by Alix Nichols
I shake my head to drive away those images. Thoughts of that nature aren’t just unusual for me—they’re unheard of. They’re weirding me out.
Besides, they’re totally inappropriate in the workplace.
Grabbing the documents Véronique asked me to photocopy, I scoot down the hallway toward the pair of ever-humming machines behind the cluster of artificial fig trees.
This part of my job sucks.
But hey, I’m an intern and that’s what interns do, right?
Except, unlike other interns at Millennium III—the biggest real estate group in France—I have the privilege of owning an actual property in an up-and-coming arrondissement of Paris.
How I convinced Dad to buy me a one-bedroom apartment here is a tumultuous saga that deserves at least three volumes.
The first one would be called The Impossible. In this installment, Dad says things like “It’s out of the question” and “You’re a total rookie with no real knowledge of what this business involves.”
The title of Volume Two would be, Dogged Perseverance and Relentless Nagging and would cover the period between December and February of last year. That’s when Dad resorts to more technical arguments such as “French real estate prices have been stagnant since 2008” and “I’m not convinced about investing in Paris, given the risk of another terrorist attack and how it might affect the market.”
I had to dig up data showing that select French cities—in particular, Paris—still delivered a good return on investment. As for my knowing next to nothing about the business, I invoked my GPA as proof of how good a learner I can be.
The third and final installment of the saga would be called The Impossible Comes True.
In this volume, Sophie Bander finds the apartment and Ludwig Bander begrudgingly purchases it. They agree that she’ll personally manage it during the six months of her internship in Paris from July through December. Then she’ll return to Key West, asking Millennium III to take over.
Sophie is ecstatic.
Ludwig is happy that she’s happy.
End of Saga.
The photocopier begins to spit page after page into the tray.
As I watch it do its thing, I tell myself I’m lucky in more than one way. My boss here is a top-performing agent who believes interns should do more than make copies or serve coffee to clients. Véronique actually involves me in her real work. Last week, she took me along to show an apartment to a prospective buyer. On Monday, I attended a negotiation. Two days ago, she asked me to draft a lease agreement and compile an inventory.
I had applied for this internship during my final semester in Miami, and received the offer the day of graduation. When I told Dad I was going to spend six months in Paris working for a real estate firm, his eyebrows almost crept under his hairline.
“May I remind you, princess, that I own a real estate firm right here in your hometown?” he said, vexed.
“I know, Dad.”
“Do you?” He arched an eyebrow. “Do you also remember that I’d be thrilled to offer you a junior position in it?”
I looked down at my feet. “Uh-huh.”
“So why on earth do you need to spend six months slaving for someone else in Paris?”
As I searched for the right words, comprehension lit his eyes. “It’s your mother, isn’t it? You just want to spend more time with Catherine.”
His expression softened as he said Mom’s name so much so that you’d think he wouldn’t mind spending more time with Catherine himself.
But I know better than to nurture false hopes.
It’s been several years since I stopped fooling myself that my parents would ever reunite.
Anyway, Dad was right. Being closer to Mom was a big part of why I was going to Paris. I don’t see nearly enough of her. Summer holidays and an occasional Christmas or Easter break just don’t cut it.
When my parents divorced ten years ago, I chose to stay with Dad in Key West. My friends were there. I loved my school. I loved the weather, the town, and the island.
But that choice came at a price—going through my teenage years without my mom by my side. Oh, we did talk on the phone, daily. We texted, emailed, and Skyped. All of that taken together, I’ve communicated with Mom a lot more than with Dad over the past ten years.
But all those disembodied conversations couldn’t replace the comfort of her physical presence.
I missed those magical evenings, when I’d sit on the front porch to read, and she’d come out with her own book and two frosty glasses of virgin cranberry cooler. I’d move over, and we’d just sit quietly next to each other, sipping our drinks, and reading.
Her Parisian apartment doesn’t have a porch or even a balcony. But no matter. I wanted as many of those quiet evenings with her as I could get before returning to Key West and putting my life plan in motion.
Said plan is, by the way, the other reason I’m spending six months in Paris.
I want to learn the ropes of Dad’s business. But I want to start by learning them as a regular intern in a big agency where no one knows me, and no one will go easy on me. Dad’s is the biggest agency in the Florida Keys, but most of his staff have known me since I was a toddler, and all of them treat me like a princess. It’s sweet but not very helpful.
The second biggest agency belongs to our main competitor and sworn enemy Doug Thompson. For some weird reason, Doug is extra nice to me. Every time we bump into each other on Duval Street or at Cuban Coffee Queen and he greets me with a warm smile and a “How are you today, Sophie?” I barely nod in response. How can I be friendly with a man who’s at war with Dad? Not just a rivalry, but a real merciless, no prisoners, no cease-fires, no-holds-barred war for dominion over the Keys.
Needless to say, applying for an internship with Doug wasn’t an option.
I stick the scanned contracts into a manila folder and remove the staple from the asbestos survey report for copying.
As I feed it into the machine, I recall my last words to Dad before boarding the plane to Paris. “Six months is nothing in the big scheme of things. I’ll be back before you know it.”
His eyes drilled into mine. “Will you?”
“You bet.” I gave him a bear hug. “I’ll become a real pro and I’ll make you proud.”
He ran his hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and wished me a good trip.
My heart pinches.
I love that man more than the world. What a shame his marriage fell apart!
Since Mom left, I spent countless hours poring over her and Dad’s Parisian Polaroids from before I was born. The pics show an ethereal northern blonde and a strapping black dandy posing on Champs-Elysées, in Tuileries, in front of the Louvre, and in other landmarks of the French capital. They hold hands. Sometimes his arm is wrapped around her shoulders and hers around his waist. In my favorite picture they gaze into each other’s eyes with such passion you’d think nothing could kill it.
I’ve never felt as much as a spark of passion for anyone, no matter how hard I tried.
Just as well—no good comes of it anyway.
I wonder why thinking of those old photos has reminded me of yesterday’s encounter with Noah Masson. The man is eye candy, no doubt. But beyond his height and athletic build, my blue-eyed tenant looks nothing like Dad.
Not to mention that no one in their right mind would call me a northern blonde.
And yet… what is it about Noah that made me spend an hour last night looking for a mistake in his rental agreement that would warrant a revision? I ended up finding it—qui cherche trouve, as Mom likes to say. The previous owner had leased the apartment as unfurnished, even though she’d equipped it with everything from a bed to a vacuum cleaner. Dad bought it together with all the movable property, and Noah’s new contract is for a furnished lease. But we’d neglected to change the notice period from three months to one.
While the copier reproduces the termite survey, I pull out my phone and tap.
He
llo,
Can I stop by around 8 p.m. next Monday to discuss a small change in the rental contract and sign a new copy?
Best,
Sophie
THREE
Noah
Lucas waits until the last man is in the debrief circle before he tut-tuts. “Four exclusion fouls, people. That’s four too many.”
We fake remorse the best we can. But we know that, in truth, the coach is happy with the game and proud of us. No amount of tut-tutting can disguise the glee in his eyes.
“Jean-Michel, Denis, your sprints need work, but good effort there.” He turns to Zach. “Very good effort.”
Zach—our center forward responsible for two of the exclusion fouls—wipes the pretend guilt off his face and grins.
“If you guys can stay committed,” Lucas says, “you’ll peak right in time for the national championship.”
“We’re totally committed, Coach,” Zach says.
“We’ll do what it takes,” Denis chimes in.
Valentin, Jean-Michel and the rest of the team shout things like “Hell, yeah!” and “You can count on us!”
“That’s the spirit.” Lucas turns to me. “Great job with the saves, Noah. Perfect. Technically, tactically—you nailed it. Give me more of the same in the championship and LEN Cup games, and I’ll be a happy camper.”
Lucas no longer bothers to hide how happy he is. And so he should be. The squad is in great shape. For the first time since Lucas started the club, we’re truly ready to fight for gold medals, both French and European. That we just won a scrimmage game against one of the country’s best clubs, annihilating them like they were a college team, is no stroke of luck.
“OK, back into the water now!” Lucas blows his whistle. “Chop, chop! Thirty minutes of shooting, followed by thirty minutes of strokes and lunges.”
Valentin shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s my mom’s birthday today. I was hoping to leave in time for the family dinner.”
“Do you want that gold medal—yes or no?” Lucas gives our defender a hard stare.
“Yes,” he mutters.
Lucas jerks his chin at the pool.
Valentin nods resignedly and jumps in.
When the workout is over, the team—minus Valentin—head to the nearest bar for the customary drink. Zach comes along, too. He’s never available in the evening, so I look forward to chatting with him.
Call me a fanboy, but the guy is one of a kind.
Just a few years my senior, he’s so together it’s unbelievable. In the field, he’s efficient and generous. Even though he’s our hole player, count on Zach to go for an assist over a direct shot, if he believes the team would have a better chance of scoring that way. In addition to being our top scorer and team captain, he also runs a successful e-commerce business and raises a special-needs kid.
Alone.
Maybe he’s found the secret to bending space-time.
“How much do you sleep at night?” I ask Zach after everyone has settled around our usual table and Lucas has ordered a round of drinks.
“Six hours,” Zach says. “Why?”
I shrug. “I just don’t see how you can do all of the things you do and find time to sleep.”
“I have help.”
“Dobby?”
He chuckles. “Nanny. She’s the one who looks after Sam from eight thirty to six. So I can play water polo and operate my business.”
“I see.”
A crease appears between his brows. “Thing is… I know it’s selfish, but I do wish she didn’t have kids of her own.”
“Are you into her?”
“No!” He laughs. “She’s married and she’s in my employ. So no way. It’s just… If Sam had a live-in nanny, my mornings would be a lot less stressful. And I could go out in the evenings, maybe even date someone.”
“How long has it been since you—”
“Long,” he cuts in before I can finish.
“You should contact an au pair agency,” I say.
Zach shakes his head. “Mathilde has been with Sam for the past three years. She’s doing a great job, and Sam is attached to her. The only way I’m hiring an au pair is if she quits, which I hope she won’t.”
Lucas raises his glass. “Here’s to Nageurs de Paris, the best water polo club in France! Let’s prove it to the rest of the country this year!”
Everyone cheers and chugs their drinks.
Zach turns to me. “What’s up with you? Last time we talked, you were mad at your oldest brother for bugging you, and hoped your childhood friend would get her French visa.”
“I’m still mad and still hoping,” I say with a sigh. “Just as it looked like Sebastian might have given up, his wife took over. She writes letters to me. What do you make of that?”
Zach grins. “Like, real letters? On paper?”
“Yep. And she encloses photos with them.”
“Of what?”
“Family gatherings. Portraits of my brothers and their babies. That sort of stuff.”
Zach gives me a funny look, like he wants to say something but doesn’t dare. I told him about my fucked-up family months ago. He knows I was born a d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice. He knows why I prefer to go by Maman’s maiden name and why I won’t talk to my brothers.
So why that look?
“Don’t you think…” He hesitates. “Don’t you think your family deserves a second chance? Don’t you want to meet your nephew and niece?”
“They’re cute in Diane’s photos—but no, thanks. I want nothing to do with the d’Arcys.”
“What about your friend’s visa?” Zach asks, clearly sensing that a change of topic is in order.
I roll my eyes. “The French consulate in Nepal is taking its sweet time.”
“I can’t imagine she’s a security threat.”
“Just the usual red tape,” I say with a dismissive wave. “But my mother is pushing for her protégée, and my mother doesn’t give up until she gets what she wants.”
“That explains your brothers’ doggedness,” Zach says. “It runs in the family.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he does have a point.
“It’s kind of your mom to take an unrelated young woman under her wing,” Zach says. “She’s covering all the expenses, right?”
I nod. “Strictly speaking, it’s the Marguerite Masson Foundation, of which she’s the founding CEO.”
“Respect.”
“She loves Uma,” I say. “You see, Maman always wanted to have a girl, but she had three boys instead.”
“I never wanted to have anything.” Zach lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “But, thank you, Lord, for giving me a boy. Girls are the sweetest thing, except I wouldn’t know what to do with one.”
I smile. “Uma is certainly sweet, but she has a backbone and an independent streak. She plans to find a job as soon as she gets here so she can repay Maman.”
“Good for her.”
“She’s willing to wash dishes in a restaurant, clean houses, anything. I’m keeping my eyes open for announcements.”
“I’ll do the same.” Zach glances at his watch. “Got to go. Mathilde has granted me two extra hours, but my time’s up.”
He fist-bumps the players, shakes hands with Lucas, and heads out the door.
The rest of us stay for another hour, speculating about which club we’ll be playing against in the first round of the national games. We also discuss the strengths and weaknesses of the top clubs and their players.
Barring Lucas, I’m the go-to guy on the attackers’ preferred shooting techniques, since I spend several hours a week studying them on tape.
As a goalie, you have to.
But the moment I leave the bar, my neurons settle into a new formation, and all I can think of on the ride home is Sophie’s text message. My new landlady has found an error in the lease agreement. She wants to discuss it and sign a new contract. Is this a pretext to raise the rent? Or to get rid o
f me so she can occupy the apartment herself?
My gut tells me there’s more to her initiative than just correcting a spelling mistake in the agreement. And I’m going to find out tomorrow if I’m right.
The weird thing is that I look forward to her visit more than I’m apprehensive about it. Actually, “look forward” is an understatement. I’m thrilled. There’s this wild idea that’s formed in the most primitive part of my brain. I’ve been trying to dismiss it as wishful thinking—and failing miserably.
What if the sexiest woman to walk the earth has invented an error in the agreement so she can see me again?
What if I’m not the only one who nearly lost it from our brief physical contact the other day? What if Sophie felt the same way and has been lusting after me ever since?
That’s preposterous. I know.
And yet I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
FOUR
Sophie
I ring the doorbell.
My white blouse is all buttoned up and tucked into my gray pencil skirt, and my new hairstyle is a lot more sober than the afro I had before. This morning, I spent two hours at my local Salon de Coiffure to get my curls tamed into a classy braided bob.
Until a minute ago, I also wore thick frame fake glasses. According to Sue, my bestie, they transform me from a twenty-four-year-old intern into a twenty-five-year-old yuppie. But I just took them off and shoved them into my briefcase. Yes, a briefcase!
I don’t really know why.
“Your hair is different,” Noah says after I step in and we exchange polite greetings.
Oh, shoot. He doesn’t like it. Not that I care, of course.
“It’s beautiful,” he adds, giving me an appreciative nod. “Is this your usual hairstyle?”
“A special effort for my mom,” I say. “She’s crazy for small box braids.”
It’s true—Mom loves the look of “easy chic” this style gives me.
What I failed to mention is the last time I had the patience to get Mom’s favorite hairstyle was three years ago. And now, this morning.
