Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
After spending a sleepless night in the lounge, I get up early and resume my search.
Soon, I’m despondent. There are no traces of a child or anyone else for that matter. The soil is too hard and the terrain too rocky for shoes to leave prints. I follow the river for most of the morning but find no other houses or signs of life.
By the time I reach the village, I’m exhausted.
Mrs. Paoli looks a lot better when she answers her door.
“My dear, you look like you walked ten miles,” she says with a hand pressed over her heart.
She’s not far off.
“Would you like a glass of water?” she asks.
I show her my water bottle. “I’m good, but thank you for the offer.”
“Corinne told me there are kumquats at the market. Do you mind picking me up half a kilo while you walk Diva?”
“Of course not.”
“You better go straight away. Most of the vendors will be gone already. They only stay until late morning, but a few hang around until the afternoon.” She takes an envelope from her pocket. “Here. You can buy Diva a treat with the change. There’s a lady that sells homemade dog biscuits at the market. Diva loves them.” She clutches the edges of her robe together as she leans outside for a glance down the street. “Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Martin needs a little help with house cleaning. He’s a retired widower. If you’re interested, he lives in the old mill next to the river.”
“I appreciate that you thought about me.”
“You’re welcome, my dear.” She hands me Diva’s leash before addressing the dog in a sing-song voice. “Come, baby. Look who’s here.”
Diva barks and wags her tail.
The market is a short walk from Mrs. Paoli’s house. When I get there, most vendors have already packed up, but I manage to find a clementine farmer that set a bag of kumquats aside.
“It’s for Mrs. Paoli,” I explain.
“In that case,” he says, spitting the tobacco he was chewing on the ground.
He’s weighing the kumquats when I spot a bald head in the crowd. The man is tall, standing out above the rest of the shoppers. My heartbeat quickens. I haven’t seen him in a while, not since South Africa. I may be mistaken. It may be someone else, but then he turns around and our gazes lock across the distance.
He freezes.
Shit.
The vendor hands me the bag and mentions a price, but I don’t pay attention to what he says. I give him the money without breaking eye contact with the man at the fruit stall. The habitual dark suit is absent. He looks different in a sweater and a pair of jeans.
The vendor drops a few coins of change on my palm.
Mumbling a rushed, “Thank you,” I make my way toward the fruit stall just as the man turns and stalks away.
“Come, Diva,” I say, breaking into a jog.
We only catch up with him at the fountain.
“Roch, wait,” I call after him.
He stops dead. Turns. His eyes are cold as he measures me.
“Hi,” I say, out of breath from running. “What are you doing here?”
He looks pointedly at the bag in my hand. “Same as you.”
My heart is beating too fast to think. If he tells my husband he saw me here, I’ll get into trouble. The last thing I want is for Angelo to put an end to my excursions.
When he makes as if to turn, I utter the first thing that pops into my mind. “Aren’t you working?”
He glares at me. “Didn’t you hear? Your husband fired me.”
I reel with shock. “He did?”
“You don’t have to act so surprised.” He smirks. “You must be happy about it.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. “I didn’t know.”
Sneering, he spins away and continues to cross the square.
I go after him, grabbing his arm. “Roch, wait.”
He stops and looks at where I’m gripping his sleeve.
I let go. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for acting like a brat. My behavior was uncalled for. The day was just getting to me with everything that happened.”
“Don’t try to justify your actions.”
“It’s not an excuse, I know. I wasn’t aware he fired you. I never thought he would, not because of that.” I want to say I’ll put in a good word for him with my husband, but I’m the last person my husband will listen to, let alone please. “I’m so sorry, Roch. I mean it.”
“Yeah.” He snorts. “Whatever you say.”
“Roch,” I say when he attempts to walk away again.
He pauses.
“I, um…” I clear my throat. “My husband doesn’t know I’m here.”
He only watches me.
I swallow. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’ll appreciate it if you don’t mention running into me to him.”
His smile is wry. “Don’t worry. Mr. Russo and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”