Contents
Book Description
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Dear Reader
Other Books by Lucinda Whitney
The Secret Life of Daydreams: Chapter One
The Secret Life of Daydreams: Chapter Two
Recipes
Illustration
Acknowledgements
Dedication
About the Author
One city of two million people and only three months to find her. What are his chances?
Isabel Antunes is content with her life as director of the English Academy in Lisbon. Then she’s hit by a man on a bike—a man her boss just hired to be her assistant. Despite Simon Ackerley’s repeated assurances to the contrary, Isabel believes he’s after her position, but she won’t hand it over without a fight. As if dealing with him all week is not enough, he shows up at church as well. Her only solace is in writing to the pen pal she knows simply as “Elliot”.
Simon Ackerley told his father that he was moving to Lisbon for the job. But that isn’t the only reason. Simon is looking for Amélie, the pen pal he’s written for fifteen years. A woman he knows everything about—except her real name and address.
When the biking accident reveals that Simon’s prickly co-worker Isabel is the elusive Amélie, he knows he has to win her trust before he can confess his true identity. If only he could tell her the actual reason why he’s come, he’s sure Isabel would treat him differently. But she’s not ready for the truth.
Copyright © 2016 Lucinda Whitney
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Michele Holmes and Ellie Whitney
Cover design ©2016 Steven Novak
Custom Illustration ©2016 Jess Purser/
Castle On The Hill
Published by Lange House Press
Ebook edition released August 2016
ASIN: B01JN722A6
CHAPTER ONE
What was so magical about a letter from Elliot that she could hardly wait to read it?
Isabel Antunes passed a hand over the pocket of her blazer. She’d been biding her time all day, going through her duties as director of the academy while the paper rustled against the satin lining of the pocket. But the opportunity never came, not even at lunch. Instead, she’d had to solve a minor crisis in the absence of the chairman.
She walked out of the iron gates and the security guy closed them behind her. She turned to look at the familiar building, gray stone and red roof tiles ablaze in the late summer sun. Its clean lines and large square windows blended in with the Lisbon neighborhood of squat apartment buildings and tree-lined streets. The air was still warm and she took a deep breath. The last bell had rung forty-five minutes before, and she was finally leaving. If anything else came up, it would have to wait.
She shifted her crossbody bag and looked around. Cristina was supposed to have waited for her but was nowhere to be seen. She had probably stopped to chat with the lady who worked at the newspaper stand. Again. Isabel started up the street, treading carefully to avoid catching her high heels on the spaces between the black and white cobblestones. The sidewalks of Lisbon were renowned worldwide but should have come with intermittent warnings about wearing sensible shoes. She knew better, but once or twice a month her shoe weakness over-ruled her sensible side. Unfortunately, when it came to fashion and regret, her memory was usually short. She’d make the same mistake again, and sooner than she ought.
At the intersection, Isabel stopped by the crosswalk. Friday’s early evening traffic buzzed past her and she took a step back behind the other people waiting to cross. She reached in her pocket and drew out the envelope, her gaze lingering over the block letters that spelled her name. A small smile tugged at her mouth. He still mixed upper case letters with lowercase ones, just as he had in high school.
The light changed to green and Isabel stepped forward with the others as they moved to cross the street.
“Isabel. Stop.” Cristina’s voice reached Isabel from behind the crowd.
Isabel turned and craned her neck to find Cristina. From the corner of her eye, a large object barreled toward her. A jolt of pain caught her left side and a body slammed into her shoulder, hurtling her backward against the concrete. Her teeth rattled, snagging her lower lip. She squeezed her eyes shut. Screams and a whoosh of breath rang too close to her.
For a moment, there was nothing else but the act of breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
She lay flat on the hard surface, her eyes still closed. The smell of rubber and asphalt competed with another scent, something closer and more pleasant.
“Are you all right?” a male voice said near to her. A deep, rich voice. Someone she didn’t know. Someone who spoke English. Not Portuguese.
A hand touched her forehead and the hairs on her arm rose. The touch was firm, almost with a sense of urgency. Another hand slipped something soft behind her neck. Slowly, other sensations returned to her: the heaviness in her limbs, the dull throb on her head, the light pressure of fingers against her cheek. It was a comforting gesture, and Isabel exhaled with relief.
“Let me through. I’m her friend!” That voice she knew. Cristina.
The warm touch withdrew and someone gripped her hand. Long, strong fingers. Another hand touched her side at the hip. She winced. It hurt there too.
“Isabel, can you hear me?”
Isabel opened her eyes. Two faces looked down on her, one with straight brown hair in a side braid, another framed with red hair and freckled skin. Lots of pale, brown freckles. And a pair of warm, green eyes, filled with concern.
The freckled man helped her sit up slowly. He kept her hand in his until she was stable. Isabel studied the place where his fingers met hers. Even his knuckles had freckles. She raised her eyes to him and his expression softened. His hair stuck up in all directions, a mass of unruly, thick red hair the color of oak leaves at the tail end of autumn. The strange thought stopped her. She must have hit her head hard to be comparing a man to the colors of the season.
Cristina grabbed Isabel’s hand away from his. “Just sit here for a minute. Don’t try to stand up.”
Isabel did as she was told. Sharpness had taken over her body and breathing wasn’t easy.
At the sound of a siren, the small crowd of onlookers shifted. After a moment, they parted, and a paramedic came through, kneeling on the asphalt. He shone a light in Isabel’s eyes and asked her stupid questions she wouldn’t want to answer under normal circumstances, much less after falling on the stre
et in broad daylight at the busiest time of day.
Had it been just a fall? Not too far from where she sat, a bicycle lay on its side, straddling the sidewalk and street. The chain had come off and some of the spokes were bent.
The paramedic grabbed her chin. “Look this way, please.”
Isabel protested his ministrations but it didn’t matter. Apparently, hitting her head on the pavement stripped her of good sense and free agency, and she was unable to persuade anyone that she retained her normal mental capacity. They ignored her reassurances and strapped her onto a gurney.
The red-haired man stepped into her field of view. He stretched out a hand and wrapped his fingers around Isabel’s wrist, then turned to the paramedics. “Where are you taking her? What’s the name of the hospital?”
If anything, the look of concern had deepened. Why did he look so worried? Were her injuries more serious than she thought?
His voice grew insistent. “Please, you need to tell me where she’s going.”
As the paramedics loaded her into the back of the ambulance, he took a step to follow her, but someone held him back.
“You’ve helped enough already,” Cristina said in a tight voice. “I’m the one going with her, not you.”
The paramedics took Isabel to the emergency room for a long wait before an X-ray. Aside from a goose egg on the back of her head, she had a cut on her lip, scratches on her hands, and bruises on her forearms. She was probably bruised in other parts she couldn’t see but didn’t have a concussion, which was good. When they finally released her, Cristina called a taxi to take Isabel home.
Isabel exited slowly when the taxi arrived in front of her apartment building. Unfortunately, her body had caught up with the adrenaline surge from the fall, and the soreness in her muscles was bothered by the littlest things, even mounting a few steps to the lobby where the elevator awaited.
Cristina took the keys from Isabel and opened the door to her apartment. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call anyone?” She flipped the light switch.
Isabel shuffled to the living room and sank on the sofa. “No, I’ll be all right.” She took a breath and touched her temples. There was no one to call. “I’ll just take a shower and rest.”
Cristina sat across from her. “Maybe you should leave the door open, in case you need some help.”
Isabel looked down at herself. Her pantyhose were torn and her blouse had grease stains on the wrists. Maybe the dry cleaners could do something for it. “I won’t be long.” She rose slowly.
Cristina stood as well, her arms raised as if ready to catch Isabel. “Okay, you go do that, and I’ll fix some tea.”
Once in her bedroom, Isabel eyed her bed. As much as she wanted to crawl in it and forget about the past few hours, she padded to the en suite bathroom and changed out of her battered clothes.
After a quick, careful shower Isabel put on her pajamas, piled the pillows against the headboard, and sat, closing her eyes. Her body screamed in protest in more places than she could identify. The soreness was spreading at an alarming speed.
Cristina entered the bedroom carrying a tray. “No falling asleep yet. I’ve got lemon balm tea and toast, with a side of painkillers.” She placed it on the nightstand and then sat at the edge of the bed. “For both of us. I need some calming down too.”
Isabel reached for the cup with one hand and the medicine with the other. “Thanks, Cristina.” She blew on the pale, gold liquid before swallowing the pills. “For this and for bringing me home. I hope you didn’t miss anything important.”
Cristina waved her hand. “Not much. I texted Mando and told him we’ll meet tomorrow instead.” She took her own cup and brought it to her lips.
“Was he okay with that?” Isabel sipped.
Cristina nodded. “He’s probably at the café with his friends, and we’ll have all day tomorrow.” She lowered the cup. “How do you feel?”
Isabel exhaled. “Like I was run down by a garbage truck.”
“Just a man on a bike. I saw him coming around the corner but I didn’t reach you in time.” She shook her head. “It was scary. He wasn’t going really fast, but you were looking down.”
Isabel sat up and winced. “My letter. I was looking down at my letter.”
“What letter?”
“I was holding it. I hope I didn’t lose it.” Isabel grabbed the sheets, but Cristina held out a hand to stop her.
“You stay there. I’ll go find it.” Cristina rose from the bed and walked to the living room. “It’s probably in the plastic bag the hospital sent home with you.”
She returned with the bag in hand and sat by Isabel. “They put everything inside the bag, but I didn’t go through it.”
Isabel reached for it. As long as she found the letter, she didn’t care. Hands trembling, she rifled through the contents. There was no envelope. Her heart jumped. No, this couldn’t be. She reached for the blazer and slipped her fingers inside the pocket. Trying not to panic, she moved to the other pocket and almost laughed in relief when she touched the paper. “It’s here,” she said, her voice strangely breathless.
Cristina sat back at the edge of the bed. “That must be some letter.”
“From a friend.” Isabel resisted the urge to smooth the paper and set the envelope down on her lap instead.
Cristina waggled her eyebrows. “A special friend, I’m guessing. You’ve been holding out on me,” she said in a teasing voice.
Isabel smiled. “Yes, he’s special, but not in that way.” She paused. “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”
Cristina crossed her legs and leaned forward. “I promise I won’t. Now I’m curious.”
“Did your English teachers ever arrange pen pals for your class?”
“Yes, in eighth grade. I got some girl in California, if I remember, but it didn’t last long.”
Isabel stroked the familiar postage stamp with the effigy of the British queen. “My teacher assigned us the pen pals in the ninth grade. She had a teacher friend in England and they swapped classes. Then she told us we had to write to the student whose name we drew for the rest of the school year, and that we could write anything we wanted.” She paused. She’d written that first letter three times before sending it. “I got a boy named Elliot. The first thing he wrote was that Elliot was a pen name, not his real name, because his father didn’t want him to exchange real information.”
Cristina’s eyes widened. “You mean to say—”
Isabel held up the letter. “We wrote for the whole school year and through the summer. Remember that historical cartoon series, Amélie and the Duke of Gransville? I used that name. At the start of tenth grade, we decided to continue writing and agreed to exchange post office box addresses since we didn’t have the same teachers anymore.”
“And you’ve never stopped writing?”
“We slowed down a bit at the start of university.” It had taken almost a year to resume their correspondence. “When we started up again, we agreed to keep the personal information out of it. No expectations and no demands.”
Cristina shook her head. “Then what do you two write about?”
“Anything really. About books and movies and the places we go. As long as we don’t share details that could identify us, we can write about it.”
“That is crazy, Isabel.” Cristina looked at the envelope. “And you don’t even know his real name or what he looks like or how old he is?”
Isabel shook her head. “I know he’s my age, since we were in the same grade, and that he lives in London.” She paused. “Well, he mails his letters from London.”
“And he knows you live in Lisbon.”
“I mail my letters from the central post office and that’s all he knows about me.” He also knew the one movie she watched over and over, how much she’d agonized over which degree to study in university, and her favorite garden in Lisbon when she needed time to herself. He liked getting up early to watch the sunrise, volunteering at the local shelter o
nce a month, and he’d read all the Sherlock Holmes books during the summer before eleventh grade.
Cristina gestured at the letter. “And this is why you didn’t see the biker.”
Isabel closed her eyes and shards of memory flashed through her mind. “He had gentle eyes.”
“The biker? I hardly noticed what he looked like until he pulled off his helmet.” She raised her hands and waved them around her head. “Then all this red hair tumbled out. I didn’t notice his eyes. He was acting very agitated and tried to get in the ambulance with you. He kept saying he couldn’t leave you.”
“Really?” Isabel sat up. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him he’d done enough already. But then a policeman held him back. For a red-haired guy, he was pretty good looking. And I’m not very keen on redheads.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow.
“My first boyfriend was a redhead and a cheater,” Cristina said.
Isabel nodded, not knowing how to respond to that. Her thoughts turned to the man on the bike, his concerned look, and the way he had held her hand. Although they had shared just a few moments between them, she could still feel the gentle touch from his fingers, lending her a sense of calm. “I think he was American.”
“You might be right, now that I think about it. I was paying more attention to you than him.”
Cristina rose and took the tray to the kitchen. She returned a few moments later. “I’ll leave now. You look ready to fall asleep.” She lowered her voice. “I hope you can get some rest.” She stood from the bed and walked to the door. “At least, we don’t have to be at the academy till Monday morning.”
One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) Page 1