Page 107 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Hi how are you I need to get onto that flight to Geneva please can I switch my Los Angeles ticket,” I say in a run-on sentence rush while pushing my Los Angeles boarding pass to the agent.
The man is a bit taken aback, but then he gathers himself and smiles, like he’s used to seeing impulsive Americans all the time. Maybe he is.
“Let me see…” He types into his keyboard by hunting and pecking with two index fingers.
My own fingers drum on the countertop, as if they could type faster for him. He pauses and raises his eyebrows at what I’m doing, and I ball my hands into fists. I realize I seem rude, but I don’t mean to be.
He continues to hunt and peck at the speed of a lazy chicken.
All of a sudden the stress is too much, and my pregnancy hormones burst through the dam. I start bawling.
He looks up in alarm.
“I’m s-sorry…I just…I”—gasp—“I just n-need to…get to…Geneva.” I am now composed entirely of snot and sobs.
The agent suddenly finds the ability to type with two fingers at speeds I didn’t think possible. “Don’t cry, miss. I’ll help you.”
But of course the ticket Aaron gave me—which Merrick paid for—is nonrefundable and nontransferable. Sebastien isn’t here to pull strings for me either.
Old Helene would crumble. She would just accept the answer as no and go back to the gate for Los Angeles, suffer silently next to the smelly fish sandwich man, then get on the plane to L.A.
But New Helene isn’t going to let Merrick crush her that easily.
Thankfully, I have access to my money again. When the Weiskopf Group attorneys liberated my checking account from Merrick’s freeze, I drained out my half and stashed it in a separate account, at a different bank. I also opened up a new credit card that was solely mine.
“I’d like to buy a separate ticket, then,” I say, handing over my credit card at the same time an announcement blares, “Final boarding call for Geneva. Doors are closing.”
The man springs into action, grabbing the phone to call the Geneva gate while madly hunting and pecking on the keyboard and swiping my credit card. “I have one more passenger on her way. Hold the door,” he instructs the gate agent.
A minute later, boarding pass for Geneva in hand, I sprint for Gate 33. I’m sure I look like a deranged duck fleeing the foie gras farm, waddle-running as fast as my pregnant belly will allow me.
“I’m here! I’m here!” I pant.
I barely make it to my middle seat and snap on the seatbelt before the plane starts to back up. A kind elderly woman in the window seat pats my leg. “You made it, dear. Now you can relax.”
Relax. Ha. All I can think about is wringing Merrick’s neck, and hoping that the Julius A. Weiskopf Group can help me do it.
SEBASTIEN
After fruitless hours of searching—andno luck on the police’s end either—I hike up the winding cliffside path to one of the many hotels in Imerovígli. I could go back to my boat, but I need access to a phone. Ironically, the one hotel I stumble into is a wellness resort and spa. As if I didn’t already know I could use some rest and rejuvenation.
The place is completely booked except for the most expensive two-bedroom villa. I don’t care. I hand over my card, ask them for coffee, and stagger to the room. There’s a private infinity pool overlooking the ocean, calming music playing over the speakers, and room service immediately sends a full spread of Greek snacks along with the coffee. But the only thing I see is the phone on the desk.
I dial Sandrine’s cellphone. The firm gives the president’s number to only a select handful of clients, and I make sure not to use it unless I absolutely have to.
She picks up on the first ring. “Sandrine Weiskopf.”
“It’s Sebastien Montague. Apologies for waking you.”
“Not at all.” Professional as ever, she’s already swiped away any hint of grogginess from her voice. “What can I do for you, Sebastien?”
I take a deep breath. Then I explain to her that Helene has gone missing, and neither I nor the police here on Santorini have found any sign of her.
“I’ll dispatch a team from Athens immediately,” Sandrine says. “They can be on Santorini in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, I’ll have my team here start work to see if we can get access to CCTV security camera footage, passenger manifests on ferries and trains, digital trails, etcetera.”
I exhale for what seems like the first time since Helene disappeared. I’m still incredibly on edge, but at least I won’t be alone in worrying about her now.
“Thank you, Sandrine. Call me at this number as soon as you have any information. I don’t plan to leave the room.”
