Page 13 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Happy anniversary,” I say.
“Thank you.” Margaret gazes at Andrew with the ardor of first love, and he returns the look with equal intensity. “I can’t believe we made it this far.”
“Oh, I knew we would, darling,” Andrew said. “I always knew we’d grow old and crochety together.”
She giggles. Actually giggles. “We’re not crochety.”
“No,” Angela says. “You two are sublime. You’re what we all dream of being.”
Margaret blushes.
I need to look away, though, because it’s becoming hard to breathe. I turn toward the fireplace, arms wrapped around myselfas if trying to warm up, but really because I’m trying to hold myself together.
I’m truly happy for Margaret and Andrew, I am. It’s just that I’m also awash in the wretched awareness of what they get to have, and I don’t.
Not until the front door chimes with them leaving do I turn back around.
Angela returns her attention to me. “Now, what books did you want, Sebastien?”
It takes a moment to refocus on why I’m here. “Books. Right.”
“You mentioned two of them?”
“Um…yes.The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August—the author’s name escapes me—andDeath with Interruptionsby José Saramago.”
“Saramago, huh?” Angela starts looking up the books on her computer. “Didn’t he win the Nobel Prize for Literature at some point?”
“Indeed he did.”
Her mouth curls into a grin. “A well-read, philosophical fisherman. Sebastien, you are the strangest crabber I’ve ever known.”
I give her one of my half shrugs. I am what I am.
Angela scrolls through a list of titles on her screen. “Okay, looks like I’ll have to order theHarry Augustbook for you. But I have two Saramagos in stock right now. The one you want, as well asBlindness.”
“Blindnessis great. I read it years ago in the original Portuguese.”
She squints at me. “You speak Portuguese?”
I laugh as if it’s a joke. “I’m kidding. I read the book in translation in college.”
But the truth is, yes, I speak Portuguese, among other languages, because you acquire them when you’ve lived in as many places as I have. It’s just that nobody knows that about me.
“Anyway,” I say with as much nonchalance as I can manage. “You said the Saramago book is on the shelf?”
“In the literature section, third row.”
“Thanks.”
Angela nods, already picking up her novel again.
I walk deeper into the store to grab my book. But as I approach the shelves I want, a chill blows through me like a warning, knocking over each hair on my arms as if they’re dominos blown over by a ghost’s exhale.
And the taste of honeyed wine brushes against my lips.
I go rigid.
Helene emerges from the row with her face buried in a book. She has two others tucked under her arm.
