I sighed and took a bite of the now-cold grilled cheese I had made for myself. Again. Cold grilled cheese and warm pinot grigio. Oh, what a delightful meal. Both the cheese and the wine I ‘borrowed’ from Brenda’s stash. She wouldn’t mind. Plus, if she let Tommy raid her pantry, that was sort of the green light I needed. I kicked off my shoes, but instead of concentrating on Greg Coste’s project, I let my mind drift to more romantic and personal thoughts.
Tristan’s family was in France, and my family lived in Italy, northern Italy, probably a one-hour flight between the two countries. I had never mentioned Tristan to my sister or my mother. For one thing there wasn’t much to talk about, and they were still in shock about my divorce. Never mind that was five years ago. It was the first divorce ever in our small Catholic town, and that was a biggie... not in a good way. If they got wind I was dating—okay, almost dating—a married man, they would disown me for sure. Disown me? Sounded like a joke. The only thing my family owned was the old house my mother inherited from her parents. The house was probably one hundred years old. Hell, there was moss growing on the roof. I still remember the moldy smell of the upstairs rooms during the rainy days of winter.
As usual, I had a real knack at finding something negative about everything, at least in my mind, especially as the sun went down and another lonely night approached.
More like a Zorba the Greek kind of day. When I felt lonely, I thought about the poor widow in that Greek movie who lost her life just as she finally found a lover. I mentioned that to my mother once after my divorce, and she was like, “You watched Zorba the Greek? How? Where? You weren’t even born when that movie was around.” Sheesh, she ought to be proud—Monica the cinephile. Okay, I gave myself the title having read something in a magazine about movie fans/cinephiles. Sounded important.
Tristan called, and Zorba was forgotten.
“Hi, Fiat, I’m coming home.” His voice sounded tired and yet cheerful. What time was it in France? The middle of the night for sure. “I can’t wait to see you,” he said.
“Oh, you’re so sweet. Can I pick you up at the airport?” A trembling eagerness in my voice.
Instead of answering, he chuckled softly like we were sharing some funny, intimate secret. “Fiat, no one should expect to be picked up at the airport by someone they care about. It’s an awful place, and to be honest, I have no idea when I’ll get there.”
“Oh, you just said that—”
“I booked a flight to Philadelphia, and from there I may or may not find a connection. But at least I’ll be in the United States, and I can navigate the system better from American soil. I’m on my way to Charles De Gaulle Airport. Then I have a couple of hours to wait. I’ll catch some sleep in the lounge.” He yawned. “Sorry, sweetie, my trip has been a waste of time, but I had to try.”
“Waste of time? I’m sorry.” I felt totally clueless. He’d gone there to talk to his family, so what went wrong? Did he tell them about me? Maybe they were like my family. Totally against divorces. Darn. “Anything I can do to cheer you up? Like maybe picking you up and driving you home?” I tried again.
“Talking to you makes me feel better already. How was your day? Am I keeping you from—”
“Tristan, you are the best part of my day, every day. You know that don’t you?” I felt a lump in my throat. Boy, was I ever cheering him up. I had to change subjects, getting too emotional, as usual.
“I do, Fiat. That’s why I’m trying to speed up this whole thing, so you don’t feel insecure or doubtful about us. We have nothing to be embarrassed about. You go to sleep, sweetie, and I’ll call you when I get to Philadelphia. Okay?”
I mumbled a yes. Say something; keep him interested... but he was gone.
I didn’t care what he said. I would pick him up at the airport. I walked around my small, comfortable home checking the doors again—something I hardly ever did. But my mind was stuck on Tristan and not functioning rationally. He sounded a lot more discouraged than he’d admitted—that I was sure of. All of a sudden, the enforced solitude was getting under my skin. I missed Brenda, big nutty Dior, and truth be told, I even missed boring Officer Clarke. There, I said it.
Ten-thirty the next morning and under a cloudy sky, I sat in my car and double-checked the information package I had printed out at the office before heading to the 8th Place listing to meet Greg Coste. Somehow, getting to the office by nine a.m. made me feel more professional than all the fancy business cards with gold-embossed lettering or all the expensive, showy cars not made in America that the successful Realtors liked to be seen driving. Well, they looked successful and impressed us newbies. I had no yearning for either of their props. But I did like my job, a lot. And the fact that I met Tristan Dumont while working for Sunny Novak made me like real estate even more.
Greg Coste looked as sharp as the first time I met him. He arrived prepared. He measured, took photos inside and outside and even some of the surrounding streets. He did that part as I was locking up and reminding him that time was of the essence. The standard shtick: You
