One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) (2 page)

“Was he okay with that?” Isabel sipped.

Cristina nodded. “He’s probably at the café with his friends, and we’ll have all day tomorrow.” She lowered the cup. “How do you feel?”

Isabel exhaled. “Like I was run down by a garbage truck.”

“Just a man on a bike. I saw him coming around the corner but I didn’t reach you in time.” She shook her head. “It was scary. He wasn’t going really fast, but you were looking down.”

Isabel sat up and winced. “My letter. I was looking down at my letter.”

“What letter?”

“I was holding it. I hope I didn’t lose it.” Isabel grabbed the sheets, but Cristina held out a hand to stop her.

“You stay there. I’ll go find it.” Cristina rose from the bed and walked to the living room. “It’s probably in the plastic bag the hospital sent home with you.”

She returned with the bag in hand and sat by Isabel. “They put everything inside the bag, but I didn’t go through it.”

Isabel reached for it. As long as she found the letter, she didn’t care. Hands trembling, she rifled through the contents. There was no envelope. Her heart jumped. No, this couldn’t be. She reached for the blazer and slipped her fingers inside the pocket. Trying not to panic, she moved to the other pocket and almost laughed in relief when she touched the paper. “It’s here,” she said, her voice strangely breathless.

Cristina sat back at the edge of the bed. “That must be some letter.”

“From a friend.” Isabel resisted the urge to smooth the paper and set the envelope down on her lap instead.

Cristina waggled her eyebrows. “A special friend, I’m guessing. You’ve been holding out on me,” she said in a teasing voice.

Isabel smiled. “Yes, he’s special, but not in that way.” She paused. “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”

Cristina crossed her legs and leaned forward. “I promise I won’t. Now I’m curious.”

“Did your English teachers ever arrange pen pals for your class?”

“Yes, in eighth grade. I got some girl in California, if I remember, but it didn’t last long.”

Isabel stroked the familiar postage stamp with the effigy of the British queen. “My teacher assigned us the pen pals in the ninth grade. She had a teacher friend in England and they swapped classes. Then she told us we had to write to the student whose name we drew for the rest of the school year, and that we could write anything we wanted.” She paused. She’d written that first letter three times before sending it. “I got a boy named Elliot. The first thing he wrote was that Elliot was a pen name, not his real name, because his father didn’t want him to exchange real information.”

Cristina’s eyes widened. “You mean to say—”

Isabel held up the letter. “We wrote for the whole school year and through the summer. Remember that historical cartoon series, Amélie and the Duke of Gransville? I used that name. At the start of tenth grade, we decided to continue writing and agreed to exchange post office box addresses since we didn’t have the same teachers anymore.”

“And you’ve never stopped writing?”

“We slowed down a bit at the start of university.” It had taken almost a year to resume their correspondence. “When we started up again, we agreed to keep the personal information out of it. No expectations and no demands.”

Cristina shook her head. “Then what do you two write about?”

“Anything really. About books and movies and the places we go. As long as we don’t share details that could identify us, we can write about it.”

“That is crazy, Isabel.” Cristina looked at the envelope. “And you don’t even know his real name or what he looks like or how old he is?”

Isabel shook her head. “I know he’s my age, since we were in the same grade, and that he lives in London.” She paused. “Well, he mails his letters from London.”

“And he knows you live in Lisbon.”

“I mail my letters from the central post office and that’s all he knows about me.” He also knew the one movie she watched over and over, how much she’d agonized over which degree to study in university, and her favorite garden in Lisbon when she needed time to herself. He liked getting up early to watch the sunrise, volunteering at the local shelter once a month, and he’d read all the Sherlock Holmes books during the summer before eleventh grade.

Cristina gestured at the letter. “And this is why you didn’t see the biker.”

Isabel closed her eyes and shards of memory flashed through her mind. “He had gentle eyes.”

“The biker? I hardly noticed what he looked like until he pulled off his helmet.” She raised her hands and waved them around her head. “Then all this red hair tumbled out. I didn’t notice his eyes. He was acting very agitated and tried to get in the ambulance with you. He kept saying he couldn’t leave you.”

“Really?” Isabel sat up. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him he’d done enough already. But then a policeman held him back. For a red-haired guy, he was pretty good looking. And I’m not very keen on redheads.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow.

“My first boyfriend was a redhead and a cheater,” Cristina said.

Isabel nodded, not knowing how to respond to that. Her thoughts turned to the man on the bike, his concerned look, and the way he had held her hand. Although they had shared just a few moments between them, she could still feel the gentle touch from his fingers, lending her a sense of calm. “I think he was American.”

“You might be right, now that I think about it. I was paying more attention to you than him.”

Cristina rose and took the tray to the kitchen. She returned a few moments later. “I’ll leave now. You look ready to fall asleep.” She lowered her voice. “I hope you can get some rest.” She stood from the bed and walked to the door. “At least, we don’t have to be at the academy till Monday morning.”

“Amen to that.” Isabel exhaled in relief. She’d have the whole weekend to recover.

After Cristina left, Isabel retrieved the letter opener from the drawer in the nightstand and slit the envelope. She took a deep, steadying breath. It had been almost a month since Elliot’s last letter. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the familiar handwriting, angular and slanted to the left.

She ignored her heart. Elliot was a pen pal, nothing more.

CHAPTER TWO

Dear Amélie,

I finally did it! You’re always saying we should be brave and it’s about time I was. I got a new job doing something completely different from what I’ve been doing till now. Surprise! Yeah, I even surprised myself.

I know, I know. The “rules.” No particulars and no details. Just know that involves a big change for me, and you know how I feel about change.

As I was looking for a suitcase, I came across a box full of letters from when we started writing each other. My dad must have shoved it in the closet when he brought some stuff over last time he was here. I can’t believe it’s been so long! I wrote some really dumb things when I was in secondary school, that’s for sure. Thanks for not telling me at the time. ;)

Well, my faithful friend, I’ll be reverting to emails for a while, like I did a few years back when I was out of the country (maybe one day I’ll tell you more about it). I got a new email address though: [email protected]. Wish me lots of luck!

Your best pen pal,

Elliot

* * *

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Elliot,

You are indeed my best pen pal, if not by content at least by default since all my other pen pals stopped writing me years and years ago (someone has to keep you humble).

I have a similar box full of letters in my bedroom closet. Hard to believe it’s been almost fifteen years since we started our correspondence. I still remember my English teacher drawing the names in 9th grade. Just our luck we got paired. I never noticed that you wrote dumb things. You must have been writing those to someone else.

Congratulations on your big change! I’m so excited for you! I will live vicariously through you, even if we don’t exchange details. I’m still at the same job and I don’t have the courage to change. I must confess, I liked it a lot better a few years ago when I first started, and sometimes I wonder if I’m making a difference in the lives of those around me, like I had planned to. One day at a time, like grandmother used to say.

Emails will be fine. We are in the 21st century after all. I know your big change will keep you busy, but this is the address you can write when you find yourself with a free moment.

Your faithful friend,

Amélie

P.S.—I knew you were out of the country for a while. You let it slip a time or two, but I was too much of a lady to mention it. :)

CHAPTER THREE

Simon entered the apartment and locked the door behind him. He dragged himself to the sofa and let the messenger bag slip to the floor. He exhaled slowly, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead against his palms.

That moment when he approached the girl down on the pavement, Simon’s world had stopped—she’d had the envelope, the one he had sent Amélie the day before leaving London.

How was that possible? How could it be that the girl he’d crashed into was the same one he’d been writing for years?

What a day.

It had started out well but crashing into a pedestrian at a busy intersection during rush hour had not been part of his plans. He’d tried stopping but couldn’t slow in time. The girl had been distracted and didn’t see him until it was too late. The impact had slammed her hard, her bag and a piece of paper she’d been holding flying from her grasp. His stomach clenched, still sick with worry at the image of the girl lying on the pavement. He couldn’t get the memory out of his mind.

He shook his head and stood, trying to make sense of what had happened.

In the few minutes while they’d waited for the paramedics to come, he’d wanted to lay his hands on her head and give her a blessing. But there hadn’t been enough time, and Simon had touched his fingertips to her forehead instead, saying a quick prayer in his mind. Then he’d slipped the letter into the pocket of her blazer, not able to deal with the discovery he’d just made when her wellbeing was more important.

Simon had tried to find out which hospital they’d taken her to, but nobody would tell him anything. In a country where so many spoke English all the time, it was just his luck not to find anyone who did when he needed it most. The young woman who’d claimed to be her friend had spoken English but she had been extremely protective and tried to keep him at a distance from the injured girl. In his preoccupation to stay beside her, he’d probably come off as slightly imbalanced. He couldn’t blame her for shielding her friend.

When a uniformed policeman arrived at the scene to take his statement, he kept Simon for several minutes. The officer’s English had not been very good, but after talking to a few witnesses, he’d appeared to be satisfied and had sent Simon on his way. By then, Simon had lost all chance of following the ambulance.

What a day, indeed.

He went through the small apartment and flicked the lights on. After a long shower and changing into jeans and a t-shirt, he peeked inside the refrigerator. One Greek yogurt and some bottled water. Nothing else had magically appeared since morning. Take-out for dinner again.

How many times had he second-guessed his decision to move to Lisbon? He couldn’t speak Portuguese, not anything beyond obrigado and bom dia
,
and there was only so much he could do with thank you and good morning. Thanks to the translation app on his smartphone and the great number of natives who spoke English, he was doing all right so far. But he’d only been in the city for a few days, and that wasn’t enough to make an educated prediction for the rest of this stay.

He was not an impulsive man; quite the opposite. Decisions came after a lot of thought and introspection, and he always weighed all the pros and cons of every choice. Life-altering decisions, like moving to another country, required added pondering and praying, of which he had done plenty. The prevailing feeling had always been the same: a calm and tender peace. And now here he was, doing something so out of character with his nature that doubts crept up almost on a daily basis.

His father had questioned his true motives, even though he knew the real reason behind Simon’s decision. Simon had steered all conversation away from the topic effectively squashing any discussion about it. Taking this job in Lisbon was something he had to do and that was the end of it. In any case, it was too late to go back, both geographically and professionally. He had signed a contract with The British Academy in Lisbon and he was committed for one term.

He looked through his wallet before leaving, making sure he had enough small bills. Once on the street, Simon paused and ran a hand through his hair. The evening was clear and warm and the sounds and lights of the city filtered out to him. There was a different vitality in Lisbon, something always going on, not so unlike London, but with its own atmosphere and flavor. In a way, it was familiar to him, not only the city but his perspective on it.