“Did she ever regret it?”
I can hear the smile in his voice with his reply. “What do you think?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabel
I smell the coffee while I’m still asleep, a fragrant hazelnut blend. Winnie’s favorite.
She must have brought me a cup. She does it all the time, especially on the weekends, because she knows how much I love to lounge in bed for as long as possible. I’d rot there all day if I could.
My suspicions that Winnie’s brought me coffee are confirmed when she whispers in my ear. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“No,” I groan and roll over, taking the blankets with me.
Her tone turns stern. “Wake up, Isabel.”
“No.”
I don’t want to. I grasp at the dream with everything I have.
“WAKE UP.”
I jolt awake, sit up, and throw my blankets off. While the sleep clears from my vision, I search every corner of the room. I’m trying to find Winnie, but she’s not here.
She’s not here.
The dream blends slowly into reality as I inhale the strong scent of hazelnut. There’s a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me on my bedside table. Lita must have brought it up to my room, but it wasn’t her voice I heard in my dream stirring me.
Beside the cup of coffee, Winnie’s antique ring sits on the bedside table facing me. I almost feel sick seeing it there. I never take it off, not even at bedtime, but maybe I slipped it off my finger while I slept.
I reach out for it and quickly slide it back into place, feeling calmer once I sense its weight on my finger. I climb out of bed and take the coffee, awash in a strange feeling.
Down in the kitchen, I find Lita at the table eating her toasted bread with jam.
“Did you bring me coffee this morning?”
She looks confused by the question, then her gaze shifts to the kettle on the stove. “No. I made tea. There’s still hot water if you want a cup.”
She misunderstands my worry. “And Jean? Is she around?”
“She went to La Friche. Do you need her to pick up anything? You might reach her by phone.”
“No.”
I stare down at the cup of steaming coffee in my hand and feel a wild laugh building in my throat. I almost want to press the issue, to confirm what time Jean left, how long she’s been gone, but Lita is already waving me over.
“Come here for a moment, I want to show you something.”
For now, I just accept the magic.
There’s an old photo album spread open on the table in frontof her, its pages yellowed with age. It’s the kind where the printed photos are stuck in place behind a clingy film of plastic. She’s been talking about the album since I arrived in Marseille. For the last week, she’s been searching high and low, and here it is. I take the wooden chair beside her and lean in close.
“Are these from a certain year?”
“Oh, it’s all a mixture. None of them are organized well. The beginning was filled with photos from a trip I took to Malta when Dolores and I were younger.” She scoots the album in my direction. “These are from one of my visits to the States. You were so little still. Look, there’s you and your mom.” She tsks with disapproval. “Don’t tell her I said so, but she could never pull off that bob.”
I chuckle. “Oh my god.” I look closer at the photo at the bottom of the page. “I forgot Dad had that mustache for so long!”
