Page 26 of Wished

I give a quick shriek and flatten myself against the cold plaster wall.

A man I’ve never seen before ambles down the hall, a rolling bounce in his step. He gives a quick, rusty chuckle at my reaction as I try to wrap my head around the fact thatanotherperson just called me Mrs. Barone.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know I’m never drinking with Dorene again. Not ever.

The man is in his mid-fifties, and has curly salt-and-pepper hair and reddened, sun-weathered cheeks. He spins a screwdriver in his hand, flipping it between his fingers.

“Too much wine, no?” he asks, laughing at me.

He reminds me of the handyman who changes the lightbulbs, unclogs the sink, and sets mouse traps in our apartment. Rough, jovial, and entirely happy to spend his day chatting while fixing all the little things that fall apart in daily life. I usually offer cookies, or a drink, or dinner, and we exchange funny stories about life.

The man tilts his ear toward me, waiting for my answer, and at the same time he sets to unscrewing the tiny brass screws in the sconce next to the wedding painting.

I stand plastered against the wall, my bare thighs pressed against the cold surface. A draft drifts down the hall and a chill works its way up my thighs and across all the bits my thong doesn’t cover. Suddenly I wish I’d thrown on a pair of Max’s wool trousers. If I’m going to make a run for it, I should at least have pants on.

My hands tremble as I dart my gaze first left, then right.

The handyman whistles a tuneless melody as he jiggles the brass fixture.

“Madame Barone,” the woman calls from the bedroom, “will you eat breakfast?”

The man’s whistle cuts off. He looks back at me, his eyes laughing.

I don’t answer the woman. Instead I flee.

The man calls something after me, but I don’t respond.

I sprint down the hallway, my bare feet slapping the wood floors, my shirttails flapping behind me. The hall is long, with a dozen closed doors and narrow Louis XIV tables that hold antique brass sculptures, bronze vases with fragrant roses and lilies, and gilt-framed photographs of me. And Max.

I speed past, not stopping to look. There’s a quick flash of me and Max in front of the Eiffel Tower. Me and Max sipping frothy pink drinks with paper umbrellas on a beach. Me and Max hugging with full, ecstatic smiles, on the waterfront in front of the Jet D’eau.

There are more photos. Plenty more. There’s a whole life in this hallway—one thatneverhappened.

I hit the wide, curved stairs, grab the wood railing, and fly down them. Before me is the grand entry hall that for centuries introduced the Barones as a family of consequence. There’s the massive gold and crystal chandelier, the golden sun in the towering hall of marble and stone. The furniture is different from yesterday, ornate and gilded rather than austere and unadorned. The wall color is different, light yellow instead of stark white. There are tall vases full of exotic flowers and ceramic pots with flowering trees.

Instead of an estate as empty and echoing as an ice cave in the arctic, where Max lives alone, occupying only a few rooms, this place is full of vibrant color, the perfume of flowers, and the cheer of a house that is a home.

I run across the cool marble floor toward the front door. As I pass the hall leading to the kitchen the aroma of waffles and coffee wafts toward me. A woman in a blue apron pops out of the kitchen and calls, “Madame Barone!”

I don’t stop to say hello. I hit the front door, grab the handle, and yank it open.

The lake-scented summer wind hits my face and the bright sun plays white gossamer light across my eyes. I blink, shake my head, and then slam the door behind me.

There’s a gardener kneeling in the dirt, a trowel in his hand. “Madame. A question for your husband, if you would?—”

“Sorry,” I say, hurrying down the steps. “Sorry!”

I run.

And run.

And as I run, the dew-studded grass wet under my feet, the smell of clover rising around me, the wind ballooning Max’s Oxford shirt, I admit there is a very, very strong likelihood this isn’t a joke. This isn’t a prank. Instead it’s a wish ...

Come true.

6

I bangthe side of my fist against my apartment door. I’m sweaty and exhausted from running miles around the lake and back to my neighborhood. My feet are torn up and stinging, and I’m dreading looking at the damage. For the last mile I sort of hobble-limped down the sidewalk, dragging in great gulps of air. A few people honked, two whistled, and a man offered me his coupon to a steak restaurant on the water. I imagine I look like I’m coming off a massive bender.

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