Page 15 of Tides of Redemption
“Consider? This has been your objective for years. Your committee work, your networking endeavors—you have been strategically positioning yourself for this advancement since your arrival.”
“I know, and I appreciate the offer. But…” How could I explain that my heart had found its home again in a bookstore in a tiny coastal town?
“Very well. Please take the appropriate time for reflection. A limited time,” he emphasized. “I require your answer within two weeks. Otherwise, we must proceed with another candidate.”
“I understand.”
“Excellent. I await your response. Au revoir.”
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my stomach sinking. Declining immediately would have been unprofessional, even rude by French standards. They expected a formal consideration period for such offers. But my practical concerns went beyond etiquette. If Mary Anne changed her mind about retirement, what then? How could I stay in Seacliff Cove without the gallery? And if I couldn’t stay…
“Everything okay?”
I was startled. Mason stood nearby, concern evident in his expression. The customer had left, and we were alone in the store.
“Fine,” I said automatically, the lie bitter on my tongue. “Just gallery business.”
His eyes searched mine, and I knew he didn’t believe me. I wanted to tell him about the offer, about my fears, about how desperately I wanted to stay. But what if I couldn’t make it happen? I couldn’t bear to see hope in his eyes, only to crush it again if things didn’t work out.
“I should get to the gallery,” I said instead. “Beaumont wants me to rearrange some paintings before opening.”
Mason nodded slowly. “Will I see you later?”
“Of course.” I managed a smile that felt hollow. “I’ll bring dinner?”
“Sure.” But the worry hadn’t left his eyes as I exited the store. The morning sun now felt too bright, too exposing, as I walked toward the gallery.
What was I going to do? Turn down the position I’d worked toward for years? And leave Mason just when we’d found our way back to each other? The thought of leaving made me feel hollow and lonely.
I needed to talk to Mary Anne to confirm her retirement plans. I needed answers before I could make any decisions.
But mostly, I needed more time—the one thing Monsieur Fontaine wasn’t willing to give me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mason
I studied the text I’d just typed, my finger hovering over the delete button. I took a deep breath and tapped the arrow.
Not feeling well tonight. Rain check on dinner?
It wasn’t exactly a lie. My stomach had been in knots since this morning, since that phone call. Since I’d heard that one word in French that changed everything: offre. Offer.
I pocketed my phone and opened the refrigerator, staring blankly at its contents. Nothing appealed to me. I finally pulled out some leftover pasta and heated it on autopilot, knowing I should eat something, even if the thought of food made my stomach revolt.
Seagulls called mournfully outside the window, their cries matching the emptiness growing inside me. I’d been so stupid, allowing myself to hope. Allowing myself to believe Caleb might stay, that we might have a second chance. That history wouldn’t repeat itself.
I pushed the ravioli around my plate, remembering how I’d spent hours every week for nearly a year studying French after Caleb left. I’d bought textbooks, audio courses, had even watched French films with subtitles. I’d imagined surprisinghim with a visit to Paris, ordering in restaurants with confidence, understanding his colleagues. It had been one of many plans that dissolved when my emails, calls, and texts went unanswered.
My phone chimed with Caleb’s reply:Hope you feel better. Tomorrow?
I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I’d overheard his conversation? That I was already bracing myself for him to leave again? That I was terrified of how much it would hurt this time?
I’d only caught fragments of the conversation—my French was rusty after years of disuse, and Caleb spoke rapidly—but I’d understood enough. The formal tone, the mention of an offer, and most devastatingly, Caleb’s lack of immediate refusal. I didn’t need to know the details to recognize history preparing to repeat itself.
The pasta had gone cold. I dumped it in the trash and poured a glass of wine instead, then carried it to the window. Below, the gentle night lights of Tides & Tales reflected off the windshields of cars parked along the quiet street. The store had been my constant, my sanctuary through everything—my parents’ deaths, Caleb’s leaving, Pop-Pop’s passing. It would sustain me through this, too.
Why hadn’t he mentioned the call afterward? He’d looked troubled, yes, but he’d brushed it off as “gallery business.” Another lie between us. I took a long sip of wine, letting the astringence wash over my tongue.
