“Yeah.” Miller looked up at the house. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s big.” Astoria’s mouth twisted slightly. “Too big for one person, probably.”
Astoria unlocked the front door and led Miller inside. She’d been here once before, but she hadn’t taken the time to soak up the space and really look at it. This time, she slowly drank in the space. It was exactly what Miller had expected, yet also, simultaneously, nothing like it at all. There were high ceilings, pale wooden floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the ocean like a living painting. Everything was immaculate and expensive.
And it was utterly empty.
It had furniture, of course. There was a long sectional in cream linen, a glass coffee table, and a dining table set that looked like it had never been used. It was just…empty of life. There were no photographs on the walls or books stacked on any surfaces. It reminded Miller of a showroom, not a home, like no one actually lived here, just passed through occasionally on their way to somewhere else.
Miller thought of her own apartment in the Heights with its cluttered bookshelves and mismatched mugs and the quilt her grandmother had hand-stitched draped over the couch. This house had none of that. Everywhere she looked, there was no warmth, no history, no evidence of the woman who lived here.
“Can I get you something?” Astoria asked. “Water, wine…?”
“I’m fine.” Miller turned slowly. “Astoria, this place is…”
“Soulless?” Astoria offered, a dry edge to her voice. “You can say it.”
“I was going to say muted.”
“That too.” Astoria set her keys on the counter. “I bought it right after I filed for divorce to get a fresh start.” She looked around as if seeing it through Miller's eyes. “I kept meaning to make it feel like mine, but”—she shrugged—"it never seemed worth the effort.”
Miller wandered toward the living room, her eyes moving across the sparse walls, and then she stopped.
Above the fireplace, there was a painting.
It was the only real color in the space: vibrant blues and greens that seemed to pulse with life against the more subdued background. In the painting were water lilies in a blue and violet pond, framed by what looked like trailing willow branches. It was gentle, dreamy, and expressive, the epitome of Impressionist art.
There was something intimate and private about it, despite it hanging so prominently on the wall.
“That’s stunning,” Miller said.
Astoria came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “It’s calledL’amour en Silenceby Lélia Pissarro.”
“Love in Silence,” Miller translated quietly.
“I bought it eight years ago at a fine art auction in Paris.” Astoria’s voice had shifted into something softer now. “Valerie thought it was too bright and gaudy. She wanted me to put it in storage and hang up something more sophisticated.” She paused. “But I refused. It was the only thing I refused her on for a long time.”
Miller looked at the painting, then at Astoria. “Why this one?”
Astoria was quiet for a moment. Her eyes stayed on the canvas, tracing the blues and violets and greens like she was reading something written there.
“Because it’s how I felt,” she said finally. “For years, I loved in silence, wanting things I couldn’t say out loud. Keeping everything”—she pressed her hand flat against her sternum—”here, where no one could see it.”
Miller’s throat tightened.
“I used to stand in front of it at night, after Valerie was asleep, just looking at it,” Astoria continued. “I had to remind myself that I stillfelt, even if I couldn’t show those feelings. I needed to remind myself that there was still color somewhere, even if the rest of my life was”—she gestured vaguely—”this.”
Miller reached out and took Astoria’s hand. Astoria’s fingers curled around hers, holding tight.
“You don’t have to love in silence anymore,” Miller said.
Astoria turned to face her. This close, Miller could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the slight tremble in herbreath. The ice queen was nowhere to be found. There was just Astoria, open and vulnerable, more beautiful than Miller had ever seen her.
“I know,” Astoria whispered. “That’s the terrifying part.”
Miller closed the distance between them.
The kiss was slow and intentional, nothing like the desperate, stolen moments in five-star hotel rooms, the collision of two hungry people who knew they were running out of time. This was something else entirely: a new beginning.
