Anthony began to ask another question, but the images of Diego and Lupe began to fade, becoming more and more transparent.
“No, no . . . please, do not leave!” Anthony pleaded. “I have so much to ask you both.”
“You do not require us,” Lupe said, her sweet voice quickly vanishing. “You have all you need to know.”
Then, drifting in from the darkness, in the softest of whispers, were Diego’s last words: “Listen to your heart, my son.”
ANTHONY WAS STARING OUT HIS office window at the sea of Parisian rooftops. He unconsciously massaged his left shoulder. Then he reached into his pocket, drew out the olive medallion, and fingered the rounded edges.
There was a tentative tap at his door. Anthony pocketed the amulet.
“Come in.”
It was Hennessy and Jack Benson.
“Are you ready for us?” Hennessy asked.
“You bet. Have a seat.”
Anthony rounded the desk and sat down on the leather couch opposite his guests, who were seated in two fabric club chairs across a coffee table.
“Whose meeting is this?” Anthony asked.
“Maybe I should start,” Jack said. He held his hands together, as if in a prayer, and then polished the palms. “I was out of line yesterday.” He paused. “I’ll level with you, Anthony: The board wanted you out. There has been talk about—what’s the best word—your ‘abrasiveness’ for a number of years. When you disappeared, we saw it as the perfect opportunity to have a changing of the guard. Then, yesterday, when you talked about a new mission, I used it against you. At that point, you could have talked about rescuing stray dogs and homeless mothers, and I still would have attacked you.”
“I think I knew that.”
“But, after yesterday—especially the thing with Badeau—I have a different take. I’m speaking for the board, when I say that we would like to keep you on. We don’t think we could find a better man for the job.”
“I see. And Hennie, what do you think about all this?”
Hennessy leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “I’ve had a change of heart too, Anthony. I have to admit that I liked the idea of being the president of TMS. It . . . well, it made me feel important—like I was somebody. But you have changed that. Yesterday, I saw a new Anthony—the kind of man that I would like to work for.”
“To underscore what Hennessy is saying, the board is ready to make your package a little sweeter,” Benson added. “We were thinking a $200,000 bump in annual salary.”
“That’s a pretty hefty bump, Jack. Maybe about two-hundred K more than I deserve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I appreciate your offer. I really do. But, frankly, I’m not sure I want to take it. I’ve been exploring some other ideas.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, the leadership of this corporation.” He shifted his body to face Hennessy straight on. “Hennie, I owe you a long-overdue apology. I will be absolutely honest with you: I am ashamed of myself. I have been manipulating you for years, keeping you on the sidelines, exactly where I wanted you.”
“Yes, I know that.”
Anthony tapped his pant pocket, feeling the amulet under his hand. “I was wrong—my God, how I was wrong. My arrogance squashed your potential for greatness. Your potential for greatness,” he said, repeating the words slowly for impact. “That was unforgivable.”
“Thank you for saying that, Anthony.”
“So, I want to start from the beginning,” he said, moving to the edge of his seat. “I’d like to ask you a very important question, and I want you to be drop-dead honest with me: In a perfect world, what role would you have at TMS?”
Hennessy took his time. Then, his expression became more self-assured, almost heroic. “I would run the company,” he said unfalteringly.
Anthony reached over and grabbed Hennessey by the knee. “Then run it! You can do it, my friend. You’ve always had the capability; I just would not let you believe it. I made you think that you were inadequate. You are not inadequate, Hennie; in fact, between the two of us, you have always been the better man. You had the heart; I only provided the grit. And with Jack here at your side, you have more grit than any human being should be allowed to have—no offense Jack.”
“None taken,” Jack said with a smile, knowing Anthony spoke the truth.
“So, do it, Hennie. Run the company. Send me a dividend check once a year. Take care of the corporation, take care of the people—and, by the way, you will find that Lucy can help you accomplish that—and, for Pete’s sake, take care of yourself.”
“Does this mean that you are stepping down?” Jack asked.
“Yes.” He looked at Hennessy. “But I’m leaving the company in great hands. I have looked at the books from the last quarter, and, yes, the numbers are down, but that’s because Hennie was trying to do the job with one arm tied behind his back. That’s not the case anymore; he’s now in charge. Just watch the company take off.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Jack said, jumping to his feet like a man with a lineup of pressing back-to-back meetings.
Anthony and Hennessy stood up. There was a round of hearty handshakes.
“I will leave you two to your devices,” Jack said. He walked to the door, opened it, and then turned back for one last word. “Have fun, both of you. And damn it, Hennie, make the company an obscene bundle of money.”
“I’ll do my best, Jack,” Hennessy said.
The two men sat down again.
Anthony smiled at Hennessy, who had a troubled look on his face, like someone needing to make an apology. “Hennie? What are you thinking?”
It took a moment for the new president to respond. Anthony watched him rehearse his speech in his head.
“Anthony, I’d like to talk to you about Penelope.”
“I know, Hennie.”
“This is not easy,” he said, his eyes fixed on the carpet.
Anthony reached over and gave Hennessy a pat on his knee. “It’s okay, Hennie. Whatever it is, it’s all right.”
Hennessy looked up. “I love her, Anthony; I’ve always loved her. I feel like an absolute jerk for saying it, but that’s the way it is.”
“I have just one question for you: Is it real?”
“It couldn’t be any more real.” Hennessy paused. “Do you hate me for that?”
“You’re my friend, Hennie. No, I don’t hate you; I want the best for you. I want you to be happy. Are you happy with Penelope?”
“Anthony, the last four months have been unbelievable. Penelope is a dream come true for me.”
“You know she can be expensive,” Anthony said with a smile.
“Sure. I know that. But that doesn’t bother me. I like expensive things too. In that respect, we’re two of a kind.”
“And how does she feel about all this?”
Hennessy bit his bottom lip. “I’d like you to ask her for yourself. She’s in my office right now. May I ask her to come in?”
Anthony smiled. “Sure, have her join us.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
Hennessy stepped out of Anthony’s office, leaving the door open.
Anthony stood and walked to the window, his eyes tracing the web of tree-lined Parisian streets, his gaze finally resting on the gilded Church of the Dome, which sheltered Napoleon’s sarcophagus. It was an awe-inspiring chapel: the red porphyry tomb on a massive green granite base under a canopy of frescoes of Christ and Saint Louis. Anthony used to love visiting the church and imagine that he, like Napoleon, was the mighty emperor of his own realm. He shook his head in remembrance of his own contemptuous pride. Again, he took the olive medallion from his pocket and turned it over in his hand.
Penelope’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Here we are again: The three of us—just like the old days.”
“Hi, Penelope.”
Hennessy was at the door. “I think I’ll leave you two alone. Give
me a holler if you need me.”
“Okay, Hennie. Thanks. I appreciate that. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
“Don’t go too far, Sweetheart,” Penelope added with affection.
Anthony came around to the front of his desk, sitting down on the edge. Penelope crossed the room and took both his hands. She was wearing a white silk blouse open at the neck, a single diamond at her throat. As usual, she looked elegant. It was one of the things that Anthony had always admired about her: She was a very classy woman.
Penelope smiled at her husband.
“Hennie tells me that he’s madly in love with you.”
She smiled even more broadly. “Yes.”
“And how do you feel?”
Penelope kissed Anthony on the cheek and sat at his side on the edge of the desk. “I feel like I am a lucky woman: To have had two men head-over-heels in love with me in a single lifetime.”
“Oh? I know about Hennie. Who was the other guy?”
Penelope gave Anthony a light jab to his thigh. “You did love me once.”
“Yes, I did. And I love you still, but in a different way.”
“Meaning?”
“I love your will, your feistiness, your ferocious independence.”
“But do you love me?”
“Yes, I do love you; I have always loved you, but not as a woman needs to be loved.” Anthony felt the searing anguish of his past. “My sweet Penelope, you were a prize for me, like a new car or a fancy house. I was never faithful to you, almost from the very beginning. Yes, I loved you; at least, I loved the idea of you, but I was never in love with you.”
Penelope’s eyes were brimming with tears. “I guess I always knew that; I just did not want to admit it to myself.”
“I am so sorry, Penelope. I wish there were something I could do to make it right.”
Penelope smiled softly. “When we came back from Île de Ré, I asked for five days.”
“I remember.”
“I saw something in you that was exciting: A man with a heart, a man with compassion. It was the person I knew when we were first married, before you became cool and cynical. Now the compassion is back, and for a moment I think I fell in love with you all over again, despite myself.”
“Penelope,” Anthony said, pronouncing her name sadly, apologetically.
She raised her hand and shook her head. “No, let me finish. The compassion is back, but you are gone. I know that. You are somewhere else—in Spain, I suspect—and there is nothing I can do about it.”
Anthony stood up and faced Penelope. He took her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right.” She collected herself. “It really is all right. You asked if there was something you could do to make it right.”
“Yes, anything.”
“You can give me your blessing. Hennie has asked me to marry him.”
“Oh, Penelope, you have it. I’m happy for you; I could not have chosen a better man.”
Anthony gave Penelope a long, warm embrace. Finally, when he relaxed his hold on her, Penelope pulled him back in—a lingering hug, like the interlacing of young lovers at a train station, reluctant to say goodbye.
Penelope finally broke the embrace and wiped a tear from her cheek. Then she laughed. “Guess who Hennie wants for his best man?”
“No idea.”
“You, of course. He says that you are still the best man, but that he is the luckiest man.”
“You’ve got to love the guy.”
“I do love him; I really do.”
Two weeks passed. In that time, Anthony turned over the reins of the company to Hennessy. Together, they charted the direction of the corporation: a more caring company with Hennie as president, Lucy as director of employee advocacy, and, to keep Jack Benson and the board of directors happy, a possible expansion of the firm’s European division with a new office in Spain.
On the second Friday of the week, Anthony was alone in the office. He went to the closet, pulled out his suitcase, and placed the bag on his desktop. He opened the lid and smiled at its contents. In the next few moments, he took off the mantle of business, the wool suit and the silk tie, and replaced it with his simple Spanish work clothes. He looked approvingly in the mirror. Then, he lifted Diego’s red bandanna from the suitcase and laid it across his open hands like an offering, reflecting on the sacred significance of the stained fabric. He knotted the kerchief around his neck with solemn reverence.
Anthony closed the suitcase and walked out of his old fortress.
Lucy was still at her desk, when Anthony emerged from his office. She stood up, taking in his strange garb.
“You are leaving,” she said resolutely.
Anthony was beaming. “Yes. I’m going now.”
The two friends hugged one last time.
Lucy smoothed her suit jacket. She swallowed hard. “If I may ask, Mr. Rossi, where are you going?”
Anthony smiled at his secretary. “Home. I’m going home.”
THE SUN WAS BEGINNING TO rise as Antonio approached Espejo. The olive trees stretched out over the rolling hills. He lowered the car window and breathed in the morning Andalusian air. In the next moment, he could make out the church steeple glimmering yellow in the sunlight.
Antonio rolled slowly up the cobblestone road to the top of the hill. He parked the car just shy of the Garcias’ home and walked the last few steps, not wanting the sound of his rumbling wheels to give away the surprise.
He turned the doorknob and grinned. The door was open, as he knew it would be. He silently stepped into the house and immediately saw Diego huddled over the balcony railing, his morning coffee cupped in both hands. He found him as he had left him: whistling the melody to “La Violetera.” Antonio eased up behind him, stopping at the doorway.
Diego felt Antonio’s presence, but still did not stir. A slow smile brightened his face, as he watched the sun awaken the leaves of the olive trees in the valley below.
“Welcome home, my son,” he said, as calmly as awaking from a pleasant siesta.
Antonio leaned over the railing at Diego’s side. “It is good to be home, father,” he said putting his arm around Diego’s shoulder. “It is so good to be home.”
For a long moment, the two stayed that way, both watching the morning light dance on the rooftops.
Finally, Antonio could not contain himself any longer. “Where is Lupita, father?”
Diego hesitated. “She is with Miguel,” he said, his face expressionless.
“With Miguel?”
“Of course. It is only right. They were married last Sunday, you know,” Diego said, sedately sipping his coffee.
Antonio stared at him in horror, and Diego stared back, and for one instant the world stopped. Finally, Diego’s eyes gave his mischief away, and they both laughed at once, falling into each other’s arms.
“Oh, you old rascal,” Antonio said, grabbing his father by the shoulders and giving him a playful shake. “Now tell me—and no tricks—where is Lupita?”
“She is at the church. It is where she has gone every morning since you went away.”
“Good,” Antonio said, shaking his finger at Diego as one last scolding. “You . . . you will get yours,” he warned.
Antonio rushed to the front door.
“Antonio!”
He turned to Diego. “Yes, father.”
Diego slowly took in his friend, and then placed both hands over his heart. “I am the happiest man on earth.”
Antonio shook his head, his heart too full of emotion to respond. He turned, bolted out of the house, and bounded up the stone treads to the church, taking two steps at a time. He paused at the massive church door to catch his breath. Then he slowly opened the door and stepped through the portal.
Lupita was kneeling at the front of the sanctuary, her hands clasped before her. She was dressed in white, a lace shawl over her head. A band of morning light streamed through a stained-glass window and fell across her face.
Antonio walked to her in quiet reverence and knelt beside her.
Lupita turned to him. Tears were streaming down her face.
“I am home,” Antonio said softly.
Lupita threw her arms around her lover’s neck. “Antonio, Antonio, Antonio,” she whispered again and again, the sound of his name resounding like muted bells in the old stone church. There they held each other, as Diego had once held Lupe, as all lovers embrace the exquisite belief that no one has loved as deeply as they have loved. And then the church bells did peal, all at once an invitation to morning mass and a sacred reception for one who was asleep and now, at long last, was awakened.
ALLEN JOHNSON IS A NATIONALLY acclaimed keynote-speaker, consultant, author, and photographer. He holds a master’s in speech from the University of Washington and a PhD in counseling psychology from Washington State University. In addition to writing, his diverse passions include acting, cycling, painting, creating video documentaries, and singing jazz standards to his own piano accompaniment.
Allen is also the author of the following non-fiction books:
The Power Within: The Five Disciplines of Personal Effectiveness
This Side of Crazy: 54 Lessons on Living From Someone Who Should Know Better But Keeps Messing Up Anyway
To learn more about the making of The Awakening, as well as other titles, please visit Allen’s author website: booksbyallen.com.
Allen and his wife Nita divide their time between their primary home in Richland, Washington, and their adopted home in Pérols, France.
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