She takes a breath. “We’re meeting some friends after. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”
“Right. Of course. Have fun.”
When I hang up, I’m left with the oddest feeling. I’ve been blown off by my parents, who are living their lives. My parents are heading to the cinema, going out with friends, and I’m sitting here in a nearly empty apartment, getting ready to leave the woman I love.
I click back to the web browser with my ticket on it. The clock on the browser ticks. A few more hours. I stare at the countdown for one minute, then another. My mind wanders to earlier today. To that broken sundial that gives no clue as to when you’re supposed to be somewhere. I’d be aimless if I relied on that damn Dali.
But this computer clock?
This one says something, loud and clear.
It’s not too late.
I straighten my shoulders, awareness hitting me hard and beautifully, all at once.
These are found hours. I stand and pace across the hardwood floor, weighing my options. Because I have options.
I have time.
Time to change my mind. Time to change my plans.
Time to ask Joy to go with me. Time to ask her to wait for me. Time to postpone this trip.
My heart thumps a little harder with that realization.
I look at my watch.
Joy has a dinner with Marisol tonight, and I’m meeting her at her place later. I won’t squander these hours until I see her. I’ll use them to devise a Plan B.
27
Joy
Marisol slices her chicken and brings a piece to her mouth. After she chews, she waves broadly behind her, indicating the small restaurant in the heart of St. Germain des Pres where we’re dining. “I’m so glad you could have dinner tonight.”
“This place is fantastic. The salad is one of the best I’ve had so far in Paris,” I say in French, since I want to impress her.
She raises her eyebrows in appreciation. “Well said.”
We chat more about the company, the products I’m overseeing, and life in Paris. I tell her I’m learning more French every day, and growing more comfortable with the language and the city.
She smiles. “I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed it.”
I flinch for a moment, noticing she used the past tense. “I am enjoying it,” I say, since I want to make sure she knows this is a present tense thing for me. Paris is where I live. Paris is what I love.
“And I’ve enjoyed having you here.”
My chest pinches. I set my fork down when I hear that word. I part my lips, unsure where to start, but quickly decide that this company didn’t hire me so I could beat around the bush. I choose directness. “Is there something I need to know?”
Marisol laughs nervously. “As a matter of fact,” she says, setting down her utensil, “I wanted to have dinner with you to talk about what’s next.”
“Okay, let’s talk,” I say, since I signed a one-year contract, and I haven’t even hit the three-month mark yet.
“First, we love your work.”
My heart is a stone. It sinks heavily in my chest. That’s the professional equivalent of it’s not you, it’s me. “Thank you.” I tense, waiting for the shoe to drop.
She neatly tucks her blonde strands behind her ears. “And you’ve been absolutely amazing at L’Artisan. So much I don’t want to see you go.”
“I don’t want to go,” I say cautiously, as worry threads deeper into me.
She sighs heavily. “It pains me to do this, but I wanted to let you know the company will be making an offer to take you back to the United States.”
My brain goes haywire. Lights and buttons and noises whir in a cacophony. This isn’t in the script. This isn’t what comes next. It’s completely out of left field. “I don’t understand.”
“The parent company loves your work here, and they’ve been reading the progress reports I’ve sent.” She flashes a rueful smile. “Perhaps that was my mistake. To let them know how very talented you are. Now, it seems there’s been an opening in the Austin office, and they’re going to offer it to you.”
That’s everything I wanted several months ago. I blink, trying to process this unexpected news. “They are? To run the fragrance lab?”
She shakes her head. “No. To run the perfume lab.”
My eyes widen. Everything around me slows to a crawl. The waiters walk sluggishly. Noise ceases, and the moment closes in on itself. That was my dream job forever. I swallow past the shock and try to restart the motor. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. That’s the plan. There have been some changes at the corporate office, and they’re putting together an offer for you. You’ll likely have it on your desk on Monday morning. You have to know I’d love to keep you here if there were some way, but I don’t know that we can compete with their offer. We’re the same company, yes, but we operate somewhat autonomously as a French division, as you know. We don’t yet have a perfume lab.”
“And they do,” I say, with something like wonder in my voice. I know that lab. I’ve stood outside the door. Gazed inside. Hoped and prayed and longed to lead it. I wouldn’t just be a fragrance chemist. I’d be a perfume composer. That would be passion meeting work in the most wonderful coupling. My heart dares to speed up at the prospect of crafting what I love for my job.
I adore creating scents.
But I’m in love with perfume.
She raises her glass of water and takes a drink. “They have a great lab, and it seems when I wrote the report about your new formulation in progress, they were so impressed they wanted to take you from me.”
Her lips curve into a frown. Then quickly, they quirk up in the most wistful congratulatory smile I’ve ever seen. She’s letting me go, if I want to. She’s giving me permission to go home.
But where is my
