AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 18
Time was a stubborn, contrary thing, Corbin thought. It deliberately, even maliciously, did the exact opposite of what you wanted it to do. When you wanted it to slow down, it sped up. When you wanted it to drag on so you could savor a moment, it began to race the way his heartbeat did whenever Melanie stepped into a room.
The days after they made love in the study seemed to build up speed, tumbling around him like dominoes. In the following week and a half, they had broken the back of the beast, as his father used to say, with the majority of the heavy work completed. The flooring, ceilings, roofing, paneling, all installed, along with the heavy kitchen equipment, major appliances and furniture.
All that was left were the little things, the bits and bobs that were more in Melanie’s wheelhouse than in his, but he gamely supported her, driving around to out-of-the-way art galleries, potters, and rug merchants hunting for treasure. The only dark lining around that silver cloud was the knowledge that soon the project would be over and Melanie and Rhys would be packing up their things to return to their lives—and walking out of his.
It didn’t matter where they went or what she wanted to do next. All he knew was that he got the chance to be with her every day. This made him happy, especially when Rhys was there, too, chattering on about huge, important things like the fact that his oregano plants had doubled in size in one week or that his cilantro patch was covered in a “really gross” fungus. Just being with them, pretending that he was part of their family, filled him with joy such as he hadn’t felt in years.
Once a month he cleaned Luca’s room, dusting and polishing and changing the sheets, rearranging the books on the shelf and the toys and games in his cabinet as if he was expecting his son to return any day now, from a long vacation or summer camp. He usually finished with tears streaming down his face. But this weekend when the task came up, the anguish, grief, and guilt were there, but the tears were not.
As he made his rounds, checking up on the few remaining workmen who were putting in finishing touches, he listened to them talk, hiding a smile when, as usual, the conversation turned to the ongoing rivalry between the Children of Gaia and the Minions.
Monsieur Happy had been adopted by a perfumery in Grasse, which had announced they were going to create a new men’s aftershave in his honor and put him on the label. He was immediately snatched by a small gang dressed as street mimes à la Marcel Marceau and was currently begging for tips as part of a troupe of street performers in Aix.
“The Minions,” one of his men was saying admiringly, “they will not accept this insult. They are responding.”
They were indeed. Just yesterday a van had driven into the yard, bearing a mature topiary meticulously trimmed into the shape of a phallus, and just like that, #PenisPalooza was shooting up the rankings again. Melanie had argued strenuously that in no way was this going to become part of her décor, until Graziella intervened, laughing hysterically, insisting that it was the funniest thing she had ever seen and to please make sure it was installed at the bottom of her driveway. They’d also taken delivery of a set of obscene ice cube molds and shot glasses, but the less said about that, the better.
“Corbin?”
He spun around to see Melanie running towards him, flushed and out of breath. The sight of her always made him out of breath, too. “Yes?” He wanted to say more, call her a term of endearment, pull her to him and kiss her, but, as always, he was mindful of the many pairs of eyes—and cameras—around them. The few private moments they’d had since that evening were always conducted after a meticulous scouring of the grounds and disposal of their tech. He was a private man himself, and the idea of exposing this sweet gentle woman to gossip made him shudder.
She was waving several sheets of paper in front of his face, much too fast for him to read it. She was also talking too fast for him to understand, something about “marble” and “Italy”. He restrained her with one arm. “Breathe,” he advised her. “I cannot understand unless you—”
“Graziella doesn’t like the kitchens so we’re going to Florence!” she let out in a rush.
He stared at her. “What do you mean, not like the kitchens?” The kitchen counters had been covered with the best Sant Vincens tiles from Perpignan. They were the highlight of the kitchen.
Melanie thrust the printout in his face, and he read it with rising alarm. Graziella had taken it into her head that she wanted the kitchen surfaced with marble, not tile, and had made arrangements for them to visit an artisanal quarry in Florence, Italy, to select the material.
He didn’t bother to hide his incredulity. “This is ridiculous! To tear up that kitchen would be a violation! Every single tile is perfectly laid. Every pattern flawless. I will not—”
“Please,” Melanie said, taking the papers from him and clutching it tight. “Did you read what it said?” Her wide, gorgeous eyes were on him, and he knew that she hated the idea of begging him while on camera, of admitting what she really needed.
Yes, he had read what it had said. The original agreement with Graziella, as brokered by Queenie, was that if she finished the project within the stipulated time, there would be a sizeable bonus. With this new proposal, if they could complete this one last mission, that bonus would be doubled.
To him, with his coffers full and practically untouched in the past few years, the sum was minor, but to Melanie, it would mean the world. He imagined what she could do with it: a down payment on a new home when they returned to the States, a college fund for Rhys. Who was he to deny her this, based on some selfish, misplaced artistic pride?
She didn’t need to ask him again. He took the printout from her clenched fist, smoothed it out, and reread it more carefully. Then, he nodded. “When do we leave?” he asked.
“Queenie has booked us—you, me, and Rhys—on a flight to Florence tomorrow.”
The next twodays passed like a movie montage: Corbin was sure that in the future, when this was all over, he would only have a series of happy, sunshiny, fast-cut, images of the three of them visiting one of the oldest and most beautiful cities in Europe.
They were treated like visiting royalty at the quarry, presented with samples of marble so exquisitely detailed and veined that it was hard to choose. In the end, they went with Rhys’s favorite, and by the time the sun went down on that first day, the order had been placed and arrangements had been made for the countertops to be fashioned and shipped to the cottage as a matter of priority.
Corbin suggested that they spend the second day exploring the city, giving Rhys full rein to create their itinerary. He surprised them by deciding on a tour of the Uffizi Gallery in the morning and a pasta-making class in the afternoon. He was dead set against taking a side trip to see Michelangelo’s David in person at the Accademia, saying vehemently that the very last thing he needed after the Mr. Happy debacle was to see yet another buck-naked statue. Corbin had to admit he knew how Rhys felt.
After stuffing themselves with the pasta they’d made with their own hands, they strolled the narrow, cobbled streets of the old quarter, stopping to buy gelato from a street vendor and to enjoy a dancing fountain light show in a small park. When Melanie slipped her hand into his as they walked, and Rhys responded to that gesture with a happy grin, Corbin almost fell apart.
How long had it been since he was happy? Since he felt emotions like this, deep in his heart, rather than just floating upon the surface? When Rhys said something to his mother and she burst out laughing, it almost hurt to look at them. He was half scared that if he stared at them directly, they would flicker and go dark and confirm his suspicion that he was imagining all this.
Because he, Corbin, did not deserve happiness. He’d committed a sin so egregious that there was no redemption, no escape. The infinity of the universe itself wasn’t large enough to hold the number of ‘I’m sorry’s’ it would take for him to be forgiven, for his soul to be redeemed. He was a bad man.
He didn’t notice that Melanie was talking to him until Rhys tugged at his sleeve, calling his name. He crashed back into reality. “Pardon. What is it?”
She laughed, wrinkling her nose at him. “We’re back at the hotel. Matter of fact, we’ve been standing out here two whole minutes. Where have you been?”
