11. Elise

11

ELISE

Sometimes, I miss New York City. The relentless pace fueled me. I learned how to jostle my way onto a subway, how to position myself on the platform to catch the right car at the right time. I could hail a cab and have it sliding to the curb, door opened for me, in five seconds flat. Hell, I could hail a taxi in the rain and barely get splashed on by the sky.

Sometimes, I miss the forty-yard-dash pace of the city where I was raised. The rat-a-tat-tat, go-go-go rhythm of the fastest place in the world, where we did everything in double time, especially lunch.

In Manhattan, we order, eat, and sign a deal before dessert arrives.

Not so in Paris with Dominic. He orders dessert, and we have yet to touch on the reason for this meeting as we close in on the two-hour mark for a meal.

It’s a typical lunch in the City of Lights, where the world slows to a meandering pace at most eateries, including at this restaurant a block off the famed rue de Rivoli. White linen tablecloths hang crisply from tables, and antique gilded mirrors line the walls. Dominic chose it when I invited him out to lunch to discuss a business proposal. Since I’m in need of his services, I agreed to his haute cuisine. He’s one of the most talented industry analysts I’ve ever worked with, and the highest paid too. I still lament letting him go last year when I had to tighten the belt.

“Would you like dessert?” the waiter asks.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. Just a coffee.”

After the waiter leaves, Dominic leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “Okay, I am ready to talk shop.”

I smile. “So glad to hear.”

When we arrived, he said, “Let’s eat, let’s catch up, and let’s discuss business only over dessert. I’m dying to know how you are.”

“Tell me all about your proposal.” He runs a hand over his mostly smooth skull. His bald patch has broadened in the last year, and his goatee has grown as well—his hairline is heading in opposite directions.

“I’m quite excited about this one. I think it’ll be a great chance to make deeper inroads into a new sector, and I’m keen on the possibility of working with you again.”

“You’re lucky I wanted to listen. After you let me go unceremoniously,” he says, huffing dramatically, as if it’s a joke, but I wonder if there’s a kernel of truth to it.

I smile softly, placing my hands together as if in prayer. “I know. Have you forgiven me?”

“We shall see.” He winks, and I know he’s hurt, but it seems he’s not going to nurse it forever.

“Look, you know the reason I had to let you go is I lost some accounts to the Thompson Group. I felt terrible about it at the time, but it was the only thing I could do. The good news is I hope to rectify that now with a great new opportunity.”

He stretches an arm across the table and pats my hand. “Yes, I know it was hard for you. I read your blog.”

I jerk my hand away. I don’t use my real name on my blog. I never have. “What?”

“Your perfume blog.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “I figured out A Scentsual Woman was you when you axed me. I put two and two together from the things you’d said in meetings about perfume, and then I googled blogs and pored over some, and it sounded like you. All that stuff about that man. It fit you to a T.”

My skin crawls, a creepy sensation as if someone’s been watching me.

Someone has.

I suppose that’s my fault for wearing my heart on my online sleeve, even though it was an anonymous sleeve and I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Since I learned the truth about Eduardo, I’ve scoured my blog and removed any story that chronicled my romance with him, though he was never named either.

But the fact that Dominic hunted around for me, maybe even hoped to find dirt on me, makes me uneasy. It sends a drumbeat of worry in my brain.

Cancel. I should abort this plan before it gets any worse.

But he’s talented. He’s saved me so many times over the years . . .

I ignore the flush of heat on my cheeks, the stain of embarrassment, and soldier on. “Be that as it may, I’m getting ready to pitch some new business, and I need a great analyst. I would love for you to come back on a project-by-project basis. I can pay you well.”

“Go on.”

I tell Dominic about a resort I’m prepping to pitch, giving him basic details without revealing the potential client’s name.

When his crème br?lée arrives, along with my coffee, Dominic dives into his sweet treat with gusto, humming as he eats. “This is magnificent. This is stupendous. This is incredible.”

I sip my coffee as he murmurs odes to his dessert.

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” He shoves another forkful into his mouth.

“No, but I’m glad you like it.”

We hold off on the business talk for another moment while he devours the remainder of his dessert. He plows through it, then sets down his fork. “I appreciate the offer, Elise. But I’m going to decline. I took a job with the Thompson Group. But thank you for lunch. I’ve always wanted to come to this place.”

As the punchline to the joke that’s on me, he drops his napkin theatrically on the table and leaves.

I’m fuming. Curse words in French and English and even the touch of Spanish I learned in college blister my tongue as I swear silently and fish out my business Amex to pay for his meal, resentment raging in every pore.

I fasten on a fake smile when the ma?tre d’ says goodbye, then I march down the avenue, pissed at how Dominic set me up, pissed at myself for sensing he was going to pull this crap, but still giving him the chance.

I growl in anger. This needs to end. I need all my mistakes behind me.

Screw Dominic. Screw him and his free lunch. I don’t need him. I’ll be my own damn analyst. I’ll show him, and John Thompson too.

I walk, and I walk, and I walk, my heels clicking like bullets, until I hear the familiar sound of water trickling musically, and I inhale the comforting smell of damp stone.

I’ve done it again. I’ve wandered to the Fontaine des Mers at the Place de la Concorde. I square my shoulders and breathe deeply.

This was where I was scheduled to meet Eduardo the last time I never saw him. I waited an hour, calling and texting. Annoyance at him being late turned into worry over his safety, and that soon morphed into anguish the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

The police called. His motorcycle had crashed. He was pronounced dead on arrival at a hospital an hour away. Devastation had flowed through every cell in my body, and I’d heaved with pain and tears for days and days.

That’s where my story with him should’ve ended. The simple but terrible grief of losing a spouse. A widow at the ripe old age of thirty-two. A whirlwind six-month marriage that ended far too soon.

But I didn’t even have the chance to grieve properly.

At his funeral, I met another bereaved woman. Her name was Diana, and she was also a grieving widow. His other widow. He’d been married to her at the same time as me, and Diana didn’t know, either, that he’d left behind two wives. Two fools.

I raise my gaze to the water, watching it patter from the small bowl to the big one in a ceaseless rhythm.

I watch and wait for the clobbering.

For the pain to slam into me, like a cruel wave.

It doesn’t come.

In its place, I feel something new. Resolve.

I don’t have to play the fool. Not with men like Dominic, or men like Eduardo. I won’t let someone have the upper hand again.

I grab my sunglasses and shield my eyes as I walk away from the fountain, stronger, so much stronger than I was that day more than two years ago.

And I’m going to be smarter too from now on.

I return to work, power through my projects during the rest of the afternoon, and head home. A shower washes away the remnants of the day, as I scrub off the lingering frustration from lunch.

I slip on my red skirt, then peruse my bureau with all the little bottles of scents, trailing my fingers along the cool black wood. I stop at an empty crystal bottle that catches the fading light from the early evening sun, reflecting it like a prism. It’s Marchesa Parfum d’Extase, and it was a gift from my blog readers to me. I wore it on my wedding day, and I cherished it.

I love it for what it represents. I hate it for what it represents. It haunts me now, even though I’ve poured it out and bleached the bottle.

Breathing deeply, I turn away, choosing none of the scents. Choosing a new path.

A fresh start to embark on this tryst for what it is—a neat, organized affair with a delicious man. There’s nothing messy about Christian. Nothing risky. He’s built for sin, yet safe for my heart.

As I head downstairs, I repeat my new watchword. Resolve.

I hereby resolve to play it smart and to make sure I don’t ever get too close again.