Page 65 of Butterfly

Despite her protests, I help Bethany in the kitchen, needing something to do. The large wooden table shows deep scars under the layer of polish. A skewed spice shelf is tucked in a corner. The glass jars of cinnamon, turmeric, and garlic powder lean on the right, like passengers on a too-crowded bus that’s going up a steep road. If one of the jars tips over, it’s going to be a domino effect, and everything will collapse.

“Ivan, my husband, made it.” Bethany stares at it with softening eyes. “He loved repairing everything in the house, and he certainly had a creative mind, but the result wasn’t that good.” She chuckles. “As you can see. He put his heart and soul into everything he did, but some things didn’t come out great. Once, he insisted on repairing a pipe in the bathroom—I can do it, he said—and made the leak worse. The whole house was flooded. And Lord, his watercolour paintings were disturbing.” Her smile falters. “Years have passed, and I still expect to wake up with him. In the morning, I touch the other side of the bed, out of habit, and every time I feel the cold bed sheet, it’s painful. Even now, I wait for him to enter the kitchen and sweep me off my feet.” Emotion thickens her tone.

“I’m sorry. Alex told me he died rather quickly.”

“He never suffered from anything.” Her voice cracks a little with betrayal, as if life itself stabbed her in the back. “I don’t remember him having spent a day in bed because he was sick. His mother died when she was one hundred and seven years old. Excellent health all her life.”

“Blimey.”

She nods. “The heart of a lion. I thought he was the same. I thought I would’ve been the first to go. But life has a way of reminding us that our plans never go as we want.” She straightens the shelf, but it bends to the right a moment later in a clunk of glass jars. “Sorry to talk about such sad things.”

I gather the glasses in the sink to give my hands something to do. “It sounds like you had a wonderful life with him.”

“I did. I cherish those memories very dearly.” She places the plates I’ve been scrubbing from leftover food in the dishwasher. “What about you? Are you happy with my son?”

The glass I’m rinsing almost slips out of my grip. “He’s amazing. It’s still hard for me to believe that Alex Knightley actually talks to me.”

With a scoff, she waves dismissively. “That fame thing isn’t real. He is still and always will be my little boy who loved to recite Christmas poems in front of his family and relatives. We made many sacrifices to allow him to follow his dream, but I don’t regret anything and not because he’s famous. He’s happy. He’s living the dream.”

“He’s very talented.” It must be wonderful to have a family that supports one’s dream.

She wrinkles her nose. “He is, but I’d prefer it if he didn’t shoot those nude scenes. Quite unnecessary, if you ask me. What does a naked body add to the story? Why don’t they show only the heads and shoulders?”

I laugh. “I agree.”

“I hope one day he gets some roles where his talent can shine.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely intrigued.

She lifts a shoulder. “Those fantasy and action films are all right, but the acting is limited, and the dialogue is often cheesy. I loved it when he played D’Artagnan. Although, goodness me, they changed the story too much, and D’Artagnan was a Casanova. I think he’d be a great Mr Darcy.”

“You’re totally right.” I point a finger at her, and we both laugh. Even her laugh is like Alex’s, rich and intense.

She hugs me in a motherly embrace I don’t remember having ever experienced. My heart gives a kick before it slows. When she releases me, I stand there, not sure what to do.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she says. “And thank you for your help.”

~ * ~

EXHAUSTION IS RIDING me hard by the time I walk upstairs with Alex. The lights from the Christmas tree cast a magical riot of colour in the stairwell, and the scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafts from the kitchen. It’s easy to call this place home, especially with Dart walking ahead of us, ready to go to sleep.

“Are you all right?” Alex asks, stopping in front of my bedroom. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Your family is amazing. I had a lovely time.”

His shoulders lower a little. “Glad to hear it.”

“Good night.” Fiona waves before entering her bedroom.

I wave at her.

“Night, Sienna, Alex.” Charles shuts the door behind him and his wife, and Alex and I are alone again.

I put my hand on the knob.

“Well.” He kisses my cheek, his lips lingering. “Good night.” Yet he doesn’t go.

I trail a finger over his jaw, causing him to exhale. “Good night.”

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