These thin lines, p.10
These Thin Lines, page 10
“How about dinner? You didn’t answer me earlier when I asked if you’d had any?” The voice, again, was too careful, too precise, lacking any true emotion, and Vi found herself shaking her head. A few bites of fish and carrots didn’t count.
“Settled then. Any preference as to what you’d like to eat? I know Zizou kind of takes our opinions out of the equation, since he decides what we should eat every day, but tonight, we’ll feast like queens with our own free will.” She laughed, the joy just as forced as her nonchalant tone.
“Are you all right?” Vi’s words seemed to surprise Chiara, and maybe she shouldn’t have said them, but by now Vi was pretty much resigned to uttering things around this woman that were impossible to explain or contain. She briefly wondered if she’d offended again, and was ready with an apology for butting into what was obviously none of her business.
Yet Chiara didn’t look upset or annoyed. As the mask of nonchalance slipped for a moment, that dreaded sad look was back, the worry line between her brows deepening, before smoothing out as she visibly collected herself. She passed by the little bread loaf that Binoche made on the windowsill and gave the cat an absentminded pat, as if drawing strength from the tidy little animal.
“Why?” Vi wasn’t entirely certain that Chiara really wanted to know the reason behind her earlier questions.
“It’s, well…, late, and you’re still here.”
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. Chiara’s face, half-hidden in shadows, looked angelic, like it was made for towers and damnation, gothic cathedrals and absolution.
“This is the time when I feel most like myself. Nobody calls, nobody needs anything, there are no expectations of me, hence no consequences for not meeting them.”
Vi felt her eyebrows rising, it was such a peculiar thing to say. But Chiara just waved her curiosity away.
“Never mind that. Honestly if you’re asking me about my time management, you might as well be asking me about dragon herding. I’m equally good at both. Or, well… equally as bad. The post-its only do so much, darling.”
As Vi’s eyebrows rose even higher so they damn near crawled off her forehead, Chiara simply took her hand.
“Actually, I think I’d manage dragons much better.” She winked at Vi, who felt herself smiling back awkwardly, as Chiara went on. “Listen, my mother’s recipes always make me feel better, regardless of how shitty my day is. Or how many bad memories are associated with my childhood. Any of those meals still reminds me of being cared for, no matter what. And I didn’t have many no matter whats back then either. How about I cook you dinner, darling, and you tell me what brought you here?”
Vi actually looked around herself on instinct and immediately felt ashamed of her own gesture. She hunched her shoulders, but Chiara just tsked and then tugged her by the hand to the far corner of the studio. Vi sighed at the continued skin-to-skin contact that felt so good. Too good.
Married… married… married…
The chant in her head, however, was quickly replaced by surprise as a panel in the wall opened into a small but brightly lit kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a marble-topped island in the center. It was cozy, with potted ivy plants arranged to hang off several of the built-ins and a well-used cast-iron skillet peeking at her from one of the assorted hooks.
“Sit, Cinderella, and talk. Start with, are you allergic to anything? Garlic? Oregano? Basil or parsley?”
“What are you making?” Vi made herself comfortable at the island on one of the barstools with soft, brown leather seats.
Chiara opened the large fridge, hidden behind a wood panel that made it seem like it was just another kitchen cabinet, and tsked.
“I’m not yet sure.”
Vi smiled. “Then why ask me about garlic or oregano or basil or parsley?”
Chiara turned to her, hands full of produce, and laughed.
“For someone who has lived as cosmopolitan a life as you have, and with your noble blood and royal relations, you’re a peasant when it comes to cuisine. This is pretty much you telling me you were raised as an American without telling me you were raised as an American. Philistines, the lot of them. Because they bastardize Italian cooking and still have no idea what it truly is. And yes, I am very much a snob who is a fan of generalization.”
Eyes sparkling, hands waving, Chiara was a sight to see. Dropping every pretense, she was clearly on a long-established rant about an issue that was important to her. Vi’s smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Chiara’s eyes narrowed.
“Laughing at me now? When I’m cooking you a feast?”
“Well, you were so aggrieved just then about Americans and their lack of gastronomic culture, it was kind of funny. But I do understand what you’re saying… That Italian cuisine is pretty much made up of all those herbs and vegetables. To which I am not allergic. Except to anything olive-related.” Vi shuddered. “I used to call them ‘little poison balls’ as a kid, cause I’d get so sick every time I had them…”
Chiara turned around and gave her one of those looks that would have been comical in how deeply insulted and offended she seemed to be, except she was clearly trying to be sensitive to Vi’s condition.
“Really? Oli—” Chiara stopped midway through the word as Vi shriveled into herself, anticipating it. But she didn’t say it. “Of all the things…”
“You asked. And yeah, unfortunately, I had to tell Zizou, and he damn near laughed his skinny, non-existent ass off.”
“It’s not funny. Health issues are never funny, so you can tell him he can piss off. In fact, tell him Madame C said so. That will teach him.”
“That would put the fear of God in him.” Vi smiled and almost swallowed her tongue as Chiara turned back to her, eyes alight with mischief.
“You think I’m God, darling? How wonderful.”
Vi had to laugh. Chiara was being absolutely adorable in light of this domesticity, and Vi felt comfortable, relaxed, her troubles slipping off her shoulders, and that made her just a touch brave.
“I think you’re trouble. And I think you enjoy teasing me.” Was it the rain that was making her courageous, or the twilight that made everything seem unreal?
“I confess. But only because you’re so puzzled by it. It’s endearing. I hear that you move mountains for Aoife, your vision is unrivaled—in fact, I may need to watch my back—and you have the best eye for perspective I’ve ever seen. Yet you get so adorably flustered, I can’t help it. Never change.”
Chiara’s eyes still danced with the little devils that seemed to have way too much fun, but it didn’t come across like it was at Vi’s expense. Instead, it felt like a warm hug. Like the one Chiara had given her all those weeks ago. The one that had brought their bodies flush together and gave Vi fever dreams.
“I’m just all sorts of sad for you about the allergy. But it’s not a problem. We will improvise.”
Magically, a long, slim bottle of grapeseed oil appeared on the kitchen counter.
Chiara rolled her eyes at Vi’s jaw going slack and turned back towards the open refrigerator, cursing under her breath when it beeped rather annoyingly, signaling that the door had been ajar for too long. The unnerving sound seemed to make up her mind for her.
“Meatballs it is then.” As soon as the sentence had left Chiara’s mouth, Binoche was up and running towards them from her perch on the window. Chiara straightened again, knocking the door shut with her knee, since her hands were now full of various containers. She was carefully balancing her load while also trying to avoid stepping on the cat who was doing her damnedest to get in her way.
Placing everything in haphazard order on the counter, Chiara stepped to the sink and smirked at Binoche, who was now sitting on her haunches by her feet, tail tucked neatly around her paws.
Vi watched, mesmerized by the little dance between woman and cat that seemed to have been performed many a time, despite the two of them only having been acquainted for a few weeks.
Had it really been this short of a time? Vi felt like she had known both Chiara and the little cat for years.
Under Vi’s gaze, the woman in question thoroughly washed her hands, like a doctor gearing up for surgery. Then she turned and, for a moment, seemed to be lost in thought, eyebrows raised, as if surprised at what she was doing. Vi’s heart stuttered, and she was unsure why.
The post-its, the uncertainty at times like these when the tasks were a set of complex steps…
Chiara caught her staring and scrunched her nose, looking ten years younger and so carefree that all of Vi’s thoughts scattered.
Then she absentmindedly reached for the first thing on the counter, and it was like the earlier confusion didn’t exist. She was full of purpose now, emptying what looked like two different kinds of minced meat into a bowl, but not before she gave a tiny morsel to the daintily meowing Binoche. Chiara suddenly turned her eyes towards Vi, pinning her with a speculative gaze.
“Now that we have established your dubious understanding of cuisine, Ms. Courtenay, feel free to tell me what brings you to my door at whatever ungodly hour it is. And also, tell me why Aoife was crowing that you beat somebody over at Rue de Bretagne into submission. Oh and, I think I have figured out that Queen Anne issue I had with the cream lace.”
As Vi still sat silently, blinking in surprise at the stream of topics thrown her way, Chiara waved her free hand at her and reached for a couple of eggs, which she promptly broke into the bowl. Then, as Vi looked on, she took out a baguette and proceeded to tear it into strips, which she carefully added to the egg and mince mix. When Chiara coughed gently, Vi knew her staring time was up.
As Chiara set the bowl aside, she looked down at her white apron and stared at an egg yolk stain. Under Vi’s dumbfounded stare, she smiled a bit sheepishly and took off the apron, pulling another one from the cupboard.
“I can’t stand yellow stains.”
When she started washing the tomatoes and basil leaves, Vi found her voice. It was easier to let her words fly when she was directing them at Chiara’s back.
“I’m twenty-five years old, and although I know it’s ludicrous. I still think one day my father will suddenly love me.”
Chiara didn’t turn around, but the hands that were slicing the tomatoes stopped for a few seconds before her shoulders dropped slightly, and she went back to her task. Vi exhaled, feeling freer than she had in years, simply from speaking the words out loud.
“In his eyes, I can’t seem to do anything right. And yet I keep trying. I know that it won’t make any difference to him, no matter what I do. But I can’t seem to stop, you know?” She wanted to drop her head on the counter. Why would Chiara know? How would Chiara know?
“I do, actually.” And now Chiara turned, fingers covered in tomato juice, looking a bit like blood in the bright, strangely distorted light of the kitchen. “Sometimes we go our entire lives trying to persuade the people we love that we are worthy of them.”
Was Chiara talking about Vi’s father? Or was she talking about Frankie? Vi didn’t have the courage to ask. It seemed like such an intimate conversation.
“I don’t feel I’m worthy, though—”
“You are!” Chiara’s voice rang loud, and the knife sliced through the parsley with enough force to impale itself on the wooden cutting board. Binoche meowed, but it sounded more like a sign of support, especially since she was suddenly circling Vi’s feet, rubbing herself against her, a rarity in and of itself. She must seem really pitiful to elicit sympathy from a cat.
Chiara resumed her work, periodically giving Vi sidelong glances as if making sure she’d heard her words. A tiny drop of tomato juice splattered on the front of the apron and Vi lifted her eyebrows, but Chiara simply waved her on.
“It’s different. Red stains are fine, it’s the yellow ones that are a problem. Sue me. It’s my apron.”
Chiara took a deep breath, ignored Vi’s look of amusement, and went back to the stove with single-minded focus. Silence reigned once again, before Chiara turned back to face Vi, her eyes tumultuous.
“You should never beg for love. And you should never be made to work for it, Vi. It’s that simple. There is no earning it, there is no deserving it. You are a joy. And you are precious. Your family, those who vowed to love and cherish you, should not make you prove your worth over and over again.” Chiara looked at her with a particular fervor then, and Vi felt pinned by that gaze, imprisoned by its intensity.
When the amber eyes dropped back to the chopping board, Vi thought that it was a very strange choice of words Chiara had made. ‘Those who vowed’ didn’t necessarily describe family. But she refused to allow herself to drift down that pathway. That way lay madness and a glimmering hope that Vi surely was better off extinguishing. Too bad she wasn’t strong enough.
If Chiara was unhappy in her marriage, it was none of Vi’s business. If Chiara was unhappy, period, it wasn’t Vi’s business either.
She has a wife… She has a wife…
Meanwhile, the reason for said flickering hope moved to the stove where the iron skillet now sizzled and the sauce simmered.
“I normally bake the meatballs before I fry them. That was my mother’s secret. Never fry them to readiness, bake them, then put them in the sauce for a few minutes in the skillet. But sadly I’m too hungry, and our conversation is turning really sad, darling. Still, it’s nothing that good meatballs with tomato sauce and freshly-baked bread can’t cure.”
Chiara smiled as she stirred the sauce, and Vi found herself smiling back, basking in the glory of that joy that looked honest and true and so right amidst the storm outside and the turmoil in her own heart. Something to hold on to. Something to cherish. As Chiara should be, held and cherished.
They ate in companionable silence, dipping torn pieces of their baguette into the skillet that Chiara had placed between them on the island, Binoche in a food coma at their feet.
The sauce burned Vi’s mouth, hot, flavor exploding, and she tried to pretend that her eyes were watering from the spices.
Chiara reached over with her hand, and Vi felt her wipe away a tear, and it only made her want to cry all the harder. She willed herself to swallow both the mouthful of delicious food and her melancholy.
“I’m sorry. Here I am, single-handedly disproving your theory of how meatballs make everything better…” Vi deliberately took a big bite from her plate and dunked another piece of bread into the rich sauce.
“Oh, don’t worry, they are still the only balls that make anything better. The fact that you’ve eaten five by now just proves my point.” Vi startled and then laughed, guffawing, trying not to choke. “If you think I didn’t count, you are deluding yourself. I know I’m a good cook. And it’s obvious you love my food.”
God, that confidence. So sexy. So damn attractive.
“I’m not denying anything. I mean, after five meatballs, I have no defense left, ma’am. You’re fantastic at this. At a great many other things, I reckon…” Vi trailed off, uncertain how her words would be received. She desperately hoped Chiara wouldn’t think she was out of line. Because she really wasn’t flirting, she wasn’t, she meant—
“Fashion?” Chiara gestured towards the studio’s lights with her fork, and to the numerous workstations where her designs lay in various states of readiness. The ivory gown that Vi had modeled for alterations was separated from the rest, now on a mannequin, like a beacon, drawing Vi’s gaze. It was just so different from everything else, and she couldn’t help but find it the most beautiful thing in the room.
Its creator aside.
“Vision.” Vi hadn’t known what she was going to say until it was out of her mouth, and she wondered about this affliction she was developing—especially around Chiara—and whether it was her nascent feelings or the calm and kindness of her interlocutor that compelled her to speak her mind.
“That’s very kind, Ms. Courtenay.” Chiara averted her eyes as she spoke, and before Vi could say anything else, rose and took her plate to the sink.
“I am sorry if I upset you. Again, I must say. I didn’t mean to now, and I certainly did not mean to last time.”
When Chiara turned to her, hands under the running faucet, her smile was wistful. “You didn’t. I think I might have overreacted then, and it’s in the past now, anyway. And no, you did nothing wrong just now, either. You know how, when you hear something for the first time in a long time, it usually catches you unawares?”
Vi furrowed her brow. “Something?”
Chiara turned back to the sink, her shoulders tense and any trace of humor disappeared from her voice when she spoke.
“Apologies.”
Vi almost tumbled off her stool, her bare feet slipping on the small stainless steel support, disturbing the lounging Binoche, and this time Chiara’s smile was a touch indulgent as Vi approached her with her own plate.
“I’m surprised you’re not all black and blue, the way you go through life, Vi.” She said it quietly, and there was so much kindness in those words, in sharp relief from the earlier taunts of her stepsisters, Vi’s eyes filled again. So she just stood there as Chiara rinsed her plate and closed the dishwasher before turning to her fully.
The sob caught in her chest, the full comfort of being seen and understood descending upon her like a weighted blanket, as a graceful hand lifted, and Chiara’s fingers smoothed the frown line between her brows.
“You are still so tender. Come. With your clothes in the dryer, you’re my prisoner for a bit longer. Would you help me with the gown again? I swear I get some of my best ideas when you’re wearing my work.” She said the last part as she took Vi’s hand, but did not tug, and Vi sighed.
Chiara, despite her words, was still giving her a choice, to say no, to leave. And after her dinner with her family, where she couldn’t even leave the table to go to the bathroom without being interrogated by her father, she felt her chest expand.
And so she was the one to tug on Chiara’s hand. They reached the mannequin, and Chiara gently removed the gown, handing it to Vi. “Can you manage to put it on yourself? Without rending it, if at all possible?”
