The Ornaments of Love

Chapter Twenty-Two

He hadn't been alone with her since the night of the storm, when somehow, they had stolen away to be together on the patio for those few moments. It was a strange sensation to have this opportunity handed to him by the girl's guardian.

Veronica smiled at him, releasing the smallest laugh she could, and reached out to take his hand to lead him to the sofa where she had been seated.

Dídac didn't know if he liked this, being with her alone, without even the lowliest of the servants in the room, this cavernous parlor which could consume the Armada's flag-ship if it wished. It was all too perfect; perhaps it was all too contrived. It nevertheless made him nervous, the whole situation. But he did not care too deeply about any of his reservations. He was prone to thinking too much as it was, and this absentmindedness invited Veronica to beat him to the first word.

"I'm so glad you came today. I love having you here," she whispered sweetly. All her past awkwardness in speaking with him honestly was blessedly lost.

He was overcome by these sentiments. They rendered him speechless and he tripped on his own words, unable to get even one of them out. He smiled and reached to take her hand to his lips.

"I love you so much," he said, embarrassed that they were the only words he could bring himself to utter. He had so much else he wanted to say to her. It was truly an insult that he should praise her so little.

"And will you come back tomorrow to say that again to me?" she teased, adoration consuming her eyes.

"Yes, again and again." He couldn't help it, he must kiss her once more. He brought up her hand, which he still possessed, and gently turned it to kiss her wrist. Dídac held his lips there forever, not wanting to stop, hoping somehow, he might kiss her so until the afternoon was ended, when her aunt would surely return to send him home.

Veronica died over and over in this way, it seemed for hours, though it was hardly that long. They were mere seconds. And though they drew out when she was inside of them, when they were through, they seemed so final that bursts of adrenalin assaulted her, she fearing that they might be the last perfect seconds she would ever have.

"I haven't written anything in days, I'm afraid. Forgive me," he pleaded gently. "My father... he has required my assistance. I haven't had any time to myself."

"I haven't written today yet, I wanted to wait and see what you would say to me. I never know what to write anymore. Nothing ever happens here. I wasn't sure what you wanted me to tell you, if..."

"Anything," he stopped her. "Anything at all you would write to me, I would love."

She worshipped him for uttering this. Dídac had said it more than a few times in the past, but it certainly sounded better each time. His eyes were too beautiful; she might blurt out something embarrassing at moments like this, she thought. Veronica seemed not to possess the slightest hold upon herself when his eyes studied her in their innocent adoration.

"What do you do for your father?" she asked, snapping herself back to reality in fear of the delicate disaster waiting upon her words.

Dídac looked down and paused. How to put it, he wondered. He truly did not want this question to lead to a conversation, the idea of it made him anxious. "Nothing terribly interesting. He employs me as an ornament, that's all."

"An ornament?"

Why did he use that word, he wondered? He knew it would lead him to this miserable conversation over his relationship with his father. But then that was it, wasn't it, that he was too bitter about being his father's 'ornament,' and he couldn't find a way to lie or even stroll gently around it. He had to use the word 'ornament.' It was precisely what he was in his father's small world.