“Amen to that.” Isabel exhaled in relief. She’d have the whole weekend to recover.
After Cristina left, Isabel retrieved the letter opener from the drawer in the nightstand and slit the envelope. She took a deep, steadying breath. It had been almost a month since Elliot’s last letter. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the familiar handwriting, angular and slanted to the left.
She ignored her heart. Elliot was a pen pal, nothing more.
CHAPTER TWO
Dear Amélie,
I finally did it! You’re always saying we should be brave and it’s about time I was. I got a new job doing something completely different from what I’ve been doing till now. Surprise! Yeah, I even surprised myself.
I know, I know. The “rules.” No particulars and no details. Just know that involves a big change for me, and you know how I feel about change.
As I was looking for a suitcase, I came across a box full of letters from when we started writing each other. My dad must have shoved it in the closet when he brought some stuff over last time he was here. I can’t believe it’s been so long! I wrote some really dumb things when I was in secondary school, that’s for sure. Thanks for not telling me at the time. ;)
Well, my faithful friend, I’ll be reverting to emails for a while, like I did a few years back when I was out of the country (maybe one day I’ll tell you more about it). I got a new email address though: [email protected]. Wish me lots of luck!
Your best pen pal,
Elliot
*
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Elliot,
You are indeed my best pen pal, if not by content at least by default since all my other pen pals stopped writing me years and years ago (someone has to keep you humble).
I have a similar box full of letters in my bedroom closet. Hard to believe it’s been almost fifteen years since we started our correspondence. I still remember my English teacher drawing the names in 9th grade. Just our luck we got paired. I never noticed that you wrote dumb things. You must have been writing those to someone else.
Congratulations on your big change! I’m so excited for you! I will live vicariously through you, even if we don’t exchange details. I’m still at the same job and I don’t have the courage to change. I must confess, I liked it a lot better a few years ago when I first started, and sometimes I wonder if I’m making a difference in the lives of those around me, like I had planned to. One day at a time, like grandmother used to say.
Emails will be fine. We are in the 21st century after all. I know your big change will keep you busy, but this is the address you can write when you find yourself with a free moment.
Your faithful friend,
Amélie
P.S.—I knew you were out of the country for a while. You let it slip a time or two, but I was too much of a lady to mention it. :)
CHAPTER THREE
Simon entered the apartment and locked the door behind him. He dragged himself to the sofa and let the messenger bag slip to the floor. He exhaled slowly, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead against his palms.
That moment when he approached the girl down on the pavement, Simon’s world had stopped—she’d had the envelope, the one he had sent Amélie the day before leaving London.
How was that possible? How could it be that the girl he’d crashed into was the same one he’d been writing for years?
What a day.
It had started out well but crashing into a pedestrian at a busy intersection during rush hour had not been part of his plans. He’d tried stopping but couldn’t slow in time. The girl had been distracted and didn’t see him until it was too late. The impact had slammed her hard, her bag and a piece of paper she’d been holding flying from her grasp. His stomach clenched, still sick with worry at the image of the girl lying on the pavement. He couldn’t get the memory out of his mind.
He shook his head and stood, trying to make sense of what had happened.
In the few minutes while they’d waited for the paramedics to come, he’d wanted to lay his hands on her head and give her a blessing. But there hadn’t been enough time, and Simon had touched his fingertips to her forehead instead, saying a quick prayer in his mind. Then he’d slipped the letter into the pocket of her blazer, not able to deal with the discovery he’d just made when her wellbeing was more important.
Simon had tried to find out which hospital they’d taken her to, but nobody would tell him anything. In a country where so many spoke English all the time, it was just his luck not to find anyone who did when he needed it most. The young woman who’d claimed to be her friend had spoken English but she had been extremely protective and tried to keep him at a distance from the injured girl. In his preoccupation to stay beside her, he’d probably come off as slightly imbalanced. He couldn’t blame her for shielding her friend.
When a uniformed policeman arrived at the scene to take his statement, he kept Simon for several minutes. The officer’s English had not been very good, but after talking to a few witnesses, he’d appeared to be satisfied and had sent Simon on his way. By then, Simon had lost all chance of following the ambulance.
What a day, indeed.
He went through the small apartment and flicked the lights on. After a long shower and changing into jeans and a t-shirt, he peeked inside the refrigerator. One Greek yogurt and some bottled water. Nothing else had magically appeared since morning. Take-out for dinner again.
How many times had he second-guessed his decision to move to Lisbon? He couldn’t speak Portuguese, not anything beyond obrigado and bom dia, and there was only so much he could do with thank you and good morning. Thanks to the translation app on his smartphone and the great number of natives who spoke English, he was doing all right so far. But he’d only been in the city for a few days, and that wasn’t enough to make an educated prediction for the rest of this stay.
He was not an impulsive man; quite the opposite. Decisions came after a lot of thought and introspection, and he always weighed all the pros and cons of every choice. Life-altering decisions, like moving to another country, required added pondering and praying, of which he had done plenty. The prevailing feeling had always been the same: a calm and tender peace. And now here he was, doing something so out of character with his nature that doubts crept up almost on a daily basis.
His father had questioned his true motives, even though he knew the real reason behind Simon’s decision. Simon had steered all conversation away from the topic effectively squashing any discussion about it. Taking this job in Lisbon was something he had to do and that was the end of it. In any case, it was too late to go back, both geographically and professionally. He had signed a contract with The British Academy in Lisbon and he was committed for one term.
He looked through his wallet before leaving, making sure he had enough small bills. Once on the street, Simon paused and ran a hand through his hair. The evening was clear and warm and the sounds and lights of the city filtered out to him. There was a different vitality in Lisbon, something always going on, not so unlike London, but with its own atmosphere and flavor. In a way, it was familiar to him, not only the city but his perspective on it.
A perspective which was not his own, of course. How many times had he read Amélie’s letters and her account of day trips and favorite places in Lisbon? How many times had he thought of coming over and spending the day with her at those same places?
Maybe he was crazy, looking for a girl whose real name he didn’t even know. But the idea of finding out who she was had been gnawing at him for over a year, growing a little more with each letter, until he couldn’t ignore it any longer.
At first, he’d brushed it off, reasoning it was his approaching birthday, the big 3-0, that had him sentimental and considering something so insane. But his birthday came and went and the feeling persisted until he prayed about it. The prayers brought peaceful answers he hadn’t
expected.
So he’d tried to discover the name of the school she attended when they first started exchanging letters, but his ninth-grade teacher had since passed away. Simon had looked through the stacks of envelopes searching for an address that wasn’t a post office box and somehow those were missing as well. Dad had been quiet at first, as he brought over the boxes Simon had left behind when he left for his mission and then university. But it wasn’t too hard to guess what he was doing, was it?
How could he not try to find her? How could he pretend she wasn’t his best friend?
After this afternoon’s events, he couldn’t shake the growing conviction that he had indeed met Amélie, if only for a few minutes. Why else would the girl have the letter he had written as Elliot?
Once back at the apartment, Simon pulled the small metal table into the middle of the balcony and gave it a quick wipe down. He transferred half the food to a plate and stuck the container into the refrigerator for tomorrow.
His cell phone rang, and he pushed the button. “Hey, Dad, how are you?”
“Hello, Simon. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
The familiar voice and formality brought a smile to Simon’s lips. Even after living in England for so many years, Simon had never developed a full British accent, despite his native father. People always thought it was funny how they sounded so different.
“Nope, I was just sitting down to eat something out on the balcony.” Simon pushed the food around with his fork.
“I take it the weather is nice, then.”
Simon looked to the city, the red tiled roofs and the light clinging to the surface of the river visible through the buildings in the waning day. Toward the center, historic landmarks and the occasional modern building shared the skyline unequally. The locals called the area the Baixa and Simon recognized its familiar pattern from pictures he’d seen before coming. “Yes, very nice. It still feels like summer. I have a good view toward the estuary and people were still out enjoying their last days of vacation earlier today.”
Dad cleared his throat. “Did you go by the school yet? What do they call it?”
“The British Academy in Lisbon. I start on Monday. I went by the building today. It’s not very large, but it looks nice.”
“And church? Did you find a ward yet?”
Simon suppressed a chuckle. “Yes, I did. There’s a nice family ward not too far from here, and there’s also a singles ward, though I don’t think I’ll bother with it.”
“You should.”
“I shouldn’t, Dad. I’m sure it’s the same as in London. Besides, I’m over thirty.”
“You still have a few months left.”
“I’m practically thirty-one and too old for that kind of thing.”
Dad paused. “All right. You do what you think is best.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
“Anything else you’ve been doing?” Dad asked with a slight hesitation.
“Just trying to settle in and getting to know the city.”
“Are you still looking for that girl?”
Simon closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He couldn’t tell him that he’d found her and then he’d lost her again. He wasn’t ready to share that when he himself was still struggling with what had happened.
“Dad, I don’t want to argue with you about this again.”
“I’m not arguing, Simon. I’m just interested in knowing if you’ve had any progress.” Dad cleared his throat. “If your mother were still alive, she’d be sleuthing right along with you.”
Simon chuckled. “She would, wouldn’t she?” Mom had been a romantic, and this was the kind of story she would have liked. The thought comforted him.
After another pause, Simon replied. “I just have to do this, Dad. Even if nothing comes of it.”
One school term. Simon gave himself three and a half months to find her again.
What were the chances in a city of almost two million people?
CHAPTER FOUR
Isabel put the tablet down on her desk and sat back. The thought pulled at her again. The letter from Elliot—she couldn’t get it out of her mind.
Well, that was nothing new. After so many years writing to each other, something had shifted between them in the past twelve months. She couldn’t pinpoint the moment, or even remember how it happened, but one day she’d read his letter and the feelings inside her were different. At first, the realization had caught her by surprise, but when she let herself really think about it, she was more amazed it had taken so long to admit.
His feelings were different too. The signs were there, in the carefully chosen words and the way his handwriting stressed in certain parts. Sometimes, it was between the lines, in what he left unsaid.
Or maybe it was just her imagination playing tricks on her, the heart taking over the mind and squashing reason with dreams. Of course he didn’t think about her the same way she did about him. He wouldn’t, would he?
She squared her shoulders and shook her head, as if the movement would knock good sense into her. Better she made her way to the chairman’s office than dwell on the impossible.
Was it a good sign that the academy’s chairman wanted to talk to her before the regular Monday morning staff meeting? Classes had started last week, and things seemed to be faring well despite all the last-minute problems.
The door was slightly ajar when she knocked.
“Enter.”
She walked through.
“Please close the door behind you, Isabel,” Dr. Varela said from behind his desk. He motioned to one of the chairs, and she sat down.
He shuffled the papers on the desk for a moment, not meeting her eyes.
Isabel had been working at the academy for almost eight years now. Dr. Varela was the director who’d hired her, and she’d come to appreciate his calm demeanor and effective leadership. Managing an English-only private school required a specific set of skills that most people couldn’t begin to comprehend, as she had discovered since taking the position. He’d recommended her for it, and had expressed his satisfaction numerous times, but several members of the parents’ council didn’t share the same opinion. Some had even tried to have her replaced.
He raised his head and stopped. “What happened to you?”
The bandages and bruises. She’d forgotten about those. “I was involved in a minor accident on Friday.”
He cleared his throat. “Isabel, I brought you here before the staff meeting to give you a heads up about a new hire.”
Isabel frowned. “A new teacher? Is someone leaving?” Maybe she had missed something last week.
He paused and folded his hands. “Not exactly.” He cleared his throat again. “We have hired an independent consultant to overhaul the digital system at the academy.”
Isabel blinked. “Overhaul the digital system? We did that four years ago when the new online portal was introduced.”
Dr. Varela hesitated. “Well, yes, that’s right. But many parents have expressed their displeasure with it.”
She suppressed an eye roll. “The parents’ council, you mean.”
He waved a hand. “Among others. But yes, the parents’ council, as well as some members of the academy board. After some meetings, it was decided to hire an independent consultant to—” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Analyze the current system, identify the weaknesses, and introduce the new system over a period of time.”
Isabel watched him for a moment. It still didn’t make sense. “Why was I not made aware of this?”
“Well, it was right at the beginning of summer vacation.”
She nodded. When Avó Marta had passed away and Isabel had taken a week off. The first time she’d been away from the academy in her years here, and apparently they didn’t need her input for important decisions. “Have there been any other concerns?”
“No, no, of course not.” Dr. Varela’s tone was flustered. “This will be a collaboration. You will assist
him with everything he needs and he will do the same for the academy.” He cast a glance at the side door. “You’ll see. It’ll be good for everyone.”
“How long is he staying?”
“One term, to start.” Again, he looked down at the desk. “It should be enough for what needs to be done, but the board will re-evaluate and take into consideration what’s best for the academy. Which is all everyone wants,” he added.
Isabel gave him a tight smile. “Of course.”
Dr. Varela rose and walked to the side door, the one that opened to the council meeting room. “Please, come,” he said to someone.
Isabel stood from her chair, and flexed her hands. Her shoulders ached, tense and taut, and she rolled them back before he returned with the other person.
A man walked in with a smile on his face. He was clearly not Portuguese, taller than most but not so tall as to draw attention. The same couldn’t be said for his hair, full and red, and artfully combed as to appear he hadn’t done much to it.
When she met his eyes, she gasped. “It’s you.”
His eyes widened in recognition. “You,” he returned, watching her as if taking stock of her condition. “Are you all right? I’m so so—”
“I’m well enough, thank you,” she cut in.
Dr. Varela cleared his throat. “I see you two have met already.”
Isabel narrowed her eyes at the man in front of her. “I don’t know his name.”
“We haven’t been introduced,” the man said.
Dr. Varela took a step forward. “Isabel Antunes is the academy’s director.” He turned to the man. “This is Simon Ackerley, our new specialist.” He looked between them again. “Did this encounter have anything to do with your accident?”
“Mr. Ackerley tried to run me over.” It was beginning to make sense, now. As if stealing her job wasn’t enough, he was trying to get her out of the picture altogether. With her out of the way, it would be easier to take over. Only it hadn’t quite worked out as he’d planned, and she didn’t intend to go without a fight.
One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) Page 2