Page 167 of Secrets Beneath the Waves

“You’re no fool,” I say, an idea forming in my mind. “Would you like to do something special? Maybe go out to dinner?”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’ve had an early dinner, and I think I’ll just put these flowers in a vase and go to bed early.”

“How about coffee and dessert then?” I ask. “Does that tempt you?”

He pulls out a tulip from the bouquet and hands it to me. “You’re tired. I can see it in your eyes. And besides, you don’t need to entertain an old man. Why don’t you walk me to my apartment and tell me how your job is going?”

I note the change in subject, but decide to drop the invitation. Mr. Basile—and everyone else I know—believes I work as atranslator for international businesses as well as a handful of diplomats, which explains my access to the US Embassy.

“I can definitely do that,” I say, helping him up.

“How is your job going?” he asks, taking my arm.

“I certainly can’t complain. Look what I get to wake up to every day.”

He laughs. “A woman who appreciates my city. I like that about you. You told me your mother was French?”

“Russian actually. It was my father’s parents who were from Marseille.”

“Of course. My memory continues to fail me. But what I do know is that your accent is almost flawless, which is most impressive for an American.”

“Merci,” I say, grinning at the compliment.

“So many Americans come here attempting to speak French. Their bad accents make my ears hurt.” He stops for a moment on the sidewalk to let a family pass. “Now all you need is a soul mate. A relationship like I had with Elise.”

“Tell me more about her,” I say.

I catch his smile at the request. He’s shared snippets of their life with me over the few months I’ve known him, but I always enjoy his stories and descriptions of life from decades ago.

“She loved red lipstick and always wore a silk scarf when she went out,” he says as we continue to walk. “At home, she loved dancing barefoot in the kitchen while listening to Charles Aznavour and Françoise Hardy.”

“I can picture her doing that.”

“She used to leave notes in my coat pocket. Sent postcards from Lyon when she was visiting her sister in the summers. And she smelled like gardenias. Every once in a while I catch the scent in an unexpected place and suddenly she’s there again. She was quiet, and kind. Maybe I remember her as perfect without any flaws, but that’s what fills my mind today.”

“You never fell in love again?” I ask, wondering if I’m speaking out of turn.

“Sometimes one person is enough for a lifetime.”

I mask a frown with a nod, but I can’t help but wonder how things would be today if I hadn’t lost William. What if he was my one person?

“I was actually hoping things might work out with William,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind. “I liked him. He seemed like a nice young man. I was sorry to hear he moved away.”

“Me too.”

Mr. Basile had met William a couple of times. I’d always insisted William was just a friend. Nothing more. Something that for a long time was true. But now that he was missing, I couldn’t exactly tell my neighbor that the man I had fallen in love with was a fellow CIA officer who’d vanished and I didn’t know if he was dead or alive. Letting Mr. Basile assume he’d moved away seemed simpler.

“I was thinking of someone you might want to meet,” he says as we approach our apartment building. “My grandson is coming into town next weekend. I could make introductions.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m honestly not looking for a relationship right now.”

And maybe I never will again. I honestly don’t know.

“You young people don’t know what it’s like to slow down and enjoy life. Take a chance and do something spontaneous. When I was your age, I would never have thought about rushing into the city every morning and then rushing home just to go to sleep and then start all over again the next day. It’s a never ending, exhausting cycle.”

“Not when you enjoy what you do,” I say, trying to defend myself.

“When do you rest? When do you take time to sit in the sunshine and chat with friends?”