Page 97 of Wished

“When I entered this position, Monsieur Barone informed me to call the police if his former cleaner, a woman named Anna Benoit, came here again. Am I to understand you would like me to call the police?”

She gives me a hard stare.

And I go cold.

There was no letter.

There is no Max. At least, not the Max I love.

I knew it. I did. But now I really know it.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want that. Tell him ... please, tell him I’m sorry. I won’t come again.”

I stumble back, numb, cold.

I was wrong. I actually didn’t know it before. Somehow I was still soaring, flying on the belief that maybe ... maybe ...

I turn, hurrying down the steps into the darkening dusk. When my feet hit the last stone I’m jarred, aching, broken.

And even though I know all my wishes have been used up, I make one more.

I wish for Max to be happy.

34

Saint-Tropez is justas I remember. It feels as if I truly was there. There are the same pastel-taffy houses, the same sea-salt scents mixed with blooming mimosa, the same turquoise sea crashing over sand and rock and spraying me with cool salt mist. The tarte tropézienne is the same, the soft brioche filled with the sweet, tart lemon and vanilla custard that burst over my taste buds like sunshine from behind a cloud. Everything is the same. Even the Barone pop-up store in the old bougainvillea-covered mansion is there.

I’d find it strange, except my mom says with enthusiastic conviction, “This is exactly like I’ve always imagined! I feel like I’ve been here a thousand times before.”

Emme agrees, joyfully painting another watercolor, determined to leave Dorene with a lifetime supply of landscapes and still lifes.

I can’t disagree with my mom or Emme. After all, we’ve watched about nine million travel shows and documentaries on the French Riviera. It would only be strange if wedidn’tfeel like we’ve been here before.

So we help Dorene settle in. We find the best market, florist, and boulangerie, we cook and freeze soups to last months, we meet the neighbors, and we help to make her apartment a home. When we leave, I try very hard not to cry. My throat is tight and there’s a terrible itching at the backs of my eyes.

“Allergies,” I say.

Dorene scoffs and pulls me into a hug. “It’s a shame you didn’t kiss anyone while you were here.”

I squeeze her tighter and then press my lips to her cheek. “There. Job done.”

She swats me, and I smile and step back.

“You’ll visit soon?” she asks.

Emme runs to hug her around the waist, and then my mom joins in. We promise to visit at Christmas. When we talked about it last night, six months didn’t seem like a long time, but with this goodbye, six months seems to stretch out like an eternity.

As we leave, Dorene squeezes my hand a final time and says, “Be happy, Anna.”

It’s funny—that’s the exact thing I wished for Max. It’s what I’ve wished for everyone I love. I didn’t know they were wishing the same thing for me.

I kneel down on the glossy concrete of the market, positioning the cardboard box so I can use the box cutter to open the top. It’s the end of my first week at my new job and I’m starting to feel more comfortable. I’ve never worked at a market before. I’ve never taken inventory, stocked shelves, or had a dozen coworkers. I always thought my last job was physically demanding, but unloading boxes and unpacking products is hard work.

For the past week, once I’ve stumbled off the bus, I’ve mumbled hello to Emme and my mom as they’ve rushed out the door for summer camp and work and then I’ve collapse into bed. I’ve woken up in the afternoon, refreshed and ready to work on my business plan for Open Heart Kitchen, and then, after dinner and wishing Emme and Mom good night, I caught the bus and headed to work again.

I’ve been so busy and so tired that I’ve not had time to miss Dorene. I’ve barely had time to miss Max.

No. That’s not true. I miss him all the time. Even when I’m not thinking about him I’m missing him. There’s this pressure on my chest that hurts. It’s a hole, a phantom limb, a loss. But I’m refusing to acknowledge the pain of missing him, because if I miss him, then that means I miss a dream. A wish. A figment of my imagination.

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