Serena had always been the one looking after the garden. It was now into her husband’s hands, but all he did was experiment hoping nothing died on his watch.

When the gallery people arrived, he was in the garden pruning the rose tree, extra vigilant and focused; accidents can happen even with gloves on.

At the sound of the bell, he took off his gloves and slapped them on the ladder. He rushed into the kitchen, and quickly to the front door.

A ravishing young woman hugging a netbook was staring at him. He made sure his hands were clean and shook hands.

“I’m Grace, I’m a little earlier.”

“Sure, come on in. Serena isn’t home. You can proceed as scheduled.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I love Cuckfield. The grass, the cows, a delightful atmosphere.”

“Well, the cows are here for the grass.”

Her face lost some of its animation realizing the client—her client’s husband—was not the enthusiastic type.

“Just a sec.”

“Sure.”

“We must get the van parked in front of the house close to the gate, you know, so we can easily turn and load the paintings as I get them down. Is that okay?”

“Sure, go ahead. Is the driver coming in as well?”

“No, he needs to keep an eye.”

“Serena’s stuff are all in the attic.”

“Great, I have a list of everything.”

“Right, cause I wouldn’t know.”

“We are going to have a videocall with Serena at some point before I leave. You know, security, to put you and her at ease.”

Serena’s husband nodded. He was a little stunned at how his wife was able to pull this through.

Grace stepped into the kitchen-living space after him.

 

“How about some tea?

“Thank you. Black with cream and sugar.”

“Serena always had it that way. I rarely drink tea. I’ll join you though. I prefer coffee. Black. The real thing.”

“But it’s so bitter.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“Can I sit over here?” showing him one of the stools.

“Of course, please.”

“Lovely stools.”

“I hand-picked those stools myself when we bought the house. Italian. From Tuscany.”

“Are you from Tuscany?”

“No.”

“Very good,” she said after the first sip.

 

He offered a hand to carry the paintings downstairs, but she kindly refused, saying the driver would help if needed. She did everything on her own. From the attic, down the staircase, through the living room, out the door, and into the van. Each painting carefully packed.

In the living room there was a gigantic mosaic panel. It was right across the kitchen, exposed to the light coming from the door that opened to the terrace.

“And this one? I was certain Serena would want it.”

“Not on the list, I can double check… yeah, nothing else to be picked up, and there’s no mention of a mosaic,” she announced, staring at her netbook.

“That’s the only mosaic she’s made.”

“Right. Remarkable piece of work,” her gaze drawn to the panel growing more intense, almost frozen. She gazed at the work with admiration as if something inside her was throbbing.

“I suppose you must get going.”

“The paintings are quite delicate; we’re not expected to rush.”

“Well, have a sit then. I’ll bring the teapot and there’s tiramisu.”

“Lovely, thank you.”

“You work at the gallery?”

“No, we are contractors. We specialize in artwork transport.”

“Good for you.”

There was a mocking hue to his voice that Grace began to detect. But she thought she could be wrong. The guy obviously wasn’t artistically sensitive.

“So, Serena will finally have an exhibition?”

“I don’t know. Even if I did, I’m not really at liberty to say.”

“Yes, sure.”

Enchanted by the mosaic, she seemed to ignore the tea, the tiramisu, and her host.

“The circles… how wonderfully filled-up, piece by piece,” she remarked.

“Have some tiramisu, please, it means lift me up,” he said cutting a piece and handing the plate to her.

“Ah, thank you. We all need a lift me up don’t we.”

“I confirm I didn’t make it myself.”

She chuckled.

“They seem to be hay rolls. Aren’t they? The colors indicate it.”

“It looks like it. Rich mingling of the yellow palette with occasional golden ones, glittering like that especially when the light comes in. It’s in the best possible position to captivate light. It’s like a living organism. I’m speechless… is it an old work of Serena’s?”

“Ah, it took three years I think. If she had kids, it would have taken a lifetime, she used to say. She started it when we got back from Tuscany.”

“From the time you bought your leather stools?”

“Yeah, we got the stools during that trip. Serena saw an actual hay roll done in mosaic along the road, open space sculpture, up on the hills in Tuscany, took a picture of it, was so stunned. I think it was towards Volterra.”

He turned his head briskly towards Grace who was moving steadily as if counting her steps toward the mosaic.

“I don’t understand why Serena didn’t ask to have this packed too,” he said and went back to the couch. She turned away from the panel and approached him but didn’t sit.

“It happens all the time. Artists have their favorites, work that’s too personal to be exposed or sold. As for this, not being a painting but a mosaic, it probably will not do if she is going to exhibit her work. And I should think it’s too heavy.”

“I understand.”

Her phone beeped.

“Well, thank you so much for everything. Ah, we are supposed to videocall Serena.”

“Please go ahead.”

 

The day Serena finished the mosaic they had dinner together. No remark of his was going to deter her from feeling happy the mosaic was finally done. Her most precious work. She cooked one of the meals that were safe with him. Spaghetti with pesto sauce.

“I’ve been thinking, you know, if we could hire someone to clean the house, at least for a couple of months until I make enough paintings for the exhibition. I can manage the garden, but the house is sometimes too much work. I’m not wired for that.”

“Come on, how does Clarissa manage with kids and dogs, working full-time?”

“Well, we don’t know Clarissa’s circumstances. Women who work outside the house, are much better at housekeeping. They love scrubbing. I don’t. It’s not in me.”

“Not in you. But you have to. And Clarissa is good at housekeeping, yes. She finishes her shift and goes home to clean. Simple. She cooks and then goes to sleep.”

“Are you sure no one helps her? And why would you believe every word she says?”

“I can judge from the food she brings to work. Her pasticcio is heavenly. I’ll get the recipe. Once she made a pistachio tiramisu. Delicious. And she’s not the only one.”

“These women are made differently, they express themselves wiping stains off, for me that’s taking a step closer to death,” her voice sad like a falling rose petal. But she controlled herself as she spoke her mind, finally not scared of him and his condescending remarks.

“Pasta with pesto. How difficult was it? Boil the water, throw in the pasta, you buy the sauce.”

“I’d like to make pesto at home using the basil from the garden.”

“Why bother if you can buy it?”

“How about some wine?”

“Take out the Lambrusco if you haven’t finished it.”

“I haven’t touched it this time. I’ll have ginger.”

“How do you drink that bitter stuff?”

She handed him his glass and poured her drink.

“You never told me what the painting is about.”

“It’s not a painting.”

“But?”

“It’s made with mosaic tiles. Remember that huge delivery?”

“How would I know? You had a fabric over it for nearly three years. You keep the door locked.”

“It’s been hard, and it took a lot of courage. Mosaic isn’t my thing. I found someone at the Chapelfields workshop who gave me some tips.”

“Of course you did. But no one to give you tips on how to make your man happy.”

She let the fork down and picked up her glass from which she had a long stressful sip. Having promised herself not to respond to him anymore to avoid further damage, she changed the subject. Her face, however, was tense, evidently tense, and her breathing deeper. She wasn’t raising her voice, not this time. She had digested enough rudeness during their marriage by filtering it, leaving out the unpleasantness, taking his manners as acceptable, a quirky character trait, a superficial aspect of his otherwise goodness. She had convinced herself that this goodness of character was deep inside, but couldn’t find its way out, buried too far below the surface.

She took another long stressful sip from her drink and clanked the glass on the table. It could be seconds before her wrath exploded according to her husband’s prediction. But she didn’t stay. Instead, she fled to the attic and to the only world that made sense to her.

 

In the past, when he’d notice their neighbors Bobby and Kelly at Sainsbury’s in some aisle, he always changed direction, but a month or so after Serena’s leaving, he was caught off guard by a pat on the back the moment he was picking his Moscato. It was Bobby in his usual jeans and black tee attire asking how he was doing and how he was managing the housekeeping now that Serena was away. Apparently, he knew. Apparently Serena complained. But he wasn’t sure – Serena was a private person – so all he said was a mere “I get by. But… Serena said she’ll send someone next week.”

“Brenda. We gave Serena her details.”

“I see, that’s kind of you.”

“Brenda is a rare breed. She comes twice a week, works about four hours, does everything needed, an impeccable work. As long as Kelly is happy, I’m happy. Treat a woman nice, she’s nice. Treat a woman bad, she becomes indifferent and that’s the end of it. There’s no coming back. Once a woman’s indifferent, a man gets nasty, and hatred takes over. That’s the natural path of things and we humans got to work against our human nature to stay afloat, to keep loving… such an irony… Ah but what am I saying? You have an artist at home.”

“Yeah, an artist…”

“She’ll be back, she just had to go there beforehand, get everything done. It’s her one shot.”

“Yeah…”

“Right, we should be there, at the opening reception.”

“Perfect, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.”

“Kelly, you know, is so excited to see Cardiff. We are so proud of Serena.”

“Thank you, Bobby, that’s very nice to hear.”

Back home, he threw the keys in the Faenza bowl in the hall and went straight to the garden to check on the rosebuds. They were almost shimmering under the dim lighting of the sky. Damaged as they were, their color no longer pure, their petals brownish and curvy, they weren’t dead yet. After arranging the groceries, he poured himself a glass of Moscato, a glass long enough to drown in it, his mind soaring from one blurred thought to another. The truth was out there laid bare for him if only he could see it.