Isabel gaped, the tray in her hands. “Cristina,” she said, unable to add anything more.
Cristina stopped on her way out and winked at Isabel. “Think about it.”
Isabel didn’t have to think about it. She’d been thinking about it all weekend; what it would be like to kiss him. And she thought about it some more the next hour, while she took a tour of all the classes and updated her list of students who were sick, she thought about Simon and the almost-kiss. They had both agreed to not complicate their relationship. They hadn’t said it in so many words, but it had been clear. It was a mutual decision and he’d been fine with it, hadn’t he?
So why hadn’t he been at church on Sunday? And today he was late to work. It wasn’t typical of him. Isabel had come to know him in the past few weeks, and he was always considerate and responsible, not to mention he had an impeccable work ethic.
Isabel returned to her office. Maybe something had happened and she should check on him. She reached for her phone and checked on the messages she’d sent earlier. He hadn’t replied. He’d been at home when he’d sent the last message, so she’d start there. Isabel accessed the staff files and looked up his address before turning off the computer. He lived not too far from the academy in an older neighborhood. Before she changed her mind about it, she exited the building and turned in the direction of Simon’s apartment.
*
The bell was ringing. Again. Shouldn’t it at least wait fifty minutes before going off? Had the academy changed the daily schedule without telling him?
Simon lifted his head from the pillow then slowly turned over until he faced the ceiling. Not at the academy. In his bed at the apartment. What was he still doing in bed? Was it morning again already?
The doorbell rang again, followed by a knock. So it wasn’t his drug-induced and sickness-ridden imagination. Someone was at the door. Whoever it was, he or she could come back later. He wasn’t ready to see anyone right now.
In between knocks and ringing, a familiar voice called out his name. “Come on, Simon. I know you’re in there.”
Isabel. As much as he wanted to see her, he was in deplorable conditions to do so.
Another knock followed a short pause. “I don’t want to call the fire department to open the door.”
No, he didn’t want that either. Simon stood, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and wrapped it around himself. He then padded his way to the front door, one shuffle at a time.
Once in the foyer, he called out, “Hang on. I’m coming,” and Isabel stopped knocking. He unlocked the door and released the latch then made his way to the nearest seat, in the living room.
“Simon?” Isabel came in and closed the door behind her.
“In the living room.” With effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position. “How did you get in the building?”
She sat across from him. “Your neighbor on the first floor came to the window to see what all the ringing was about. I told her I was your boss and you’d missed work today.”
He smirked. “And she was only too happy to open the door for you.”
Her mouth rose at the corners. “Something like that.” She looked around the living room. “How long have you been like this?”
“Saturday night? Sunday morning, maybe?” It was all a bit muddled. “Did something happen at the academy?”
“Is that your roundabout way of asking me why I’m here?”
Simon shrugged. Typical Isabel. She didn’t beat around the bush.
Isabel scooted to the edge of the sofa. “You didn’t show up at church yesterday and you didn’t come to work today.”
“So you were worried about me?”
“No. I mean, yes.” She looked toward the window and then back at him. “Maybe a little. Just wanted to know why you were late.”
Simon raised his head to look at her. “What time is it?” Had he really missed going to work this morning?”
“Just after lunch.” She leaned forward. “Are you sick?”
Simon scrubbed his face and let out a long breath. “I’m so sorry I didn’t show up. I didn’t sleep very well, and I woke up late. Then I took some medicine…”
The medicine. What had he done with it?
“What kind of medicine did you take?” Isabel asked.
He gestured to the kitchen. “I got it at the service pharmacy yesterday. I think I left it on the counter.”
Isabel stood and walked to the kitchen. She returned holding the small bottle. “What did you tell the pharmacist?”
Simon sat up to look at her. “Communication was a bit of a problem. Between his broken English and my very poor Portuguese, we got some words out.” The translation app had helped with most of it.
“You do know this is a cold medicine with codeine?”
He shook his head and sighed loudly. “That would explain why it knocked me out so thoroughly.” He’d taken a dose after returning from the pharmacy but in the morning, when he got out of bed, he was not feeling much better and had repeated the dose before sending a message to the school. That was the last thing he remembered. “I’m sorry I didn’t come in, Isabel.”
Isabel gave him a small smile. “You have a good excuse. And you’re not the only one. Several teachers and students are out sick too. Whatever kind of virus it is, it’s going around the academy.”
“And you came to check on me?”
Her cheeks flushed. “We sent messages and tried calling you.”
He hadn’t heard any of them. “I’m not even sure where my phone is.” He stood and padded to the bedroom. After poking around for a few minutes, he didn’t find it.
Isabel waited by the entrance to the kitchen when he returned.
“I don’t know where I put it.” He gave her a wide berth and sat on a kitchen chair.
She drew her phone out of her coat pocket and within seconds a faint ringing came from somewhere in the living room. Simon moved to stand but she waved him off. He rested his chin on his hand and closed his eyes for a moment. His head felt fuzzy and the congestion hadn’t cleared up any more than the day before. A cough scratched his throat and he stood to take a drink of water.
“I found it in your coat pocket,” Isabel said, setting the phone down on the table. She watched as he drained the glass. “When was the last time you had anything to eat?” She removed her coat and draped it on the back of the opposite chair.
“I can’t remember.” He must have eaten something, but it was filed away in the vagueness of his memory. He sat back against the wall and clutched the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
Isabel approached the nearest cabinet. After a few moments of opening and closing doors and drawers, she stood in the middle of the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “You don’t have anything in your cupboards and the refrigerator is empty. What have you been living on, Simon Ackerley?”
He sat up a little. “What happened to the sugar and the flour?”
Isabel crossed her arms. “You’re right. Excuse me. Almost nothing except a kilo each of sugar, flour, and dry beans. Some butter and an expired Greek yogurt. It would take a miracle to cook anything with these ingredients, even for me.”
Simon smiled weakly. “You’re funny.” He wanted to laugh, but his body hurt too much.
Isabel walked to him and pulled off the blanket. “Come on, let’s go.”
His hands jerked and he reached for the blanket but it was effectively too far. “I rather not go anywhere.”
She pulled at his arm and tried to support him upright. “Just to the shower.” Her fingers circled his bicep and he resisted the urge to flex his muscles.
“Do I smell that bad?” As if it weren’t embarrassing enough for Isabel to see him sick.
“I’m not commenting on that, but it will make you feel better.”
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 spen
ding 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.”
One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) Page 10