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 brûlée 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 maître 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.
