Chapter 20 My Name, Our Home #3
"Generous of you to give me credit." I glance at Nadia, who looks perfectly capable of finishing the task herself.
"I'll remember you said that." He gathers the empty glasses beside us and stacks them on a tray for collection.
The gathering continues to wind down around us, guests drifting away as the light turns golden and long. "I want to go home." I turn to face Rafael fully. "With you. For good."
"We are home." He glances toward the open terrace doors, then back to me. "Sera, do you mean..."
"I know where we are." I take both his hands in mine. "I'm saying I want to stay. I want to stop sleeping in my childhood bed and start sleeping in ours. I want to wake up tomorrow in this house, with you, and know it's where I belong."
"Tonight?" His fingers close around mine, and his smile returns before I can answer.
"Yes. I watched you this afternoon." I squeeze his fingers. "Talking to Nadia, helping with the chairs, laughing with people from town. You were different. Comfortable. Like you finally remembered how to be part of something instead of standing apart from it."
"I've enjoyed today." He looks past me at the remaining guests, then back to our hands. "I want more days like this with you."
"Then let's have them." I step closer. "And the ordinary ones. I want those, too. I want to put my things away and stop looking at the time because I have to leave you again."
He pulls me into his arms, holding me so tight I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. I hold him back just as fiercely, breathing in the familiar scent of him, letting myself finally, fully, come home.
My parents find me beside Rafael, my father looking relieved that the formal portion is over, my mother glowing with quiet pride.
"We should head home." My mother pulls me into a hug. "Let you enjoy the rest of your evening."
"Actually." I draw back enough to see her face. "I was thinking I might come with you. Just for a bit. To pack a few things."
Her eyes search mine, and I see the understanding dawn. "You're staying here tonight."
"Yes." I glance at Rafael, whose smile is making it difficult to finish this conversation. "I want to bring some of my things back. The jasmine, my notebooks. A few clothes."
"Then we'll see you shortly." She cups my face in her hands the way she's done since I was small. "I'll put the kettle on. Take whatever time you need."
My father hugs me next, brief and solid, and then they're making their way through the house, leaving us to say our last goodbyes. Fio folds me into a hug before collecting her handbag, and Beatrice and Corrado walk out with her.
***
The drive to my parents' house is short, the roads familiar in the fading light. Rafael waits in the kitchen while I climb the stairs to my childhood room, already knowing what I want to take.
The jasmine vial sits on the dresser where I left it, still wrapped in brown paper.
I tuck it carefully into my bag alongside my formula book and the notebook of producers Fio gave me.
I add clean clothes for the morning. My mother has offered to bring the small tools from the pantry tomorrow, and I can collect my car then. For tonight, one bag is enough.
When I come back downstairs, my mother presses a wrapped package into my hands.
"Leftover bread from this morning." She kisses my cheek. "In case you're hungry later."
"Thank you." I hold her for a moment longer than necessary. "For everything."
"Go home, tesoro." She releases me with a gentle push. "We'll bring the rest tomorrow."
The drive back is quiet, Rafael smiling across at me whenever we stop, the wrapped bread resting in my lap. The main house appears through the trees, windows glowing against the darkening sky, and something in my chest settles at the sight of it.
Inside, the terrace doors are still open, letting in the cool evening air. The remnants of the gathering have been cleared away, leaving the house quiet in a way that feels welcoming rather than empty.
Rafael sets my bag by the stairs and carries the wrapped bread into the kitchen, placing it on the wooden table where we've shared hundreds of meals. I follow him, suddenly aware of how little I ate during the party, too busy talking and answering questions and trying not to fidget.
"I'm starving." I pull out a chair and sink into it. "I think I smiled at forty people and forgot to swallow anything."
"I noticed." He's already moving through the kitchen with easy familiarity, retrieving plates from the cabinet, a bottle of olive oil from the shelf, two glasses that he fills with water from the pitcher. "You kept picking up food and putting it down again."
"I was being eloquent. It takes concentration." I watch him unwrap the bread my mother sent, tearing it into rough pieces and arranging them on a plate. "I'm not making any more speeches tonight."
"Thank God." He drizzles oil over the bread and brings everything to the table. "Then I get you all to myself."
Before he can sit, I reach for the plate he has put across from me and move it next to mine. He pauses, notices, and something soft moves across his face.
"Closer is better." I pull out the chair beside mine. "I've decided."
He sits where I've placed him, his knee brushing against my leg under the table. When he reaches for the bread, I catch his wrist and pull his hand to my mouth, pressing a quick kiss to his palm before letting go.
"Eat." I tear off a piece of bread and hand it to him. "You talked to almost as many people as I did."
We eat in comfortable silence, shoulders nearly touching, the bread rough and good with oil soaking into its crust. His plate is next to mine. His chair is full.
Special Chapter: The Boy Who Found Me
SERAFINA
A year after I came home, the terrace is full of grandparents arguing about shade.
"The umbrella needs to move six inches to the left." My mother adjusts the fabric again, blocking the afternoon sun from Lucia's pram. "She'll get too warm on that side."
"She was perfectly comfortable." Beatrice lifts the edge of the blanket and tucks it more securely around my daughter's feet. "The breeze comes from the east this time of day. I've been watching."
"You've been watching the baby. I've been watching the sun." My mother moves the umbrella anyway, and Beatrice purses her lips but doesn't object.
Lucia, five months old and the first grandchild on either side, waves one fist at the shifting light and makes a sound that might be approval or might be gas. Either way, both grandmothers take credit.
I lean back in my chair and watch them negotiate.
My father and Corrado have retreated to the far end of the terrace with glasses of wine, leaving the serious work of infant management to their wives.
This is the third time this week all four grandparents have found reasons to visit, and I've stopped pretending to be surprised when cars appear in the drive.
"She has your eyes." My mother leans over the pram, her face soft with wonder. "The shape of them, I mean. The color might still change."
"She has Rafael's chin." Beatrice adjusts the blanket again, undoing half of what my mother just did. "You can already see it. Very determined."
"At this stage, I think she's mostly determined to eat." I rescue the blanket from their competing hands and settle it lightly over Lucia's legs.
Neither grandmother acknowledges this observation.
They've moved on to debating whether Lucia prefers the stuffed rabbit from the Castille side or the knitted lamb from the Viscontis. The rabbit is larger. The lamb is softer. Lucia, who spent most of yesterday morning chewing on a wooden spoon, has no apparent loyalty to either.
Rafael emerges from the house with a tray of drinks, navigating around the umbrella stand with practiced ease. He sets the tray on the table and hands me a glass of water before distributing the rest.
"The lamb," he says to his mother, who brightens. "She grabbed it this morning and wouldn't let go."
"She grabbed my finger this morning and wouldn't let go either." I take a sip of water. "She's not picky."
"She knows quality." Beatrice retrieves the lamb and holds it where Lucia can see it. "It's instinct."
My mother reaches for the rabbit and holds it beside the lamb. Lucia kicks both legs at this unexpected entertainment, pleased to have an audience.
"See?" My mother wiggles the rabbit's ears. "She wants options."
I catch Rafael's eye across the terrace, and he grins at me, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
He's better at this than I expected, at finding his place among the chaos of extended family.
Before I left him, he would have retreated to his study with a plausible excuse.
Now he's refilling Corrado's glass and asking my father about the new irrigation system on the Castille side.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out to check. Fio, sending me a photograph of a customer holding one of our bottles with a message that just says: She bought three.
I smile and tuck the phone away.
The jasmine and black pepper has become our most requested blend, the one people ask for by description when they can't remember the name.
The bergamot trial from last year's gathering has evolved into something I'm proud of, and we've added two more formulas since then.
The new work has helped the estate find steadier footing.
More than that, I get to make things people want to carry home with them.
"Good news?" Rafael has appeared beside my chair, his hand resting on my shoulder.
"Fio sold three bottles of the jasmine." I tip my head back to look at him. "To the same customer."
"She has excellent taste." He squeezes my shoulder. "Or she's buying gifts."
"Either way, Fio is thrilled." I reach up and cover his hand with mine. "Her message is mostly exclamation points."
"That's restrained for Fio." He leans down and kisses my temple, casual and warm, then straightens as my father approaches.