Behind the willow

Dinner plans

That afternoon, Sophia felt the weight of her earlier confrontation settle over her like the gentle hum of ocean waves outside James’s home. She needed space to think, to breathe, and to process everything that had transpired. With the house feeling too stifling, she decided to explore the property, finding solace in the rhythm of nature.

The air was crisp and briny as she stepped onto the back terrace, the ocean stretching endlessly before her. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks was soothing, grounding her in a way that words couldn’t. Beyond the terrace, a winding path led down toward the shore, where a single willow tree stood gracefully at the edge of the cliff.

Drawn to the tree's quiet beauty, Sophia wandered down the path. Its long, sweeping branches swayed gently in the breeze, and she imagined it had witnessed countless sunsets and secrets whispered by the sea. Sitting beneath its shade, she let the cool grass press against her palms as she stared out over the water.

She pulled her journal from the small leather bag she carried and began to write. The words came easily, as if the willow and the ocean were coaxing them from her. She wrote about James—the way his music seemed to echo his internal struggles, the way his eyes darkened with emotions he wouldn’t voice. She wrote about herself—the woman she was becoming and the risks she was willing to take.

For hours, she lost herself in the pages, her pen racing to keep up with her thoughts. When she finally looked up, the sun had begun its descent, casting golden hues across the waves. She felt lighter, as though the sea had taken some of her burdens and carried them away.

Before heading back, she made a quiet vow to herself: she would let James take his time, but she wouldn’t put her life on hold. If he wasn’t ready, she would continue forward, carving out her own path.

As Sophia walked back to the house, her hair tousled by the breeze, she felt a sense of calm determination settle over her. Whatever happened next, she would face it with grace and strength.

When Sophia entered the house, the warm aroma of herbs and roasted vegetables greeted her, emanating from the kitchen. Margaret, the housekeeper, stood at the counter, her hands deftly chopping fresh parsley. She looked up, surprised but pleased, as Sophia entered the room.

“Miss Sophia,” Margaret said, smiling warmly. “You’re back. Dinner’s coming along nicely. Mr. James prefers a light meal tonight, so I’m keeping it simple.”

Sophia hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. “Margaret, I was wondering if I could help. I’d like to make something special—for both of you.”

Margaret tilted her head, her sharp eyes studying Sophia for a moment before softening. “Well, I wouldn’t mind the company. Do you cook much?”

Sophia laughed softly. “Enough to not set the kitchen on fire. What do you think James would enjoy?”

Margaret chuckled, a rare sound from the reserved woman. “He has a weakness for pasta—something comforting. There’s fresh basil in the garden, and I have some ripe tomatoes we can use for a sauce.”

Sophia nodded enthusiastically. “Perfect. Let’s do that.”

The next hour passed in a flurry of activity. Sophia and Margaret worked side by side, chopping, stirring, and tasting. Margaret showed Sophia how to balance the flavors in the sauce, adding a touch of sugar to cut the acidity of the tomatoes and a generous handful of freshly torn basil leaves for aroma.

As the sauce simmered, filling the kitchen with its rich fragrance, Sophia set to work kneading dough for fresh pasta. Her hands moved with surprising ease, the repetitive motion soothing. She rolled out the dough under Margaret’s watchful eye and carefully cut it into ribbons of tagliatelle.

“You’re a natural,” Margaret remarked as she tossed the fresh pasta into a pot of boiling water.

Sophia smiled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I just want to make tonight memorable—for everyone.”

Margaret gave her a knowing look but said nothing, turning her attention to plating the pasta with the rich, vibrant sauce. Sophia insisted on adding a final touch: grated Parmesan and a sprinkle of cracked pepper.

When dinner was ready, Sophia took a moment to set the dining table with care. She chose soft linen napkins, lit a pair of slender candles, and placed a small vase of fresh flowers in the center. She wanted the meal to feel intimate, thoughtful—something that might show James how much she cared without overwhelming him.

When James entered the room, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the table and then settling on her. His expression was unreadable at first, but his eyes softened as they met hers.

“This looks incredible,” he said, his voice low and genuine.

“Margaret and I made it together,” Sophia replied, her smile bright but modest. “I hope you like it.”

As they sat down to eat, the conversation flowed naturally, the meal acting as a bridge between them. James complimented the pasta, and Margaret’s rare laugh filled the room when Sophia recounted a moment of near disaster while rolling the dough.

For a while, the weight of unspoken words between Sophia and James seemed to lift, replaced by warmth and connection.

Later, as Margaret cleared the dishes and James lingered by the window, looking out at the moonlit ocean, Sophia approached him quietly.

“Thank you for this,” he said without turning, his voice soft.

“For dinner?”

“For being here,” he replied, finally meeting her eyes. “It means more than you know.”

Sophia’s heart fluttered, but she simply nodded, letting the moment settle between them like the gentle sound of the waves outside.