The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

I took an uncertain step toward the rose garden, my cheeks in flames. I had to make up an excuse to justify my return without any flowers. One thing was choosing between two boxes, another was to pick roses of the same colour. Red. How is red? How can you imagine something you've never seen, not even on a book?

I stepped on a broken rose. I leaned over to pick it up; it was dead, lethargic in its death, but it still smelled nice.

“What are you doing here?”

I brushed my hair off my forehead, and regretted not tying it up in my usual chignon. It was hung over my nape, and was already soaked with sweat.

“I have to pick some roses for Mr Mc Laine,” I said laconically.

Kyle smiled at me, the usual smile full of irritating allusions. “Do you need help?”

In those hollow words, empty and ambiguous, I found a solution to my problem, an unexpected shortcut, and I jumped at it.

“Actually you were supposed to do it, but you weren’t around. As usual,” I said bitterly.

His face was crossed by a quiver. “I'm not a gardener. I already work too much.”

This statement made me laugh. I put a hand to my mouth, as if to hide my hilarity.

He looked at me furiously. “It's the truth. Who do you think helps him to wash, dress and move?”

The thought of Sebastian Mc Laine naked almost caused me a short circuit. To wash him, dress him... I would have done it very willingly. The following thought, that I would never be the one to do it, made me answer harshly.

“But for most of the day you are free. Of course, at his disposal, however, he rarely disturbs you” I reinforced the message. “Come on, help me.”

He finally gave in, still annoyed. I handed him the shears, smiling. “Red roses,” I said.

“All right,” he grumbled, setting to work.

In the end, when the bunch was ready, I escorted him to the kitchen where we picked up the vase. It seemed more practical and easy to split the task between us. He would carry the ceramic pot, I the flowers.

Mr Mc Laine was still writing, fervently. He only stopped when he saw us come back together.

“Now I understand why it took you so long” he hissed at my address.

Kyle hurried away, clumsily placing the vase on the desk. For a moment I feared that it would fall down. He had already left when I started to arrange the roses in the vase.

“Was it such a difficult task that you had to ask for help?” He asked, his eyes glowing with uncontrollable anger.

I floundered, like a fish that had stupidly bitten the bait. “The vase was heavy,” I excused myself. “The next time I won’t bring it with me.”

“Very wise”. His voice was deceptively sweet. In truth, with his face shadowed by a two day stubble, he looked like a malicious demon that had come straight from the underworld to bully me.

“I didn’t find Mrs Mc Millian,” I insisted. A fish still clinging to the bait and hasn’t yet realized that it’s a hook.

“Oh, right, it's her day off,” he acknowledged. But then his anger, only temporarily alleviated, reappeared. “I won’t tolerate love stories among my employees.”

“The thought never crossed my mind!” I said impetuously, so earnestly that I got a smile of approval from him.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” His eyes were icy despite the smile. “Of course that doesn’t refer to me. I have nothing against having an affair with my employees.” He stressed the words, as to reinforce the fact that he was mocking me.

For the first time I felt like punching him, and I realized it wouldn’t be the only time. Unable to vent my rage on who I would have liked to, my hands tightened over the bouquet, the thorns forgotten. The pain surprised me, as if I were immune to thorns, since I was busy fighting off other ones.

“Ouch!” I snatched my hand away.

“Did you prick yourself?"

My look was more eloquent than any answer. He stretched his hand out to catch mine.

“Let me see.”

I gave it to him like a robot. The drop of blood stood out on my white skin. Dark, black to my abnormal eyes. Crimson red to his normal eyes.

I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was strong. I watched him, bewildered. His gaze didn’t abandon my finger, fascinated, hypnotized. Then, as usual, it all ended. His expression changed to the point that I couldn’t read it. He seemed nauseated and hurriedly looked away. My hand was free, and I put my finger in my mouth to suck the blood.

His head turned in my direction again, as if driven by an unrelenting and unwanted force. He had an agonized and distressed expression. It lasted just a moment, though. It was incredible, and illogical.

“The book is going well. I recovered my streak,” he said, as if answering a question I had never made. “Do you mind bringing me a cup of tea?”

I clung to his words, as if they were a rope thrown to a person who was drowning. “I’ll go right away.”

“Will you be able to manage on your own, this time?” His irony was almost pleasant after the scary look he had given me earlier.

“I'll try,” I replied, playing along with him.

This time I didn’t meet Kyle, and I was relieved. I moved through the kitchen with greater ease than I had in the garden. Since I ate all my meals there, in the company of Mrs Mc Millian, I had learned all her hiding places. I easily found the kettle in the cabinet beside the fridge, and the tea bags in a tin can in another one. I went upstairs with the tray in my hands.

Mc Laine didn’t look up when he heard me come in. Evidently his ears, like radar antennas, had already understood that I was alone.

“I brought both sugar and honey, not knowing which one you prefer. And milk.”

He sneeringly looked at the tray. “Wasn’t it too heavy for you?”

“I managed,” I said with all the dignity I could muster. Defending myself from his verbal jokes was becoming an exceptional habit; certainly preferable to the terrible expression he had a few minutes earlier.

“Sir...” It was time to tackle an important issue.

He gave me a smile full of frank kindness, like an amenable monarch towards a loyal vassal. “Yes, Melisande Bruno?”

“I’d like to know when I’ll have a day off,” I asked breathlessly, gathering all my courage.

He opened his arms and stretched out, voluptuously, before answering. “Day off? You've just arrived and you already want to get rid of me?”

I stood on one foot and then on the other while I watched him pour a drop of milk and a tablespoon of sugar in his tea, and then sipped it slowly. “Today is Sunday, sir. Mrs Mc Millian's day off. And the day after tomorrow will be exactly one week from my arrival. Maybe we should talk about it, sir.” It seemed like he didn’t want to give me any day off.

“Melisande Bruno, do you think that I don’t want to give you a day off?” He asked mockingly, as if he had read my mind.

I was already mumbling that no, I wouldn’t have dreamed of thinking such an absurd thing, when he added. “...because you would be perfectly right.”

“I don’t understand you, sir. Is this another of your jokes?” I asked in a thin voice, in the effort to control it.

“What if it’s not?” He replied, his eyes as unfathomable as the ocean.

I stared at him with my mouth open. “But Mrs Mc Millian...”

“Kyle doesn’t have a day off, either,” he reminded me with a sly smile. I had the distinct feeling that he was having fun.

“He doesn’t have fixed hours like mine,” I said dryly. I longed to explore the village and the neighbourhoods around the house, and I was annoyed that I had to fight for my rights.

He didn’t even blink. “Anyhow he’s always at my availability.”

“Then when should I go out?” I asked, raising my voice. “At night maybe? I'm free from dusk to dawn... Should I go out instead of sleeping? Unlike Kyle I live here, I don’t go home in the evening.”

“Don’t you dare go out at night. It's dangerous.”

His soft words set in my conscience, causing a shiver of fury. “Then we're at an impasse,” I said, my voice as cold as his. “I want to visit the area, but you don’t want to give me a day off. On the other hand, however, you ordered me not to go out at night, saying it was dangerous. What else can I do?”

“You're even more beautiful when you’re angry, Melisande Bruno,” he said. “Anger turns your cheeks a lovely pink colour.”

I basked in the joy of that compliment for a delightful moment, then I was overwhelmed by anger. “Well? Will I have a day off or not?”

He smiled wryly, and my fury disappeared, replaced by a different and absurd excitement.

“Okay, you can have Sunday off” he finally granted.

“Sunday?” He had given in so fast it stunned me. He was so quick in his decisions to make me doubt I’d be able to follow him. “But that’s also Mrs Mc Millian's day off... Are you sure...?”

“Millicent is off only in the morning. You can have the afternoon.”

I nodded, unconvinced. For the moment it had to be enough. “Agreed.”

He pointed to the tray. “Would you bring it to the kitchen, please?”

I had already reached the door when a thought struck me, with the impact of a meteorite. “Why Sunday?”

I turned to look at him. He had the expression of a rattle snake, and in a flash I understood everything.

“Because today is Sunday, and I'll have to wait seven more days.” Therefore mine was just a Pyrrhic victory. I was so furious that I was tempted to throw the tray at him.

“They’ll go by in a hurry,” he said amusedly. “Oh, don’t bang the door, on your way out.”

I was tempted to do so, but I was hindered by the tray. I would have had to put the tray on the floor, so I gave up. He probably would have enjoyed it even more.

That night, for the first time in my life, I dreamed.

Chapter five

I looked like a ghost, eerie in my nightgown which was blowing in the invisible wind. Sebastian Mc Laine kindly stretched out his hand. “Would you like to dance with me, Melisande Bruno?”

He stood still at the foot of my bed. No wheelchair. His figure flickered, faded, and it had the same consistency as dreams. I covered the distance between us, as fast as a comet. He gave me a lovely smile; the smile of a man who doesn’t doubt your happiness, because it reflects his.

“Mr Mc Laine... you can walk...” My voice was naive, and sounded like that of a little girl.

He returned my smile, his eyes dark and sad. “At least in your dreams, yes. Why don’t you call me Sebastian, Melisande? If only in the dream?”

I was embarrassed, reluctant to abandon the formalities, even in that fantastic and unrealistic situation.

“All right... Sebastian.”

His arms circled my waist in a strong and playful embrace. “Can you dance, Melisande?”

“No”.

“Then let me guide you. Will you allow me to do it?” He stared at me sceptically now.

“I don’t think I can,” I admitted sincerely.

He nodded, in no way disturbed by my sincerity. “Not even in a dream?”

“I never dream,” I said incredulously. Yet I was dreaming. It was an undeniable fact, right? It couldn’t be real. I was in his arms in my nightgown; I could see the sweetness of his gaze and the absence of a wheelchair.

“I hope you won’t be disappointed when you wake up,” he said thoughtfully.

“Why should I?” I objected.

“I’ll be the object of the first dream of your life. Are you disappointed?” He stared at me with a serious and doubtful expression.

He was pulling back now, and I planted my fingers in his arms, fierce as claws. “No, stay with me. Please.”

“Do you really want me in your dream?”

“I wouldn’t want anyone else in it,” I said boldly. I was dreaming, I reminded myself. I could say whatever came to my mind, without fearing the consequences.

He smiled again, more handsome than ever. He twirled me around, speeding up the pace as I learned the steps. It was a realistic dream, frighteningly so. My fingertips perceived the softness of the cashmere of his sweater, and under that, the strength of his muscles. At some point I heard a noise, like a pendulum clock striking the hours. I laughed. “Also in my dream!”

The sound of the pendulum was not particularly pleasing to me; it was a shrill sound, distressing and old.

Sebastian pulled away from me and he frowned. “I have to go.”

I jumped, as if struck by a bullet. “Do you really have to?”

“I must, Melisande. Dreams also end.” His quiet words were sad, and they sounded like a farewell.

“Will you come back?” I couldn’t let him leave like that, without putting up a fight.

He studied me carefully, as he always did during the day, in reality. “How could I not come back now that you've learned to dream?”

That poetic promise calmed my heartbeat, already uneven at the idea of ​​not seeing him anymore. Not like this, at least.

The dream dimmed, like a candle flame. And so did the night.

The first thing I saw, opening my eyes, was the ceiling with the exposed beams. Then the window, half closed because of the heat.

I had dreamt for the first time.

Millicent Mc Millian gave me a kind smile when she saw me appear in the kitchen. “Good morning dear. Did you sleep well?”

“Like never before in my whole life,” I said laconically. My heart felt like it would burst out of my chest, when I remembered the star of my dream.

“I'm happy for you,” said the housekeeper, without knowing what I was referring to. She went into a detailed account of the day she spent in town. She told me of the mass and of her meeting with people whose names didn’t mean anything to me. As always I allowed her to speak, but my mind was occupied by much more enjoyable fantasies; my eye always fixed on the watch, in the feverish anticipation of seeing him again.

It was childish to think that this day would be different, that he would behave differently. It had been a dream, nothing else. But inexperienced as I was on the subject, I was under the illusion that it might reflect onto my real life.

When I entered the office he was opening some letters with a silver paper knife. He hardly looked up at my entrance.

“Another letter by my publisher. I turned off my cell phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to him! I hate people with no imagination... They have no idea of an artist's needs, of his timing, or his spaces...” His bitter tone brought me back to earth. No greeting, no special recognition, no sweet glance. Welcome to reality, I said to myself. How stupid of me to think the opposite! That's why I had never dreamt before. Because I had no beliefs, no hope; I didn’t dare to hope. I had to go back to being the same Melisande I was before I came to that house, before that meeting, before that illusion.

But maybe I'll dream about him again. That thought warmed me more than Mrs Mc Mililani’s tea, or than the blinding sun beyond the window.

“Well? What are you doing, standing there like a statue? Sit down, for crying out loud.”

I obediently sat down in front of him, his reproach still stinging.

He passed me the letter with a serious expression. “Write to him. Tell him he’ll have his manuscript on the due date.”

“Are you sure you’ll be able to finish it by then? I mean... You’re rewriting everything...”

He reacted angrily to what he thought was a criticism. “My legs are paralyzed, not my brain. I had a moment of crisis. It’s over. Definitely.”

I prudently stayed silent all morning, as I watched him press the computer keys with unusual energy. Sebastian Mc Laine got annoyed easily, he was moody and quick-tempered. It was easy to hate him, I considered, studying him secretly. And he was also gorgeous. Too much so, and he was aware of it. This made him doubly detestable. A non-existent person had appeared in my dream, the projection of my desires, not a real man, in the flesh. The dream had been a lie, a wonderful fairy-tale.

At a certain point he referred to the roses. “Change them, please. I hate to watch them wilt. I want them to be fresh at all times.”

I found my voice. “I’ll do it right away.”

“And be careful not to hurt yourself this time.” The harshness of his voice astonished me. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for his repeated outbursts, loaded with spite.

I picked up the vase and brought it downstairs. Halfway down I met the housekeeper who rushed to help me. “What happened?”

“He wants new roses,” I explained breathlessly. “He says he hates to watch them wilt.”

The woman looked upwards. “He finds a new complaint every day.”

We brought the vase into the kitchen, and then she went to pick fresh roses, strictly red. I dropped to a chair, as if I had been contaminated by the mood of the house. I couldn’t stop thinking of that night’s dream, partly because it was the first of my life, and I could still feel the thrill of that discovery, and partly because it was so vivid, painfully so. The sound of the pendulum made me jump. It was so frightening that I had heard it in my dream too. Perhaps it was this detail that made it seem so real.

Tears flooded my eyes, unstoppable and useless. A sob escaped my throat, stronger than my notorious self-control. The house keeper found me in that state when she returned to the kitchen. “Here are the fresh roses for our lord and master,” she said cheerfully. Then she noticed my tears and brought her hands to her chest. “Miss Bruno! What happened? Are you ill? You’re not crying for Mr Mc Laine's reprimand, are you? He's a tease, as moody as a bear, and adorable when he remembers to be nice... Don’t worry about whatever he told you, he's already forgotten about it.”

“That's the problem,” I said with a tearful voice, but she didn’t hear me, already lost in one of her dialogues.

“Let me make you some tea; it’ll make you feel better. I remember that once, in the house where I worked before...”

I silently put up with her endless chatter, appreciating her failed attempt to distract me. I drank the hot drink, pretending to feel better, and I didn’t accept her offer to help me. I would carry the roses up. The woman insisted on accompanying me at least to the landing, and seeing her gentle determination, I couldn’t refuse. When I returned to the office I was the usual Melisande, my eyes dry, my heart in hibernation and my soul compliant.

The hours passed, as heavy as concrete, in a silence as dark as my mood. Mr Mc Laine ignored me for the whole time, speaking to me only when he couldn’t avoid it. The spasmodic desire for that day to end as soon as possible was the same as the one I had that morning to see him again. Could it have been only a few hours earlier?

“You may go Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, without looking into my eyes.

I wished him a good evening, as polite and cold as he had been.

I was looking for Kyle, at his request, when I heard a sob coming from under the stairs. My eyes opened wide and I was uncertain about what to do. I hesitated, but then I came to the source of that noise, and what I saw was astounding.

Kyle was weeping with his face in the shadows, his shape indefinable. The man had a paper tissue, and was just a pale copy of the seducer I had met previously. I stared at him in amazement.

He noticed my presence, and stepped forward. “Do you feel sorry for me? Or are you having fun?”

I felt that I had been caught in the act of spying on him, like an indiscreet busybody. I resisted the temptation to justify myself.

“Mr Mc Laine is looking for you. He’d like to retire to his room for dinner. But... Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?”

His cheeks coloured with dark spots, and I guessed he was blushing from embarrassment.

I stepped back, also metaphorically. “No, sorry, forget what I said. I don’t want to get involved in other people’s problems anymore.”

He shook his head, unusually gallant. “You're too nice to be a busybody, Melisande. No, I... I'm just upset about my divorce.” Only then I noticed that he didn’t have a tissue in his hand, but a crumpled sheet of paper. “She's gone. All my attempts to heal the break have failed.”

I almost laughed. Attempts? And how had he tried to fix things? By coming on to the only young woman in the neighbourhood?

“I'm sorry,” I said uncomfortably.

“Me too.” He took another step forward, coming out of the shadows. His face was full of tears, contradicting the bad opinion I had of him.

I gazed at him uncertainly, in great embarrassment. According to the etiquette, what was one to say to a person who had just divorced? How could you cheer him up? What could you say without hurting him? Of course, when the etiquette was drafted, divorce didn’t exist.

“I'll tell Mr Mc Laine that you're not well,” I said.

He seemed to panic. “No, no. I'm not ready to go back to the civil world and I'm afraid Mc Laine is just looking for an excuse to kick me out of Midnight rose. No, just give me a minute to pull myself back together and I’ll go to him.”

“A minute to pull yourself back together, of course,” I echoed, unconvinced. Kyle looked terrible, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed from his tears, his white uniform wrinkled, as if he had slept in it.

“All right, then. Goodnight,” I said, longing for the shelter of my room. It had been a terribly long day, and I wasn’t in the mood to console anyone, except myself.

He nodded to me as if he didn’t trust his voice.

I went in the kitchen before going upstairs. I didn’t feel like having dinner, and it was only right to inform the kind Mrs Mc Millian. She gave me a radiant smile, and pointed to a pot on the fire. “I'm making soup. I know it's hot, but we can’t just eat salads until September.”

I was overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt. I cowardly changed the answer that was about to come out of my mouth. “I love soup, heat or no heat.”

Before she started with her chatter, I told her about Kyle, leaving out the most embarrassing details.

“He really seems upset about the divorce,” I said, sitting at the table.

She nodded, continuing to mix the soup. “The relationship was destined to end. His wife moved to Edinburgh a few months ago, and they say that she already has another man. You know how unpleasant gossip can be... He's not a shin of a saint, but he's fond of this place and didn’t feel like leaving the village.”

I poured a glass of water from the jug. “Is that why he can’t bring himself to leave?”

The housekeeper served the soup in the dishes, and I started eating eagerly. I was hungrier than I thought.

“Kyle always says that he’s sick and tired of this place, of the house, of Mr Mc Laine, but he wouldn’t leave. Who else would hire him?”

I looked at her over my plate curiously. “Isn’t he a registered nurse?”

Mrs Mc Millian broke a bun in two pieces, meticulously. “Of course he is, but he’s mediocre and lazy. It can’t be said that he works hard here. And often his breath smells of alcohol. I don’t mean to say he’s a drunk, but...” Her voice conveyed her disapproval.

“I love this house,” I said, without reflecting.

The woman was amazed. “Do you really, Miss Bruno?”

I bent my eyes on the plate, my cheeks burning. “I feel at home here,” I explained. And I was honest. Despite the mood changes of my fascinating writer, I was at ease among those walls, far away from the pain of my past.

Mrs Mc Millian began to babble on, and I was relieved when I emptied my plate. My mind ran on deviating and uneven tracks, and the final destination was always, inevitably, Sebastian Mc Laine. I was torn between the uncontrollable need to dream of him again, and the desire to leave any illusion behind me.

Kyle peeped into the kitchen a few minutes later, more annoyed than ever. “I hate Mc Laine,” he began.

The housekeeper stopped her sentence in half to reprimand him. “Shame on you, speaking like that of the person who feeds you.”

“I’d rather starve to death than have to deal with him” was his answer. The venom in his voice made me shudder. He wasn’t a devoted servant, I had already guessed that, but his hatred was almost tangible.