12
June 2019
Aida asked Trista to schedule her arrival in London for the day before her quarterly MODA report so she could feel better prepared. It was a luxury in and of itself to spend time at the hotel, and that afternoon, Aida decided to partake in the hotel’s famous afternoon tea. The staff seated her in a corner and promptly brought her a glass of champagne. Then followed the tea and an array of little artistically shaped sandwiches of cucumber and lobster with the crusts cut off. Aida had become accustomed to not taking photos, but she snuck a quick snap of the snacks in front of her. It was the kind of thing that would make Yumi squeal in delight.
Aida sat back and sipped her tea, thinking about her upcoming report. Her gaze wandered across the restaurant, unintentionally landing on a man who, judging by his features and attire, could only be Italian. He sat alone at a table across the restaurant, looking at her with open curiosity. He averted his eyes when hers caught his.
Italy seemed to have a disproportionate number of beautiful people, and this man fell neatly into that pretty stereotype. A two-day scruff of a beard, aquiline nose, and dark hair, longer on top, with a lock falling into his blue eyes. He was smartly dressed in a dark ocean-green corduroy double-breasted suit, with a white shirt underneath, open at his chest and cuffed at the sleeves.
Her mind wandered to Graham momentarily, a habit not yetunlearned. They hadn’t spoken since she had moved to Italy—just a few necessary emails to untangle the last of their shared obligations. Thankfully, he had spared her any pleas for reconciliation. Aida was grateful for that, and to be four thousand miles away. Yumi had been right about the clean break being good for her. It dawned on her, as she observed the Italian’s fleeting glance, that she had no need to feel guilt over the flicker of interest in someone new.
He looked back up and this time it was Aida who averted her eyes.
When she had the courage to take another glance, he was no longer at the table, but standing a few feet away, talking to a waitress who pointed him off in some direction. Aida hoped he might have just visited the lavatory, and she was surprised to feel so disappointed when he didn’t return.
Before giving her report the next day, Aida intended to raise the issue of the Goethe museum closing, but Mo’s antics prevented her.
“Youarehappy working for MODA, aren’t you?” he asked her the second she sat down across from them. This time, Disa was absent.
“Yes, I love my work,” she said, hoping she wasn’t coming across too defensive. She had come to learn that’s what Mo did to everyone around him—took them down at the knees with sarcastic comments, forcing them into emotional traps like inferiority or anger. She refused to fall for it.
“Sometimes you don’t seem so happy,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.
“I didn’t realize you were observing me, or I would have dished out a few more smiles,” she said placidly.
“I always have my eye on you.” He gave her a cryptic half smile.
Aida only nodded, although inside, she was confused by his statement. Was he flirting? Warning her?
“Mo, you’re being counterproductive to the goals of this session,” Fran said, her voice stern. “I’m meeting with Ozie later today and perhaps it would be a good idea for you to accompany me.”
Mo scowled. “I only asked our spunky little historian if she was happy working for us. It’s a reasonable question.”
“We don’t have time for questions that don’t accomplish our objectives. If you don’t want to stop derailing the process, you can leave.” Anger tinged Fran’s words.
“Fine, fine, fine. Carry on then.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“Please, Miss Reale, tell us about your visit to Paestum.”
Aida seized the moment. “Actually, before I begin my report on Paestum, I wanted to raise something important. The Goethe museum is closing due to lack of funding. It’s a significant loss. I was wondering if MODA might consider providing some support to keep it open, given how integral it is to the cultural history we’re cataloging.”
Mo rolled his eyes, but Fran responded first. “We appreciate your concern, Aida, but we move on once MODA has recorded a location. There are countless other places that need our attention and resources.”
Aida felt a sting of disappointment. “But isn’t the whole point of our work to preserve the joy these places bring? If they close, all that happiness we recorded just... disappears.”
Fran looked unfazed. “The happiness was recorded—that’s what matters. Our task isn’t to maintain it indefinitely. We document, we move on.”
Aida pressed her lips together, trying to keep her frustration in check. She glanced at Mo, who was watching her with a bemused expression, clearly enjoying the show. She decided to drop it—her passion for her work wasn’t for Mo’s amusement.
“Please, Miss Reale, tell us about your visit to Paestum,” Fran prompted again.
Mo didn’t say anything else during the meeting. He sat thereand stared, an amiable smile tugging at the corners of his lips. At the end of the session, he stood and, like he had during the last meeting she had attended in London, offered to escort Aida out.
“Brava, little historian.” He pushed the button to the elevator. “Another happy meeting on the books.”
She considered calling him on the diminutive title but thought that would likely backfire. “Does working for MODA makeyouhappy?” she countered. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that was likely an even worse thing to say.
He raised an eyebrow and huffed. “Oh, that’s a good one!” The door opened, and he ushered her in. “You dare ask me aboutmyhappiness?”
