Will I ever think like that one day?
The villa's seller flips to the last page of the contract. "One million is not enough."
What amount would be suitable to get back at your ex-wife properly?my boss would ask with a wicked grin.Think about what you would be conveying to your wife if you were to sell the property for a pittance.
Yes, that's how my boss would approach it. Because he knows that this weary man sitting across from me, who is reaching for his cigarette pack again, lost something in his divorce that is far more important to him than money: his pride.
"That's the offer," I say, lifting my shoulders with difficulty. "We buy at this price or not at all." I hate it when I have to put people under pressure at work. I'd much rather show compassion.
After all these years, it seems I'm still not cut out for it. There's only one thing I was ever really good at. But going back there is impossible.
"I'll think about it," Monsieur Allard says, but I barely register it. Only when he pushes his chair noisily backward to stand do I resurface from my thoughts. "It was a pleasure, Monsieur Rousseau." He extends his hand to me. "I'll get back to you tomorrow."
He must sign it immediately!my boss rages in my head. "Certainly," I say nonetheless and shake his hand.
This is a big step for him. Selling the villa is like cutting the last thread connecting him to his ex-wife. I understand how difficult it is for him.
Monsieur Allard escorts me through the hallway to the outside. As I leave the property, he already has a new cigarette in his mouth.
In walking, I glance at my wristwatch, which tells me the sun will set soon. I stow the tie in my briefcase and unbutton my cuffs. With the jacket over my arm, I stroll along the fields leading to the Atlantic. A pleasant breeze caresses my face, and the sun's warm rays tingle on my cheeks.
Soon, I head for the outdoor area of a small café with a view of the coast. Here, I will check my emails and complete the daily reporting. The fact that I couldn't close the deal today will not please my boss. I need to concoct a plausible reason to keep his anger in check.
Sighing, I enter the café through a wildly overgrown archway and find an empty table beside a fountain. I take off my jacket, sink into the chair, and open my laptop with a sigh. Seventy-five emails, all in the past six hours. It's going to be a long evening.
I roll up my sleeves, shield my eyes from the slanting sunlight, and immerse myself in the first message.
"Bonjour. What can I get you?" someone asks.
Instantly, I freeze.
Is thathervoice?
No. That's impossible. Or is it?
"Hello. Is everything okay?" she asks.
My forearm hair stands on end in a flash.
From that moment, everything moves in slow motion.
I take my hand off my forehead.
Lift my eyelids.
See matchstick legs clad in fluttery jeans. A server apron. Forearms with fine hairs that suddenly stand on end, and bony fingers clutching a notepad and pen.
Slowly, she lowers her arms, and my gaze continues upward.
To her collarbones protruding from the neckline of her T-shirt. Over her unmistakably elegant neck.
It's her.
That's her round chin, her slender nose.
The glasses are new. But the eyes behind the lenses are still the same.
I stare at her.
And although it's wrong, the same fire burns within me as it did when we first met.
“Aurora,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
