Page 79 of The Sky in Summer
“No. He didn’t have to.”
The sigh escapes me.
“It isn’t fact then.”
Our beers are set in front of us, along with a small bowl of peanuts. We ignore the whole thing.
“Let me ask you this. If Barbra was miserable, would you be able to read between the lines.”
I sit quiet for a few beats. “Yes. I would know. It would be on her face, and in the way she talked. There would be a dimming of her light.”
He puts his hand on my arm and squeezes.
“Van’s light is dying without you.”
My heart explodes into a million fragments.Please be true.
19
Van
One autumn leaf drifts past my window. I watch as the night’s soft breeze carries it gently, setting it down at the foot of the historic streetlamp. Looking out my perfect window, inside the perfect apartment, at the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, everything is as if I dreamed it to life. So why does it feel empty and more like a nightmare?
My new colleagues and a few realtors from other companies are here that I needed to meet. It is networking basically, disguised as a welcome to Paris. I picked a spot in the room to avoid most of the guests. What an ungrateful dick. I plead insanity. That is what it feels like now that I have upended my life.
The requisite mingling and introductions were tackled early in the party. Now from the place I have tucked myself, I think I can avoid small talking my way through the rest of the night. The three-person group around me is having a passionate discussion about politics. A perfect topic for a man who doesn’t have anything to say.
I can stand here in my best-looking suit, with a scotch in hand and look like I am paying attention. Think I blend in pretty well. Once in a while I throw in a comment in French just so they know I am listening and understand what is being said. Every ten minutes or so I refer to something I know about one of them. Some accomplishment or reference to a great negotiation they brokered. I did my homework. Or I repeat something they said as if in agreement. It goes a long way. After one of those, I don’t have to say another word for at least five minutes.
The party is in my honor, so I didn’t have to plan a thing. Marie handled it all. She is a woman who takes charge, in the best possible way. A detail person, which I find makes the best realtors. They say God is in the details. So is selling properties.
I feel like I know her after the weekly business calls over the last year as we negotiated the relocation, and the endless unexpected turns in the road. Her reputation is as a ball buster but so far, I don’t see any heavy-handedness. Tonight, she is nothing but a charming hostess.
She didn’t miss a trick, from the excellent food to the bar set up in my dining room. She is a class act. I doubt many people give their RSVP regrets to her, ever. But this party had another draw. They all wanted to see the renovations the American chose for the beautiful nineteenth century apartment. Wondering just how much I fucked it up. Most had seen it prior to the transformation, just as my grandmother had lived in it. Their curiosity is showing.
I yawned twice in the last half hour, and that was enough to move the stragglers along. Marie is the last to leave. But only after the waitstaff finished the cleanup. She wanted to make sure I wasn’t left a mess, even though I wanted to kick them all out so I could be alone.
“Thank you so much for the wonderful welcome, Marie. It was really nice.”
“Oui. I am glad you enjoyed it. The apartment looks magnifique’.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to be past the renovation portion of the program.”
“You look tired,” she says, moving a piece of fallen hair away from my eye.
I pull back slightly, sending the message I have no interest.
“I am. Still getting used to the time difference.”
She understands the body language, smiles and takes a chocolate bon bon from the dish in the entry.
“One more for me. Goodnight, Van. See you on Monday. And so, we begin!”
“Goodnight.”
Once I shut the door, the pasted-on smile disappears and my entire body relaxes. Didn’t realize I was so tight in my shoulders. It hardly looks like a party happened here. It doesn’t feel like it either. The guest of honor was somewhere else, laughing with my Layla about a funny show on HULU. Then at the lake sunning himself next to the red bathing suited mermaid on the shore. In bed next to the woman he loves. It feels like he is another person from the one standing here lost in thought.
The jacket gets hung on the back of the beautiful expensive chair, and I collapse on the couch. I need a minute before heading to the bedroom. A few minutes to check my messages. Removing the cell from my pocket, I hesitate. There is a fear I won’t see any from Layla. None have come through yet. Not as of the last time I looked two hours ago.
