Chapter 2 — The Second Delivery
Ella
The Beaumont Mansion was bathed in twilight when Ella placed the call, the evening’s silence broken by the soft chime of her phone. It felt absurdly rebellious—ordering pizza again. The thought brought a faint, amused smile to her lips, though she couldn’t quite admit why she was doing it. Caroline would undoubtedly call it an “act of culinary liberation,” but Ella knew it wasn’t really about dinner. She wasn’t hungry. It was about something else—something harder to name. A flicker of connection, a ripple of something approaching spontaneity, stirring beneath the polished monotony of her life.
She lingered by the bay window in the drawing room, her fingers tracing the damask curtains. The garden lay in the dimming light, its ivy-wrapped trellises and manicured edges reduced to shadowy silhouettes against the glow of the streetlamps. The air was cool, crisp with the faint scent of lilac drifting from somewhere in the house—a scent she hadn’t quite had the heart to replace. A ripple of anticipation ran through her, subtle but insistent. It was absurd, really, to feel this way over something so small. And yet, it reminded her of times long past, when even the simplest gestures had carried a kind of weight.
The doorbell’s echo startled her, reverberating through the mansion’s vast, silent halls. She smoothed the soft cream blouse she had chosen absentmindedly, her hands lingering for a moment before moving toward the door. Her heels clicked against the marble floors, precise and measured, though her pace quickened slightly as she neared the threshold. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob—briefly, instinctively—before she opened it.
Miles stood there again, his insulated pizza bag slung over one shoulder. His paint-stained jeans and faded T-shirt, this time adorned with the outline of what looked like a phoenix, clashed against the grandeur of the Beaumont Mansion. And yet, as before, his easy warmth seemed to soften the divide. He grinned, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that stole some of the tension from the air.
“Twice in one week?” he teased lightly, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief. “You know, they say pizza’s addictive, but I didn’t think it’d be that quick for you.”
The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself. “I’ll admit, it’s not a usual habit of mine,” she said, her tone softer than she’d intended. “But sometimes, something uncomplicated can be... comforting.”
“Comfort food,” Miles mused as he handed her the pizza box. His fingers brushed hers briefly, and she registered the warmth of his skin against her own. “Makes sense. Simple’s kind of my thing.”
She hesitated, the reply caught somewhere between her thoughts and her throat. There was something disarming about him—something unselfconscious in the way he filled the silence with ease, while she so often felt trapped by it.
His gaze shifted past her, landing on the painting in the foyer. “That’s the same one as last time, right?” he asked, nodding toward it. “Your husband’s, I mean. I didn’t get a good look before, but it’s… incredible. The way the light hits the water, it almost feels like it’s moving.”
Her fingers tightened slightly on the box, the weight of his observation settling over her. “Yes,” she said, her voice softer. “It was one of his last pieces.”
Miles’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” she interrupted, her smile faint but genuine. “It’s fine. It’s... been a while since anyone noticed, that’s all.”
He turned back to the painting, studying it with quiet appreciation. “The detail’s amazing. It’s like—like he was trying to hold onto something, you know?”
The words landed with weight, prodding at emotions she hadn’t dared confront in years. She swallowed against the ache rising in her chest, an instinctive urge to deflect the conversation warring with the openness in his tone.
Miles glanced back at her, his expression unguarded. “Do you paint?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught her off balance. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing toward the painting. “You’ve got the eye for it—anyone who’d keep something like this around would.”
She let out a soft, almost wistful laugh. “I used to,” she admitted, her voice carrying a wistfulness she hadn’t expected. “A long time ago.”
“You should pick it up again,” he said, his tone casual but laden with sincerity. “Trust me, I know how hard it can be to start, but it’s worth it.”
His words lingered, settling over her like a gentle push toward something she hadn’t dared consider. She hadn’t thought about painting in years—not since... No, it was better left untouched.
“I’ll consider it,” she said finally, though the words felt strange, almost too bold.
Miles adjusted the strap of his bag, his smile widening slightly. “Good. You should. Anyway, I should let you get to your dinner. Enjoy the pizza, Ella.”
She blinked, surprised by the way her name sounded on his lips. It felt... restrained. Formal. A barrier. “Just Ella,” she corrected impulsively.
He paused, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face before his smile softened. “Alright. Have a good night, Ella.”
She watched him walk down the garden path, his silhouette fading into the soft dusk. Closing the door, she leaned back against it, her breath catching. She hadn’t meant to let the conversation go that far—hadn’t meant to share anything about her past, and yet, it had felt impossibly natural.
The pizza remained untouched on the kitchen counter as her footsteps carried her upstairs. She slowed as she approached the attic door, a familiar weight settling in her chest. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling slightly. She hadn’t opened this door in years. It wasn’t just a room; it was a capsule of memories, sealed away with deliberate care.
*It’s never too late.* His words echoed in her mind.
Her fingers brushed the key tucked into the nearby drawer. For a moment, she hesitated, her breath uneven as she debated whether to disrupt the fragile equilibrium she’d spent years maintaining. Memories stirred unbidden—a soft laugh, the scrape of a paintbrush against canvas, the way sunlight had once filtered through the attic’s dusty windows.
With a deep breath, she turned the key. The lock clicked, and as the door creaked open, the scent of varnish and aged paint filled the air, carrying her back to a time she had buried so carefully.
The attic was untouched—a quiet archive of her former life. Blank canvases leaned against the walls, flanked by others bearing half-finished landscapes or portraits. Her husband’s easel stood in the center, its surface still streaked with indigo and ochre. The faintest trace of his cologne seemed to linger, or perhaps it was just her memory playing tricks.
Her gaze fell to the shelf of sketchbooks. The worn spines, some hers and some his, seemed to radiate with the weight of untouched stories. She reached for one of his first, her fingers trembling as she opened it.
The pages were alive with sketches—gardens, chandeliers, fleeting moments of their shared life. Her heart clenched as her fingers brushed a drawing of herself, her profile rendered in delicate lines. Scrawled in the margin were words barely legible: *Light falls best here.*
The ache was sudden and sharp, a reminder of what she’d lost. She closed the book with a quiet snap, her vision blurring as she turned away. Her own sketchbooks sat in the corner, their plain covers betraying the secrets within. She hadn’t dared touch them since...
But tonight felt different. Perhaps it was his words, or the way her heart had stirred when she corrected him—*Just Ella.* Whatever it was, it loosened something inside her.
She carried one of her sketchbooks downstairs, its weight unfamiliar in her hands. Sitting at the kitchen table, she opened it to the first blank page. Her fingers hovered over the pencil, hesitation warring with a quiet, insistent pull. Memories of shapes and strokes flickered through her mind, tentative but persistent.
The first line was unsteady, trembling. Then another. Slowly, the curves and edges took form, the pencil moving with a confidence she hadn’t expected. A cheekbone. The strong line of a jaw. The tousled curls framing his face.
When she finally set the pencil down, the drawing stared back at her—rough, imperfect, but unmistakably Miles.
Ella exhaled, a weight lifting from her chest. The silence around her didn’t feel quite so oppressive anymore. For the first time in years, something inside her stirred—fragile but unmistakable.
Hope.
