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She settled herself into the green leather wingback armchair, curling her knees beneath her like she had done as a girl. Gabriella took the opposite chair and set to unscrewing the cork and pouring wines.
“Here, dear.” She handed a very full glass over.
“Thank you.” Carrie took it, but settled back into the chair. She was still recovering from champagne she’d imbibed days earlier with Juanita.
“Diego was a bastard to me,” Gabriella said after a long silence.
Carrie nodded. She knew as much from Gael. “And yet you loved him.”
“Yes, I loved him.”
Carrie sipped the wine. It was excellent. Rich and robust, like syrup in her mouth. “Why?”
Gabriella spluttered on her wine, and sat up straight. “Why?” Her eyes, so like Gael’s pierced Carrie’s. “Why is the sky blue? The grass green? The water cold? Why is the Earth round and the sun hot? I loved him because I did. It is because it is.”
Carrie’s heart squeezed in her chest. She ignored it. She did not love Gael. She desired him, hugely, but love was something else. Something soft and pleasant. Comfortable, like old moccasins or hot chocolate by the fire. It was not this burning angst that captured her chest.
“How did you live without him?”
Gabriella’s smile was stretched. “I couldn’t live with him. Nor he with me. Our love didn’t work. Love is often not enough, no matter how much you wish it were.” She shrugged, as though it no longer mattered. “I was happy to know he ended his days in a better place.”
Carrie sipped the wine far faster than she intended. But it was so delicious and she was so exhausted. It sent a heavenly calm through her body, and she sank into it.
“My son is suffering.”
Carrie’s brows lifted, and her heart began to race. “I … suppose it is better if we don’t speak of
Gael,” she said, finally, hiding a grimace.
“Ah. Easier said than done, I think,” Gabriella observed with a gentle smile.
Carrie sipped her wine, and stared out the window. The sun had set, and the sky was darkening.
They finished the bottle, conversation sparse, understanding great.
“Are you staying…?”
“No,” Gabriella demurred gently. “Gael’s driver will take me to London. I fly to the island tomorrow.” She kissed Carrie on both cheeks, and walked down the corridor. “Come and see me again, Carrie. You are far happier in the sun than here.”
Carrie watched her go, and then leaned against the doors of the study.
Half a bottle of strong wine and barely any sleep had taken their toll on her. She felt light-headed as she moved through the ancient home.
Weariness was a force wrapped around her, but her feet carried her away from the upstairs bedrooms. She walked, instead, back outside.
It was cool now, as English Summer evenings tended to be. Carrie stuffed her hands into her pockets and moved further into the garden.
The roses were as beautiful as ever.
That was his doing.
Diego’s.
He’d made sure they were well-tended. He told her it was because he had a view of them from his Convalescent’s Chair, as he’d called it. Carrie knew better. He did it because she had loved them once. She’d told him, the day before the wedding, the importance of the garden to her.
She climbed down the wall and began to skirt the blooms, her blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight as she sought out her favourite variety and paused at its base.
“Hello, old friend,” she murmured quietly. “You’ve gone and got enormous.” She ran a finger along its thick, smooth trunk, up to the base of the knotted branches that spread out in a neat circle. A perfect bud on a long stem reached down to her and Carrie itched to pick it.
