Between Loyalty and You

Chapter 17 (Elena's POV)

The garden had disappeared overnight.

I stood at the bedroom window in my socks, looking at the snow gathered along the terrace wall. The lemon pots wore white caps. Beyond them, the lawn stretched smooth and untouched toward the trees.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

Luca entered carrying two cups.

He followed my gaze.

“That explains why you haven’t come looking for breakfast.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I noticed.”

“No, you looked at it. There’s a difference.”

He handed me a cup and stood beside me.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

I liked that he was learning when not to.

In the kitchen, breakfast went considerably better than it had the day before.

Luca managed the eggs. I made toast and cut oranges, eating several pieces before they reached the plates.

He caught me taking another.

“Quality control.”

“Thorough of you.”

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

“I’ve never painted it from life,” I said.

“Snow?”

“I’ve worked on enough winter landscapes to be embarrassed about that.”

“What’s stopping you?”

I looked down at my slippers.

“Several practical concerns.”

He smiled into his coffee.

A few minutes later, he asked where I had put my sketchbook.

I found him in the entrance hall with two blankets over his arm.

Beside the door stood a flask, a small electric heater, and my sketchbook.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing yet.”

“That sounds carefully worded.”

“Put your boots on.”

I folded my arms.

“Please,” he added.

“Better.”

He had found an old wool scarf in a cupboard. When I got back in my coat, he wound it loosely around my neck.

“It’s enormous.”

“It’s cold.”

His fingers paused beneath my chin.

Then he kissed me.

“You’re getting very good at distracting me from complaints.”

“I’ve had considerable practice listening to them.”

I nudged him toward the door.

We walked behind the house, taking the narrow path beyond the kitchen garden.

I knew that side of the grounds only from my bedroom window.

At the far end, almost hidden by bare climbing roses, stood a glasshouse.

Snow lined the iron framework. Through the cloudy panes, I could make out empty benches and large terracotta pots.

Luca set down the blankets and worked a key into the door.

“My mother used to spend hours here.”

The hinges protested.

Inside, the air smelled of earth and dry leaves.

He plugged in the heater near a stone bench, well away from the watering cans, then brushed dust from two wooden chairs.

“It won’t become summer,” he said. “But it should help.”

I walked slowly between the benches.

Old plant labels remained in several pots. Someone had written the names in slanted handwriting, the ink fading to brown.

“Are these hers?”

He nodded.

I touched the edge of one without moving it.

“Rosa keeps threatening to organize everything.”

“And you keep saying no?”

“I tell her I’ll do it.”

“When?”

“That’s usually her next question.”

I smiled.

Above us, snow slid softly down a pane of glass.

He had brought coffee.

Of course, he had.

We settled near the heater with blankets over our knees, and I opened the sketchbook.

For several minutes, I tried to draw the garden beyond the glass.

Then I looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Move your chair a little.”

He glanced behind him.

“Why?”

“The light.”

“Elena.”

“Please.”

He shifted reluctantly.

I turned to a clean page.

“You said you wanted to draw the snow.”

“It’s less difficult than you.”

“I’m perfectly cooperative.”

“Then stop frowning.”

He tried.

It made him look so stern that I laughed.

“That’s worse.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Talk to me.”

“About?”

“Your mother.”

He looked toward the rows of empty pots.

For a moment, I thought he might refuse.

Then he settled back in the chair.

“She couldn’t grow lavender.”

I glanced up.

“That seems unlikely.”

“She killed it with attention. Too much water. Too much fussing. Every spring, she blamed the nursery and bought more.”

“Did anyone suggest watering it less?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“My father spent the afternoon repotting everything.”

I smiled and began to draw.

He grew easier as he spoke.

The stiffness left his shoulders. His hands stopped moving as though he needed something useful to do with them.

“She brought a radio out here,” he said. “An old one. Terrible reception.”

“What did she listen to?”

“Anything she could sing badly.”

“You’re very unkind about a woman whose plants you won’t let anyone move.”

His eyes met mine.

“She would have appreciated that.”

I looked down before he could see how much the answer touched me.

Outside, the cypress branches bowed beneath the snow.

I sketched the line of his jaw, then softened it.

“What did you want to be?” I asked.

“When?”

“Before everyone started calling you for answers.”

He rubbed his thumb along the handle of his cup.

“An architect, briefly.”

I looked up.

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m trying to picture you arguing about windows.”

“I have strong opinions about windows.”

“That I believe.”

He smiled.

“I liked drawing houses. Floor plans, mostly. I used to cover my school notebooks with them.”

“What kind?”

“Small ones.”

That surprised me more than the profession.

He noticed.

“Courtyards. Kitchens with enough room for a table. Somewhere you could hear people in the next room.”

I looked around the glasshouse.

“What happened?”

“My father became ill. I started helping with his affairs. There was always something that needed doing.”

“And eventually you stopped drawing.”

“Yes.”

He said it without self-pity.

I returned to the page, though my hand moved more slowly now.

I wanted to ask a dozen questions.

Instead, I asked whether he still had the notebooks.

“Somewhere.”

“I’d like to see them.”

He watched me for a moment.

“All right.”

By the time I finished, our coffee was cold.

Luca stretched his legs carefully.

“May I move now?”

“You’ve been moving the entire time.”

“I’ve shown extraordinary restraint.”

I closed the sketchbook against my chest.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Am I allowed to see?”

Suddenly, I was nervous.

“It’s only a sketch.”

“Elena.”

I handed it over.

He studied the page without speaking.

I had drawn him turned slightly toward the light, his cup held between both hands. His mouth was relaxed, almost smiling.

He looked younger that way.

Not in years.

In the absence of whatever he usually carried across his face.

I began explaining the unfinished hand.

He shook his head.

“Is that really how you see me?”

“When you let me.”

He looked at me.

I wished I had said something lighter.

Then he set the sketchbook carefully on the bench and reached for my hand.

I moved into the space between his knees.

He looked up at me, his fingers warm around mine.

“Thank you.”

I bent and kissed him.

There was nothing hurried about it.

When I straightened, he was still holding my hand.

We left everything safely inside except the sketchbook and empty flask.

The snow had eased to a fine, steady fall.

I stepped off the path onto the lawn.

“Elena, the ground—”

His foot slipped before he finished.

He caught himself against the glasshouse frame.

I stared at him.

Then I laughed.

“Not a word,” he said.

“You were about to give such excellent advice.”

“I still might.”

He came after me carefully.

I tried to retreat with dignity, but my boot sank into a deeper patch and stopped me.

Luca caught my hand.

“See?”

“You’ve been waiting your whole life for this.”

“For you to admit I’m right? Yes.”

I brushed snow from his shoulder.

A few flakes had caught in his hair.

He watched my face while I reached up to remove them.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“You do that when you don’t want to tell me.”

“I like seeing you happy.”

My hand went still against his coat.

Then I took hold of his scarf and drew him down.

He kissed me in the snow, one arm around my waist, while cold water slipped beneath my collar.

I laughed against his mouth.

He kissed me again.

Back inside, we left our boots by the door and argued mildly about whose socks were wetter.

Luca lit the library fire while I brought blankets from the cupboard.

We ate soup from bowls balanced on our knees.

Afterward, he found a worn notebook and handed it to me.

Inside were houses.

Uneven measurements. Staircases corrected in darker pencil. A courtyard tree drawn with more care than the rooms surrounding it.

I turned the pages slowly.

“You kept going back to this one.”

He looked at the plan.

“The kitchen never worked.”

I pointed.

“Move the door.”

He leaned closer.

Then he laughed softly.

“All these years.”

“You should have asked me.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

Later, he lay on the sofa with his head in my lap while I read.

At first, he interrupted to disagree with the narrator.

Then his answers became shorter.

His hand rested loosely against my knee.

I stopped reading when his breathing changed.

“Luca?”

No answer.

I looked down.

He was asleep.

Without the effort he made while awake, his face settled into the expression I had spent the morning trying to draw.

I carefully put my book aside.

A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. I brushed it back, slowly enough not to wake him.

The fire shifted in the grate.

Beyond the windows, the garden grew blue with evening.

I thought about the little house in his notebook. The table in the kitchen. Voices carrying from another room.

Then, before I could prevent it, I imagined another winter here.

My books beside his.

Wet boots at the door.

One day we wouldn’t have to explain it to anyone.

I knew how far we were from that.

For once, I let the thought remain.

Luca stirred beneath my hand, then settled again.

I stayed where I was until the room grew dark.