Page 3 of Wished

I suspect it’s that Agathe has lost her grip on reality.

“This is the anniversary for wool. Or is it wood? Which gift is it?” Agathe asks, and then there’s the clatter of typing through the speaker as if she’s looking up the answer.

What do you do when someone slips out of reality so quickly and completely? How did it happen? Is it that I’ve been working her too hard? I’ve been pulling sixteen-hour days for the past month and Agathe has been staying late too. Is that it? Does she need a holiday?

“Agathe?”

“What?” she asks, distracted, apparently, by finding a wool hat or a wooden bowl for my “wife.” “What? Shall I send your wife in?” She says “your wife” with steely censure.

So, yes. She’s lost her mind.

“No. Send her away.”

I’ll look into booking a spa trip for Agathe. A relaxing two weeks in Chamonix should clear her head.

I’ve moved on, brushed off the odd exchange and ignored the strange feeling buzzing over me. I’ve turned my attention back to the upcoming call with our Canadian diamond supplier when Agathe says tetchily, “I wouldn’t have come to the wedding if I’d known you’d treat her this shabbily. I have a mind to quit.” There’s a scrape as she covers the phone and says in a softer voice, “I apologize, Mrs. Barone. He says he won’t see you.”

A soft, feminine voice murmurs a response, her words indistinguishable through the phone line. Yet, the soft edges of her voice seep through the door, a gentle caress of indistinct words hitting me right in the gut.

I can’t make out a single word, but the sound of her voice nearly doubles me over. I recognize it, like someone who’s never heard the rush of a waterfall still recognizes the roaring sound when they’re finally standing in front of the cascading water, the cool mist abrading their skin.

I’m short of breath, dizzy, feeling almost as if I’ve swan-dived out of the window and bashed my head into the ground.

I pull myself back from the husky, mellow notes of the woman’s voice and cling to what Agathe said.

“My wedding?”

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“You said you came to my wedding?”

Agathe’s worse off than I thought if she thinks she was at my wedding.

She gives an angry scoff. “Of course I did. So did all the employees. So did half this city. What of it, if you aren’t going to see your own wife on your anniversary? I wouldn’t have bought you those fancy silver salt and pepper shakers. I would’ve bought cheap pewter ones if I’d known you’d turn away your own wife. Shameful.”

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask carefully.

I glance out the window, checking to make sure the sky is still blue, the buildings are still rooted to the ground, and the sun is still shining.

“He asked if I’m feeling all right,” she says to the mystery woman waiting outside my door.

The woman murmurs again, and at her voice a warmth works its way over me. All I want to do is lean forward—or better yet, walk across the dark confines of my office and press my ear to the solid oak door so I can feel the vibration of her words.

It’s bad. I’m nearly as bad off as Agathe.

“I’m feeling better than you will be. I put your anniversary in your calendar, didn’t I? Not that I should need to,” Agathe says.

Shewhat?

I jerk forward and click open my calendar. There it is, two words.

Wedding Anniversary.

My breath is hot and tight in my lungs. I forget about my afternoon calls, about the aloneness I’ve felt since Fiona left for her tropical island. I forget about everything except the reminders in my calendar.

I scroll back, marveling, alternating between disbelief and anger. The reminders span seven years.

It’s all there. Dates with Mrs. Barone. Opera with Mrs. Barone. Dinners with Mrs. Barone. Flowers for Mrs. Barone. Jewelry design meetings for surprises for Mrs. Barone. Weekend trips to Paris with Mrs. Barone.

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