Chapter 98: Broken calm
The very first light of dawn was tentative, a bleached streak of peach above the east. I awoke in the great bedroom to cool emptiness beside me—Caspian's side of the bed empty, the sheets undisturbed, it was like he had not slept there. My heart compressed before my brain fully awakened. The argument and tension of the last few days: his proposal sullied by terror, my fears laid bare by the cool moonlight. And now, in the fragile calm of the morning, I sensed the weight of our broken trust pressing in on us from every side. It felt like we were in a movie and we had to follow the scripts we were given by the directors.
I sat up, the soft bed sheets pressed against the silk of my robe. I simply listened for a moment—to the distant drip of a fountain in the courtyard, the silent hum of the villa’s air system, the rustle of palms against the window far away outside. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it felt like an indictment: the world going on out there, and in here, we were stopped by an unseen force, suspended between forgiveness and apology.
After taking a few minutes to get myself together, I my feet into my slippers, and I stepped across the room to the window. Outside in the garden, it was gently lit by early light—the roses highlighted in pale pink by dew, laurel hedges frayed with silver drops of condensate, and marble statues standing watch in the cool early morning mist. Our sanctuary seemed untouched by our struggle, as if the earth itself did not wish its errors marred by our conflict. I rested my forehead against the chilly glass, hoping the vision would take away the ache in my chest.
I had no idea if Caspian was still asleep in the other room or if he had gone out to work. I walked down the grande staircase of the villa. The mahogany railing, intricately carved, glided under my hand; each step gave a soft creak on the marble risers. Portraits of ancestral Greys faces glared down from the walls—respectful women in pastels and black silks, as if disapproving of my every error. And whether or not they, too, had had moments like this: love stretched taut with fear, words said in anger that cut deeper than any blade.
In the expensive foyer, sunbeam light streamed through stained glass, splashing sunflower colors onto checkerboard tile. I stood there, walking in between blue and red stripes of light, drawing a gentle breath of air. The gentle calm was a delusion; for every ray of light, held the memory of Caspian's face—in so indignant a guise, he might've been gazing into me, my fear, my want, my regrets.
I reached the sunroom, where a silver coffee pot steamed beside a single white rose in a crystal vase. Caspian’s note lay on the table:
“I’m sorry Lily. Let’s find each other again today.”
His words were simple, however straightforward, were a lifeline. My heart was warm. I took the paper and read it once more, with relishing relief. But I also tasted a slight doubt—was this another wild gesture, or a sincere plea? I pressed the paper to my lips, inhaled its faint fragrance of his aftershave, and clutched it as I made my way along the empty corridors.
By mid-morning, I found my way to my work place. I had spent time in my bookstore private wing. It was modern but cozy—white walls, pale-oak floors, and track lighting that bathed each painting and sculpture. I always loved this room: the art's hushed dialogue, how a brushstroke or a curved form spoke more than words. Art works were a major part of my life because they helped me cope whenever I was going through something difficult.
I selected a fresh abstract canvas, its gold and cobalt sweep, and turned to examine it. The painting, "Resilience," was appropriate for what I was currently going through. I traced my fingertip along the lip of the frame, remembering how the pigments of gold glinted in the light. It was beautiful, defiant—and yet I required paintings that spoke of gentleness, not of strife.
Footsteps approached me from behind—quiet but measured. I turned to glance at Caspian in the doorway, his immaculate white shirt and navy blue jeans clean, but his face strained. His intense eyes locked onto mine, and a rush of relief blended with wariness slapped into me.
"Lily," he said, his tone low. "I figured I would find you hanging around here." I was a bit taken aback by him being here but I eventually managed to set the painting aside. "I needed something to focus on." My tone was even and calm; I did not want to conceal my wariness, but neither did I want to frighten him away or hurt his already fragile feelings.
He nodded, crossing the floor to stand by my side. "That was… a compelling piece."
I shrugged. "It taught me that shattered shapes can be lovely." I fabricated a small smile. "Like storm-shattered roses, perhaps."
Caspian's lips parted but he didn't say a word. He reached out instead, to brush the edge of the painting with his fingers, tracing the frame lightly with extreme precision and care. I saw the tension in his shoulder, the rigid set in his jaw.
"I'm sorry," he whispered quietly almost to himself.
I stood over him, meeting his eyes. "I know Cass, I know."
He drew breath, as though he was gathering all the courage he could muster to say what he was about to say. "I—" His voice trembled, then steadied. "Would you like to take a walk in the garden with me Lily?" “I don’t want to keep fighting or arguing with you. Please say yes and let’s try to figure things out.”
The offer, as simple as it was, felt really profound. I nodded, and he walked me out of the bookstore, our footsteps echoing on hardwood.