Page 93 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I sat in my tiny cubicle,Carmella Whiteprinted on my name placard, a dying fern languishing in the corner, watching water drip for entertainment.
Every day was a repetition of the last.
I got up, wore a variation of a black top, black pants, and boots, stared at a screen, ate lunch, clocked out, and made my way home for glasses of rich red Argentinian wine, sinking into a dreamless sleep until the next day arrived.
Time pressed forward in this way. I observed it all like a ghost drifting through their lives, peering in and disappearing, invisible. After everything that had happened to me, it seemed like a fine place. A small existence but a safe one—proximal to life. My midnight trips to the cemetery had been the most interesting part of my day, but recently they’d stopped. The beautiful, fragileabuelaand her dutiful grandson no longer came. I found myself utterly alone.
I glanced at the cubicle next to mine, the pile of Isabella’s copper hair poking over the gray divider that separated me from Cat Central. She had forty-three cat-related items crammed on her shelves—calendars, plant jars, glass figurines, and a creepy cat clock, whose eyes followed you when you moved—one cat for each year of her life. She kept me updated on the happenings of Tango, Gaucho, and Maté, her three actual live cats at home, who she swore were superior to children and who, she assured me, were dying for a visit. Or Juan, creeping away from the supply closet, scalp shiny with sweat through his thinning hair, likely with a year’s supply of paper clips bulging from his wrinkled slacks, off to write another memo about everyone’s copier count and conserving company resources, steadfastly oblivious to Isabella’s adoration of him.
“There’s a new travel agent starting today,” Isabella reported.
I tried to feign interest. “Oh, really?”
“He’s supposed to come in—” She froze, pointing at the door, then whispered, “Now.”
The man soared high above, his presence drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He had thick, wavy brown hair threaded with sun-kissed highlights, big cognac-brown eyes, and a strong jaw sporting a permanent five-o’clock shadow. He was decidedly handsome and probably poised to become the golden boy of the office.
Isabella whispered about his looks as he toured the floor. I packed my things, ready to head out to spend my lunchtime in the shade on the roof with my latest read, this timeOne Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez, to pass the time and have my own years of solitude in peace.
I heard a voice before I could go. “A beautiful book. Are you enjoying it?”
The new travel agent hovered at my cubicle. His voice sent a chill over my skin. I hadn’t recognized him in the light. It was the man from the cemetery.
“So far, yes.” I glanced away.
“Do we know each other?” He scratched at his temple, like he was conjuring the mystery of me. “I’m Diego.”
I shook my head, my coldness ending the small talk. He began unpacking his things in the cubicle across from me.
Linda burst out of her office, drawing attention to my section. “Carmella! Glad I could catch you. Great work on your last set of brochures. The hotel loved them and wants more for another chain. Where are you at with the Hyatt project?”
I lifted my notebook, which didnothave anything related to what she’d just asked about, and lied. “It’ll be finished soon.”
“Keep at it, and you might be in the running for the all-expense-paid trip next summer.” She winked, a satisfied smile spreading over her pale oblong face.
I nodded in what could’ve been interpreted as enthusiasm. Laughter burbled up inside me.
It was ludicrous. I didn’t need her trip.
At this point, I could buy her firm, this building, and all the real estate for five blocks in cash, with plenty to spare.
I snorted. I didn’t have concrete plans, but I was sure I wouldn’t be here next year. This job was only marginally better than sitting at home, watching telenovelas.
I retreated to my sanctuary for lunch, then dragged myself back to my cubicle and computer, ensuring not to look at Diego just across from me. I forced myself to the task, drafting the required assignment—250 perfect words to describe the Maldives. I hadn’t been there in ten years, but how hard could it be to describe white sandy beaches, wooden freestanding bungalows, and clear turquoise water designed to entice travelers and help them part with their money?
I had been alone, just me, my books, and my thoughts for seven days of paradise—a specific version of hell. But I’d checked another postcard off the list.
I emailed Linda my draft and sat up, shaking off the funk. No one was forcing me to be here. I’d come to Argentina after spiraling my way through Central and South America—in search of inspiration, in search of the place Gabby had wanted to be when she retired, something new—but once I got here, I found that it was more of the same.
So I had settled for an approximation of life.
No more features.
No more books to write.
Just 1,250 words of copy a day and my glass of wine.
Okay, a bottle of wine.
