wanted me to believe you had. You wanted to destroy my marriage so you could take what I had."
"You don't understand." The tears are falling now, but something harder is surfacing underneath.
"You were never there for him the way he needed.
You were always off with your perfumes while he carried everything alone.
I was the one who understood his work, who helped him, who actually cared about what he was going through. "
"I asked him for months to see my work." My voice shakes, but I don't let it stop me. "I begged for his attention. He chose to confide in you instead of me, and you used that to get between us."
"Because I was better for him." The mask slips completely now, revealing something cold and ugly. "I understood his business. I could have been a real partner to him. Not some woman playing with scents in a room he barely knew existed."
"Get out." Fiorella's voice cuts through the tension. She's moved to stand beside me, her presence solid and reassuring. "This is my shop, and you're not welcome here."
Marisol looks between us, her face working through emotions too quickly to track. For a moment I think she's going to argue, to escalate, to make this worse.
Then something in her seems to collapse. The anger drains away, replaced by something desperate and pleading.
"Sera, please." Her voice breaks. "We were friends. Best friends. Doesn't that mean anything?"
"It meant everything." The words hurt coming out. "Until you proved it meant nothing to you."
Marisol stands there, tears streaming down her face, her breath catching as she tries to speak. She wipes her cheeks with both hands, then starts again.
"I did it for him." She's barely whispering now. "Everything I did, I did because I loved him."
"He never promised you a life with him." I can hear how badly she wants me to soften this. "You tried to make one by destroying mine."
She flinches like I've struck her. For a long moment, nobody moves.
Then she turns and walks out of the shop, the bell chiming cheerfully behind her.
I stand there, my hands shaking, my heart pounding. Fiorella puts a hand on my arm.
"Are you all right?" Fiorella draws me away from the door.
"I need to tell Rafael she found me." I pull out my phone, my fingers clumsy on the screen. "He should know she's looking for ways to reach him."
Rafael answers on the second ring. I keep my explanation brief, telling him about Marisol's appearance, her requests, her breakdown. He listens without interrupting.