Page 17 of Taboo
“So,” Sara begins, her smile easy, “tell me about your work. I know you illustrate children’s books that Jason is obsessed with, but what are you working on now?”
Her curiosity feels genuine, and it loosens something in me, a knot I hadn’t realized was there. I lean back, my fingers tracingthe chaise’s soft edge. “I’m finishing a book about a dragon,” I say, my voice warming as I slip into the familiar comfort of my art. “It’s a story about a little dragon who loses its wings after a great battle. It is grounded and broken, but it learns to find strength in other ways—through its fire, its heart, its connection to the creatures around it.”
Sara’s eyes widen, her lips parting in awe. “That’s beautiful,” she breathes, leaning forward, her hands clasped. “The way you describe it makes it sound so… alive. Do you paint the dragon on paper or canvas?”
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “This dragon felt right with the gleam of oils. I’ve been working on a series of paintings for it. The dragon’s scales are emerald, but they shift in the light—sometimes gold, sometimes teal. I’ve been trying to capture that shimmer so that it feels like hope even when it’s grounded. It’s slow work, though. Each scale takes forever.”
She shakes her head, her expression almost reverent. “That’s incredible, Amelia. I can’t even imagine the patience, the vision. Jason’s going to lose his mind when he hears about this dragon. He has been crazy about dragons ever since I let him watch Daenerys Stormborn flying around on them inThe Game of Thrones.” She grins. “Don’t worry. Those were the only scenes he was allowed to watch. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let him watch all that X-rated stuff, gratuitous violence, and incest. Anyway, he’ll probably beg you to paint a dragon for him.”
Incest? Oh God. If she only knew. I pretend to laugh, the sound light, surprising me. “I’d love to. He’s such a sweet boy, but I’ve never met such a quiet child.”
She smiles happily. “Yes, he is very well behaved, isn’t he? When I found out I was carrying a boy I was terrified my son would be one of those wild brats that trails dirt into the house and draws on the walls with crayons, but thank God, he turned out quite well.”
Before I can respond, a soft knock interrupts us. The housekeeper steps in, carrying a tray with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
“Thought you might like a little something,” she says, her voice warm, setting the tray on the desk. “It’s a good cabernet—more on the sweet side than dry, but I think you’ll love it.”
“Thank you, Maria,” Sara says with a grateful smile.
I echo Sara’s words.
Maria nods her gray head and slips out, the door clicking shut, leaving us in the golden hush of the room. Sara pours the wine, the liquid glinting ruby as it fills the glasses, and hands me one.
As Sara sips her wine, her gaze is thoughtful. “Have you ever shown your paintings beyond the books? Like, in a gallery or something?”
I shake my head, my fingers tightening around the glass. “Not really. They’re mostly for me, or for the books. I’ve thought about it, but… It’s scary, putting that part of myself out there.”
She nods, her expression understanding. “I get how vulnerable that could make you feel, but with talent like yours, I bet people would be floored, just like I am. You should think about it… maybe when you’re ready.”
Her encouragement is kind, but it stirs a quiet unease, a reminder of how small my world has become. I sip my wine, letting the warmth spread, and shift the focus. “What about you? What makes Sara happy?”
She laughs, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “I’m afraid I’m not talented in anything. I dabble in gardening, but it’s more trial and error than art. Jason comes to help sometimes, though—he’s all about digging in the dirt.” Her face softens, and I smile, picturing the quiet boy with his hands caked in soil.
We talk a bit longer. Actually, I talk. I am not used to drinking more than a glass of wine and Sara listens so intentlywithout ever interrupting me that I find myself revealing a great deal about me. The wine glass grows lighter in my hand, the room’s golden light softening the edges of my grief, and Sara leans in interestedly to learn not just what books I love, but even the smallest minutiae of my life back home. Eventually, I even confide that I have no man in my life. That is the moment that Sara sets her glass down and leans even closer, her earnest eyes locking on mine.
“Amelia,” she murmurs almost hypnotically, “you have the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen in a woman. They are so wonderfully green that there is not even a speck of gold or russet in them. But you’re hiding your beauty with your hairstyle and clothes, you know? I want to help you shine. Let me take you to my hairdresser tomorrow. He’s absolutely brilliant. We won’t let him cut too much away, just enough to frame your face. And afterwards, we’ll go shopping for clothes and shoes.”
Her sudden intensity startles me, and I blink, caught off guard. The compliment is so direct, so forceful, it leaves me breathless. A flush creeps up my cheeks. The flood of her goodwill is overwhelming, and a mix of warmth and wariness stirs in my chest. It’s too much, too fast, this offer, to reshape me, to pull me into her glamorous world. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but the idea of being remade from someone who is practically a stranger, even with kindness, makes me uncomfortable.
“Uh... well. It’s kind of you to offer, but?—.”
“You’re not allowed to say no,” she insists with a smile. “It’s my privilege as your new sister-in-law.”
“Well… I don’t?—"
“It’ll be fun, I promise.”
I hesitate.
“Please, Amelia. Your father’s gone now, and it’s time for you to live a little, don’t you think?”
“Okay,” I say reluctantly, my voice soft, barely above a whisper. “Thank you. It’s very sweet of you.”
Her face lights up, a radiant beam that fills the room, and she squeezes my hand. To my surprise, her hand feels cold and at odds with her warm smile and shining eyes. “It’s going to be so much fun,” she continues, her voice bubbling with excitement. “You’ll see.”
When Sara leaves a little later, she closes the door behind me with a quiet click. As her footsteps fade down the hall, the space envelopes me. Slightly disoriented, I stare at the deep violet drapes. They pool like liquid on the hardwood.
I fall backwards onto the chaise lounge, the plushness of it cradling my weight, and let out a slow breath. I feel as if I am in a dream. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers tracing the denim of my jeans, but my mind is a whirl, caught in Sara’s unexpected kindness. Her warmth, her welcoming smile, the way she’s opened her home—her life—to me, it’s all so genuine, so disarming, and so unusual that it leaves me reeling.
