Read One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) Online
Authors: Lucinda Whitney
Cristina carried the last platter in. “Isabel, we hate to eat and run, but we’re going.” She turned to Simon. “Don’t leave on our account, Simon. Stay and keep Isabel company.”
Her boyfriend stood in the living room and waved good-bye. Isabel walked with them to the foyer and they all talked animatedly for a few moments before she closed the door behind them.
When she returned to the kitchen, he had his hands plunged in sudsy water, scrubbing one of the platters.
“It wasn’t my plan to have you do the dishes, you know.” She grabbed a clean dishcloth and started drying the ones on the rack.
Simon looked over his shoulder and smiled. “After the dinner you served tonight, I’ll gladly do the dishes every time.” He paused. “Not that I’m trying to invite myself over again. But if you do, I mean, invite me, I don’t mind washing.” His neck heated. “I’ll just stop now.”
Isabel smiled. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
Working together, they had the kitchen cleaned and everything put away in a few minutes. It surprised him, this side of Isabel. At the academy, she had a wall around her, always on edge every time he approached, as if waiting for him to say or do something against her.
But tonight she was relaxed. She looked younger, her expression was softer and more open, and Simon wanted to spend many more evenings like this one. It could even be a start for bringing up the subject of Elliot.
He had no doubts now. Isabel was Amélie. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d looked up Amélie’s ISP signature. Combined with seeing his letter in Isabel’s possession when they’d crashed, and the strong spiritual confirmation received when they’d met his first day at the academy, there was nothing left to doubt. Now he just had to find the right time to tell her.
He leaned against the door jamb, searching for a reason to stay a little longer, wanting to prolong his time with her.
Isabel opened the freezer and reached for the box he’d brought earlier. “Let’s see what you have in here.” She looked inside and then back at him. “You’re either very good at guessing or you had an inside tip.”
Simon shrugged. “I asked Cristina if I should bring something tonight and she said if I wanted to impress you, I should get lemon gelato from the Tricolore gelataria.”
“And you wanted to impress me?” She didn’t smile, but her eyes were soft.
“Did I succeed?” Simon couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to impress a girl this much.
Isabel set two white bowls on the counter. “I’m impressed you actually listened to her suggestion.” She scooped out the frozen dessert evenly and held out a spoon to him. “I usually eat mine straight from the carton. But I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
She sat on the sofa, legs crossed. Simon followed her and sat on the other end. They ate in silence for a few minutes.
Simon licked the spoon with the last bite. “This ice cream is really good.”
“It’s gelato, not ice cream.” She scraped at the bottom of the bowl. “There’s a slight difference. Gelato usually has no eggs in the recipe and is churned slower, which makes it denser than ice cream. But you’re right, it’s really, really good.”
“But not as good as your pizza. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
Her spoon clinked against the side of the bowl. “From my grandmother.” She glanced at him with a sad smile on her lips. “The earliest memories I have are of me and Avó Marta in the kitchen. I was too little to reach the counter so she got a chair for me.” Her eyes crinkled. “And the apron was so big.”
“Ah, so that explains your apron collection,” he said.
She raised her head. “When did you see my apron collection?”
He gestured towards the kitchen. “The pantry door was ajar. Impressive collection, by the way.”
She nodded. “Avó Marta sewed me the first ones.”
“Sounds like you were really close.”
Isabel put the spoon down and looked at him. “She was the one who raised me and we always did everything together.” She paused.
Simon leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Isabel. I know the memories are hard.” Couldn’t he say something better than such trite words? Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up.
Isabel walked to the sink and placed her bowl inside. “They’re bittersweet, you know? When I’m cooking, I feel closer to her.”
He was well acquainted with bittersweet memories. “I feel the same way when I read my mom’s favorite books.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From: [email protected]
Dear Amélie,
This morning the sky was blue. There’s a nip in the air and the days are shorter. I haven’t had to carry an umbrella yet, but I know it’s coming. Until then, I’m determined to enjoy the sun in whatever form it comes.
My job is supposed to be like a 9-5 thing but that rarely happens. I don’t get overtime when I stay over, but I’m getting compensated more than those around me, and that’s not too fair to them or me. Too many misguided expectations on both sides, but let’s not bring that up.
I’m sorry that your last boyfriend was a jerk, but I’m not sorry that he left you. You deserve better than a guy who treats you like he did, Amélie. Nobody deserves to be in a relationship without mutual respect and appreciation, not to mention love and friendship.
Oh, the joys of dating. I could tell you some stories. The last time I went on a date, I let my dad convince me to meet this girl who was the daughter of an acquaintance of his. We’d attended the same uni and apparently that was enough in common to deem us compatible. Yeah, I know, a blind date— we were doomed before we met. The bigger problem was that she was still attending the same uni I had ten years prior. She was only nineteen, a little detail nobody thought to mention. She looked even younger, and here I was at my old age, taking her for a night out. I kept looking over my shoulder for someone to stop and accuse me of leading a minor astray. It couldn’t have been more awkward if we’d planned it.
I’m afraid the girlfriend I had before that didn’t end on a happy note either. What did I tell you? I’m not good at relationships.
And what does it say about me that I want to try again? Actually, I’d like my next girlfriend to be my last one. I’m ready to move on, ready for what comes after the dating.
Always your friend,
Elliot
P.S.—I attached a picture of the little bird who’s been visiting my window sill. I leave him bread crumbs and he leaves me—definitely not bread crumbs.
* * *
From: [email protected]
Dear Elliot,
I looked up that little bird on the internet (blessed Google) and it is indigenous to Western Europe. That narrows down a little your possible locations. Keep sending clues. ;)
I’ve never had problems with being lonely before, but lately I find myself yearning to be an important part of someone’s life. This feeling catches me by surprise, sometimes when I’m taking a walk and see couples holding hands, or when I’m in church and see a man place his arm around a woman’s shoulders. I feel like I’m a half of a magnet, pushing and pulling at everyone else around me, and not finding the other half that completes me. I’m not making much sense, I know.
Not too far from where I live there’s a belvedere with magnificent views of the city, and it’s been a favorite spot to go since I was a young girl. Sometimes I go there and sit for a while, imagining I have someone sitting beside me. That’s my pathetic life.
There’s something my friend wants me to do. She won’t stop nagging me about it. I told her it’s not for me but she insists it is. I’ll tell you a secret, Elliot: I really want to do this. I’ve been dreaming about this for a long, long time, and I know I could do it. But I’m scared because there are others who are better than me, and who am I to try it out if I’m not the best at it? So I stay awake at night thinking about it, but in the morning I still won’t do anything about it.
Well, that was a bit too personal. Sometimes I write these emails to you without a second reading otherwise I’d delete them. And there I go again into something I shouldn’t. Let’s get back to a safe topic, like the weather.
I think the crisp autumn weather is here to stay. Some of the shops downtown have started working on their Christmas displays, which is a little too early, if you ask me. I don’t like to think about it until December 1st.
What are your plans for Christmas? Are you going back to London to spend the holiday with your family?
Faithfully,
Amélie
P.S.—I said a little prayer yesterday.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Simon pushed the door open to his office and set the tablet on the desk. Only thirty minutes left for the last bell of the day, and he was ready for the weekend. The work was progressing on target, and he would be able to deliver the full reports before the academy closed for the Christmas holiday, as he’d planned. As for the online portal, he only had a few minor updates and he’d have it running before the end of the month. He was also on the verge of figuring out how to attach a tracker to the signature of the security card that had been used to access the academy’s portal, the one swiped from Isabel to do the money transfers. If only he could confide in her and share his progress.
Unfortunately, Isabel still didn’t trust him at work. When he’d had dinner at her apartment, she’d been different, more relaxed and open. That easiness between them, he wanted it back. He had to get her away from the academy and from the atmosphere that had her thinking he was against her. If only for a few hours, he had to try and deepen their friendship.
When the bell rang, Simon went out in the front courtyard as the students left for the day. Isabel stood by the gate, talking to the children and some of their parents. After the last pick up and the last goodbyes, Isabel went inside and he followed her to her office.
The door was ajar and he knocked on the jamb. “How was your day?”
Isabel raised her head from her tablet and blew out a long breath. “I haven’t been this excited for a Friday since…”
“Since last week?” he offered.
“At least.” She paused and smiled at him.
She had a small dimple on her right cheek when she smiled. How had he not noticed it before?
“I can’t believe this is only first term,” she went on. “It feels so busy already.”
“I’m partially responsible for that, with all the changes we’ve introduced so far.” His presence at the academy had only added to the pressure of her job, but in the long run, it would make the work lighter for her and everyone else at the small school.
Isabel raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment as she resumed her note taking.
Simon lingered for a moment. What else could he say that wouldn’t sound lame?
“Any plans for the weekend?” Isabel asked. She turned off the tablet and stowed it in a drawer, locking it.
“Yes, grocery shopping. And then it will be me and some frozen Italian dinners and catching up on reading.”
“Frozen dinners?” She looked pointedly at him. “Why can’t you cook dinner the old-fashioned way?”
“It would be great if I could cook even half of what you can, but alas, it’s a talent I don’t have.”
She waved a hand and frowned at him. “That’s an excuse if I ever heard one. Anyone can cook.”
Simon straightened. “I beg to differ. Anyone can not.” He stressed the last word.
Isabel came around the desk and stood in front of him. “Yes, you can.” Her expression was firm, but her eyes belied the humor behind the words. “You said Italian, didn’t you?” She turned to her desk and ripped a page from a paper pad. She scribbled for a few moments then handed him the scrap of paper. “You’re cooking tonight, at my place. Go to the store and buy these ingredients then come over. I’ve got the rest that you’ll need to make the best meal you’ve ever cooked.”
There was a hint of challenge in her brown eyes, vivid and warm.
“You’re not giving me much of a choice, are you?”
Disappointment flickered in her gaze but she quickly disguised it. “Of course it’s your choice. Just know it’s a one-time offer.”
He scanned the list. “Give me forty minutes and I’ll be there.”
She let him pass first then locked the office door. “Take an hour if you have to.”
An hour later, Simon arrived at Isabel’s apartment, his hands loaded with bags. Isabel opened the door with a bright smile and a checkered apron around her waist. Her T-shirt read
My spoon is bigger than yours
with the image of a wooden spoon running below. She wore her hair coiled on top of her head.
“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” She waved him in and took a bag. “Any problems?”
Simon followed her to the kitchen. “Nothing that I couldn’t find an answer to on Google.”
“Next time, send me a text. I’m not sure I can recommend Google for this kind of activity.”