“I do. I even invited them here.”Blanche was located in Paris. “They’re not backing down. They insist on a meeting with you, me, and Paulo in person before the shareholders’ vote.”Paulo was the CEO of the local company.
“The vote is just a polite step we can skip. I own the majority, so it’s a done deal. Get the documents ready,”I replied.
“They’re ready. I’m coming for the signing soon. I don’t want them to create issues with the board. You’re pulling out once we merge, so help us achieve peace before.”
Sighing, I texted back,“I’ll ask Bruce to schedule a video meeting with them.”
“I think you should do it in person.”
My attention throughout this text conversation was split between Blanche and the email I was writing, so when I looked at my phone again, ready to say that she could meet them in person while I would be online, another text from her was already waiting.
“If I already have your attention, then let me add that it’s been a while, and I would love to see you in person, too,” it read.
“You don’t need me there. Not everything has to be done in person. And that’s my answer to both parts of your text.”
“Oh, but I do. You have to do it in person. And this goes to both parts of your text.”
“Bye, Blanche.”
We had an arrangement working for a while, if we happened to be in the same country at the same time. Neither of us was interested in a relationship, in involvement, in feelings, in a friendship. But now I wasn’t interested inanyeffectuation of that arrangement.
I knew why but refused to think about it. Instead, I stepped outside.
“I’m going to get coffee downstairs. Want something?”
Bruce looked at me as if me offering to bring him coffee had shattered something in the way he was used to seeing the world. “Nothing, thank you,” he mumbled.
“January told me you’re working at Pizazz. Good on you, Oliver! I’m proud of you,” Julie Raine had said when I had happened to be home while she was there one day. I probably looked at her the same way Bruce was looking at me now. All I had ever heard from my father on that matter was, “You’re embarrassing me and shaming yourself by cleaning people’s dirty dishes like a nobody, like a loser. You don’t win in life by doing that. You win by owning the company and crashing the competition.”
It was a longer walk than required to just get coffee. I needed to breathe, to chase away the memories that had burst on me, and cool down the warmth that had infiltrated my chest ever since the goddamn party that Beaumont lady had inflicted upon me. And to smother the persisting urge to cross the miles that separated me from the woman who had the key not only to my house but to the depths of my heart and soul. I had let her enter the one but had to keep the rest locked if I wanted to protect her …
From someone like me.
Chapter 9
January
Four nights at the cabana, four days of driving out of the parking spot behind the large house in the morning and coming back to the same spot and feeling like an intruder. Four nights in an unfamiliar bed, in a house that belonged to a man who was both foreign and familiar, distant and tangible, out of reach even when he was right there.
I tried to minimize my presence, never entering the main house, never lounging in the garden that overlooked the beach. I made the bed every morning, kept my clothes and even my toothbrush in my suitcase, cleaned every spoon I used immediately after using it, took out what little trash I had to the bins outside every morning, and did my laundry at the nursing home.
I didn’t know when Oliver would be back. He didn’t contact me, and although I was sure I could find his number, not contacting him made the whole thing feel less real.
Driving through Wayford on my morning off, I parked by June’s shop. “June’s Rain:Pure Health.” The name was as straightforward as my sister.
We’d been happy for and proud of June when she’d told us over Christmas about the new branch. She had certainly made something of herself, much more than any of us. In that, too, there was no doubt she was my complete opposite. Her life was well managed—no unplanned pregnancies, no loser husband. No husband at all, actually. Her life was as organized as her store.
It looked like a rustic pharmacy, and so did she. I always expected her to smell like antiseptics, yet she always smelled like cinnamon when I hugged her. Her body, her hair, her smooth skin, her nails were all in perfect shape, always in order. No extra pounds or body fat, no unruly curls. Did I mention she was my complete opposite? We didn’t look like sisters, though we had the same dad. September and I looked more alike than June and me.
Even her laughter was contained, as if she would lose the perfect control over herself if she laughed too hard. In a way, June’s cool temper matched my month of birth, while mine matched hers.
The bell over the door dinged in an old-fashioned way as I walked in. The place was as beautiful as it smelled great—a mix of cinnamon and mint, berries, seaweed, organic cosmetics, and handmade scented candles.
And there she was, June the Prune, as Tammy and I used to tease her.
I took a deep breath, armoring myself for the task at hand. I always felt that June criticized me and my life, although she had never said anything openly. On Christmas, I had been self-conscious, knowing that after the holiday, I’d be even more of a mess, having to leave my apartment, so I had hardly spoken to her.
“You got us into this mess, Mom. Why did you have to get pregnant again when you were already a struggling single mother?” I remembered her throwing that in our mom’s face in one unforgettable argument that had ended in a mess of tears, apologies, and hugs from all four of us when June was fifteen and money was so tight that she couldn’t afford a school trip to D.C.
