One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) (14 page)

He winced. She didn’t spare his feelings, did she?

At the door to his room, she hesitated. “Will you be able to do it by yourself?”

Simon sat at the edge of the bed and raised his eyes to her. “Are you going to help me?”

She crossed her arms. “Are you trying to be fresh with me, Simon Ackerley?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” He was definitely not feeling like himself. “Yes, I can shower by myself.” Even if he had to sit down for it.

Isabel was right. The shower proved more therapeutic than he’d thought. He didn’t shave and his body still hurt everywhere, but at least the fuzziness had dissipated some. When he opened the bathroom door into the hallway, Isabel carried a small tray to the bedroom which she placed on the bedside table.

“Come on, let’s put you back to bed until I get you something more substantial to eat.” She pulled a pillow upright and turned down the sheets.

Simon sat down gingerly. “Did you change the bedding?”

“Of course. You don’t put a freshly-showered sick person into the same linens.”

When he reclined against the pillows, Isabel handed him a glass of water and two painkillers, which he promptly swallowed.

She had a cup of tea ready. “Lemon balm,” she offered.

“Where did you get it?” He blew at the edge.

“Your neighbor on the first floor. She didn’t mind sharing when I told her you were sick. It will make you feel better.”

He was feeling a little better already. But it wasn’t the tea or the shower, or even the fresh sheets.

It was Isabel’s presence.

He must have dozed off after drinking most of the tea, and the medication had worked better than he’d thought. The blinds on the window were still up and the lights from the early evening outside blinked against the wall. Each day grew darker a little earlier as winter set in. Simon pushed the sheets back and a small smile crept to his lips. Isabel had come to see him because she was worried. That was a good sign, right?

A knock sounded at the bedroom door and he sat up slowly.

Isabel peeked in. “How are you feeling?”

Simon passed a hand through his hair. “A little better, thank you. I thought you’d left by now.”

She pushed the door open. “I did leave, but I came back. I have some broth for you. I’ll bring it in, if you’re ready.”

He stood. “That’s okay. I’ll come to the kitchen.”

By the time he sat at the small table, Isabel had set out a wide, shallow soup plate and some toast on the side with another cup of tea. He blessed the food and picked up the spoon. “Thank you, Isabel. I didn’t expect you to come and cook for me.”

She sat on the other chair. “It’s just a simple rice broth. I didn’t have the time to make chicken soup.”

He took a spoonful. It was a cross between a vegetable soup and a thick broth, with well-cooked rice, onions, garlic, and carrots, all diced in small pieces. “This is very tasty.” He was hungrier than he’d thought. “There’s olive oil.” He paused and savored again.

Isabel leaned on the table and rested her chin on her palm. “My grandmother used to make this for me when I was feeling poorly.” Her eyes softened.

He could relate to that. Even though Mom had been gone for fifteen years, the smallest things sometimes prompted the hardest memories.

He ate a second serving, surprising himself. Isabel saved the rest in the refrigerator and washed the few dishes while he sat at the table. He hadn’t asked her and she’d come. Charlotte, the girlfriend who’d lasted almost six months, had not even visited him at the hospital when he’d had an emergency appendectomy. Maybe comparing both women wasn’t fair to either one of them, but a person’s character proved truer in actions than words, didn’t it?

Isabel removed the kitchen towel from her waist and hung it up on the small hook by the stove.

“Thank you,” he said to her. “For everything.” The words felt insufficient.

“You’re welcome.” Her cheeks pinked. “I’ll bring you some soup tomorrow at lunch.”

He probably had enough leftovers for two more meals but he wouldn’t say no to a visit from her. “I’ll be back to work on Wednesday.”

“Don’t rush it. If you’re not feeling better, you can take the rest of the week off.”

Simon followed her to the front door. “Isabel, I’d like to apologize for what happened on Saturday night.”

She shook her head. “Simon, it’s okay. There’s nothing to apologize for. We’re both adults and smart enough to know that complicating things would not be good.” She dropped her hands by her side and looked down for a moment. “It’s okay,” she repeated.

Had he read her wrong? He’d been so sure she was as interested in him as he was in her. Maybe she was not ready for anything more than a friendship between them, but he could wait. He could be patient.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Amélie,

I’m glad you take time for yourself. With the demanding job you have, it’s good to find the quiet moments to slow down and think. I try to take a day of rest on Sundays and not think of work or the responsibilities that will be waiting for me on Monday mornings. After church, I spend time with family or friends, or doing something else worthwhile. Well, that sounds kind of conceited but I promise I’m just a regular guy trying to do the best he can.

There’s someone I work with who reminds me of you. She’s very dedicated to her job and works tirelessly. She helps others without thinking of herself and even though she holds a superior position, she always goes out of her way to make sure she treats those around her fairly and justly, never expecting to be singled out.

Sometimes I like to imagine that working with you would be similar.

You still haven’t told me what you’ll be doing for Christmas. Are you staying in or going away? Would you have the time for an old friend?

Your old friend,

Elliot

* * *

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Elliot,

I’m very intrigued by this co-worker of yours. You obviously have great admiration for her. Do you see her outside of work?

I’m afraid I’m not as noble as she is. Yes, I am dedicated to my job and I try to treat people around me fairly, but that’s as far as the similarities go. I rush to conclusions about too many things and I hold grudges for too long.

As for working with you, I can’t even fathom the idea. We’ve been writing each other for so long, sometimes I feel like I know you better than anyone else in my life. Such a crazy thought, isn’t it?

I’m trying not to think about Christmas. I’ll be by myself this year.

Always your friend,

Amélie

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Only a few more days and school would be out for Christmas holiday. Isabel turned on the desktop computer and adjusted the security card around her neck. The grades for first term were due on Friday, and she had to check the reports from all the teachers. Even though the academy had an online portal, Isabel also sent letters home, since most parents still preferred to have printed reports.

She pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through the messages. A small smile grew on her lips. Simon had sent a text to her in the early morning:
Thank you for the fabulous dinner last night.
Cooking together on Sundays had become her favorite thing to do and she couldn’t even explain to herself how much she looked forward to it.

By mutual agreement, they hadn’t spent time together on Friday evenings or gone out on Saturdays. It hadn’t happened again since that first time. During the weekdays at the academy, Isabel made a conscious effort to treat Simon professionally and she’d begun to appreciate his presence and all he did to improve the conditions there. He was an invaluable asset and the changes he’d made would benefit the academy for years to come.

But Sundays were different. Sundays were a day of truce. No thinking of work, no mention of the almost-kiss, just two friends spending time together.

Yesterday was the third time Simon had come by after church and they’d cooked and they’d laughed and they’d talked about everything. No worries, no agendas, just the best Sundays she’d had in a long time.

Her phone pinged with a message and Isabel reached for it eagerly, hoping it was Simon again, and berating herself for the misplaced expectation. She’d been the one to say no to Fridays and Saturdays and yet, here she was, counting down until the following Sunday when they’d spend time together again.

Miss Antunes, please come to my office.

It was from Dr. Varela. She checked the time. The staff meeting would start in twenty minutes. Couldn’t he wait until then?

When she entered the office, Simon was there. She smiled at him but he only nodded at her. Her confidence wavered.

Dr. Varela stood. “Thanks for coming, Miss Antunes.” He gestured toward one of the chairs. “Please, take a seat.”

Isabel sat on the closest chair and Simon took the other. She tried to catch his eye, but he turned ahead and didn’t look at her. What was going on? She clutched her hands on her lap.

“Miss Antunes, something serious has come to my attention,” Dr. Varela said. He sat and leaned forward. “But before I tell you what has happened, I need you to tell me if you know where your security card is.”

“Yes, of course I know.” Isabel pulled the lanyard from around her neck and placed the card on the desk.

Dr. Varela reached for it and turned it in his hand, examining first one side and then the other before checking the key attached to the back. He set it on top of the desk in front of him, and out of Isabel’s reach.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’m afraid there’s been some misappropriation of funds.” He paused to look straight at her. “It’s not the first time either.”

Isabel clutched her hands. “How did it happen?”

“We first noticed a small inconsistency in May. It was insignificant and we probably wouldn’t have given it any more thought, but then it happened again in June, on the last week of classes.” Dr. Varela leaned forward on his desk. “Once every day until the last day.”

Isabel sat straight in her chair and grabbed the sides as a weight dropped in her stomach like a sinking stone. “Go on.”

Dr. Varela cleared his throat. “At first, we couldn’t trace the origin of these inconsistencies. Then they stopped during the summer. But with classes back in session in September, the behavior resumed, and we hired Mr. Ackerley to look into it.” He gestured at Simon.

Her hands turned cold on her lap. “Why was I not told any of this?”

Dr. Varela’s neck reddened and Simon rested his elbows on his knees without saying a word. Isabel glanced at Simon and bit back a comment.

“You had just lost your grandmother, Miss Antunes,” said Dr. Varela. “You were gone for a few days and I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s my job to be bothered.” She reined in her voice. “Whatever the problem is. You know that.”

Dr. Varela coughed dryly into his fist.

All this time, they’d never mentioned anything to her. Simon had never told her. “How often?” she asked.

“As little as once a week and as often two or three times per week. There isn’t a clear pattern. Sometimes there’s a break in between weeks.”

This couldn’t be happening. She took a breath, guessing—knowing—what was coming next. “But you’ve been able to trace it now.”

Dr. Varela picked up her security card. “Unfortunately, it’s been traced to this card.”

Her shoulders dropped. Dr. Varela was not even going to ask her if she’d done it. “Am I fired?”

Simon finally had a reaction. He straightened and shook his head. “Isabel—”

Dr. Varela held a hand up. “Did you do it, Miss Antunes?”

She stood and the men stood as well. “Does it matter if I say no? If I say I didn’t do it?”

“Of course it matters!” Simon stepped towards her and she retreated.

Dr. Varela came around his desk. “Have you left your card and key unattended at any time?”

She shook her head. “No, I follow protocol. I wear it around my neck when at the academy and I take it home with me at the end of each day. I need it with me to pass security anyways.” She dropped her hands. “You know that.” Everybody at the academy knew that. She always had the card and key on her, didn’t she? “So, what now?” she asked.

“We haven’t called the police—” Dr. Varela started.

“We’re not at that point yet.” Simon turned to Dr. Varela. “We need more time before we contact the police.”

Isabel touched the side of her forehead, where a dull pain threatened to blow into a full-fledged headache.

Dr. Varela returned to his seat. “As I was saying, the police won’t be involved yet, but we’d like you go on Christmas holiday earlier.” He coughed again. “Just don’t leave the city, please.”