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“No proof,” Victoria says. “Who do you think did it?”
“Madame Marchand?”
“That sounds like a reach,” Amelia says. “Probably a friend of Scott’s wife. How about a romantic comedy?”
I frown. “How about I punch you.”
“So bossy.” She keeps clicking.
Victoria shakes her head. “I should have known better. I was raised better. ‘Don’t give the milk away for free,’ my grandmother said a million times. ‘Never date a married man.’ I figured that last one didn’t count because we’re not actually dating at Ma Maison.”
“We’re not actually dating,” Amelia says. “We’re just doing a job. Keeping a roof over our heads. We don’t plan on more than a paycheck and a decent tip if we’re lucky.”
“I certainly never planned on falling in like,” I say.
“Victoria, is that when you started putting up walls?” Amelia asks.
“Walls, watchtowers, and moats.”
“What happened to the guy who took you to Paris?” I ask.
“He’s good,” she says and tosses her drink down. “He’s so good he knocked up his wife whom he was planning on leaving. That’s on hold for the next five years or forever.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Guys suck,” Amelia says. “How about Terminator 2?”
“The Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?” Victoria asks.
“Yup,” Amelia says.
“The one where Linda Hamilton gets insanely buff and kicks ass?” I ask.
“Yup,” Amelia says.
“Perfect,” Victoria says.
Summer turns to Indian summer, a hint of autumn chill creeps into the night air. I need to exercise, calm my anxiety, blow off steam. I wheel my bike outside. My mailbox is stuffed with fliers, and my stomach flip-flops. I stick the key in the box, pull out a million paper coupons and find another envelope, my name neatly typed.
‘Uh-oh,’ Queasy says. ‘Better open it.’
Hi Evelyn,
I waited a bit to drop you a line because I don’t want to overwhelm you. It seems the world is split between those who want ‘too much’ attention and those who don’t. You seem like the latter.
You’re such a nice girl, kind to everyone you come in contact with, and it goes without saying that you’re beautiful. I’ve been hesitant to bring this up before now, but I checked out that photo again. You know the one I like –the picture your friend took of her Bachelorette party at Navy Pier? You were third from the left wearing the “Team Jennifer Bride” T-shirt.” My good God, Evelyn, you put models to shame. You don’t need makeup. You don’t need fancy clothes. Your beauty, your goodness, shine through, like a lamp lit in the darkness.
And then there’s a photo of you with one arm around your mother. Your mom looks so lost and fragile. But the way you’re staring at her, your good intent shines through. You take care of her. You’re there for her. Not many people share your commitment or your devotion to family, let alone others less fortunate than you. That photo moved my heart and I look at it every time I need a boost to get me through a stressful day.
You and I are cut from the same cloth, Evelyn. We are both kind, caring people. People that go out of our way to help others, sometimes even putting the needs of others before our own. Please understand, it’s not my intention to freak you out, or scare you. Rest assured, I’m not some aggressive stalker. Don’t worry that every person you see at a coffee shop or in the grocery store wearing a ball cap pulled low over their head is me.
That person is not me.
I stay in the background. I promise I won’t show up on your doorstep. I’m not delusional. I don’t presume that you even want me in your life. In fact, feel free to throw this letter away. I am certain you have a fair share of admirers, suitors, whatever.
Thanks for letting me share, Evelyn.
My best,
