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Only I know that’s not quite right. What I’m feeling is more…
Feral.
I’m not occupied by thoughts of Raquel. I’mconsumedby them.
The arch of her cupid’s bow mouth. The long, slender elegance of her fingers. The burn and fire behind her dark chocolate eyes. The way her sultry voice is a violin played on its lowest string, the sound of her words reverberating inside my skull.
Stay away, I remind myself. The last thing I want is to overstep, even though that’sallI want. Giving in to temptation is for weak men, and I’m anything but. Besides, I’m sure that this whole matter will be wrapped up in a matter of days. There’s no sense in getting to know her better when she’ll be out of my life as quickly as she came.
When I arrive home after dumping her car, I hear movement in the kitchen. Quiet shuffling, the clinking of glass, and a little girl’s voice whispering, “Merci.”
Odette?
I rush in to find my daughter standing next to Raquel by the sink, holding on to a glass of water with both of her tiny hands. Raquel’s dressed in a simple white tank top and black shorts that cut off mid-thigh, items likely purchased for her by Penelope earlier in the day.
“What is going on?” I demand.
Odette turns to smile at me after taking a big sip of her drink. She says nothing, however, much to my disappointment.
“She was thirsty,” Raquel explains. “At least, I think that’s what she said. I think your housekeeper lady is fast asleep.”
I frown. “She spoke?”
“Um… Yeah?”
Raquel doesn’t understand the gravity of this moment. I haven’t heard my daughter’s voice in two years. I’ve taken her to see countless speech therapists and psychologists, but ten minutes with Raquel and suddenly she’s talking again?
I crouch down so I’m eye-level with Odette. “What are you doing up so late, chérie?”
She doesn’t answer. I ignore the ache in my chest, trying not to read too hard into the fact that she’s more comfortable speaking to a complete stranger than she is with me. Maybe it’sbecauseRaquel’s a stranger that Odette finds it easier? I honestly can’t say.
“She knocked on my door,” Raquel says softly. “I think she had a bad dream or something.”
“Is that true?” I ask my daughter in French. “Did you have a bad dream?”
Odette nods slowly. I’ve learned by now not to expect any elaboration.
“Take your drink upstairs and go back to sleep. Do you need me to tuck you in?”
She shakes her head, stepping up to kiss me on the cheek. She throws Raquel a cute little wave before heading back upstairs, her eyes glued to the edge of her glass to keep the water from spilling.
“Cute kid,” Raquel comments fondly. “What’s her name?”
I grind my teeth. “Odette.”
“LikeSwan Lake? That was my favorite ballet growing up.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“You do not strike me as the type of person who enjoys ballet.”
“That’s a little elitist, don’t you think?” she asks dryly. My grasp on American humor isn’t the best, but I’m fairly certain she’s teasing me.
“You should be resting upstairs.”
“Can’t a girl help herself to an aspirin?”
