Chapter 24 Spencer
TWENTY-FOUR
SPENCER
It’s not really two weeks. It’s only twelve days.
But twelve long days.
DAY 1
One of my life’s greatest regrets was not reaching out the day after the gala. But I won’t let that happen again.
Text one, the words I’d wished I’d said:
That was fun. Let’s do it again. All of it.
Text two, five minutes later, because I don’t want her to think it was just about the sex.
Also, I need at least three book recommendations to pass the time between now and two weeks from now.
She doesn’t respond right away. I get it—she’s got her hands full. But finally, my phone vibrates:
Ensemble, c’est tout by Anna Gavalda.
I’ve read the English translation—Hunting and Gathering—but full-length novels in French are a stretch. Still, I accept the challenge.
Okay. Just as long as I have a tutor on standby.
DAY 3
I call in the evening after thinking about her all day. She picks up, but her voice is quiet. Tired.
“Hey,” I say, “I thought I’d read a tricky paragraph to you. See if I’m understanding it correctly.”
There’s a pause, soft as breath. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s hear it.”
I laugh. “Actually, the book hasn’t arrived yet. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just sort of fried,” she admits. “Esme didn’t sleep well last night, which means I didn’t sleep well. And to top it off, today, a fire sprinkler went off for some unknown reason at the library. We lost hundreds of books to water damage.”
“That’s a total bummer.” I say, immediately going into problem-solving mode.
“It’s a silly thing, I guess,” she says, “but letting go of books is truly painful for me.”
Thinking I can make this right, I offer to fund the replacements, maybe even a more robust collection than what was lost.
“That’s not it,” she says with an edge in her voice..
“Insurance will cover it—but that’s not the point. It’s not about the cost,” she explains. “It’s just that... I think of books as... living things.”
I regret rushing in with the checkbook like a magic wand. “I’m sorry.” I say sincerely. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
And then, I tell her a story, hoping to lighten the mood.
“So, today I heard from this old baker—Henri—in the village near the rehab center I stayed at. Gruff as hell. The first time we met, he told me Americans have no soul because we microwave everything and live in front of the television.”
She offers a forced laugh.
“But after he realized I was a reader and a terrible cyclist, he started saving my favorite croissant in the corner of the case each day, so it would still be there when I returned from rehab.”
I wish I’d not started this story.
“We talked about politics and Hemingway and the meaning of life. Anyway, the point is, he’s learned he’s ill and is retiring. Said they’re throwing him a little fête in the square and asked if I’d come. I can’t. But it meant something, you know? That he remembered.”
“You made an impression on him,” she says. But her voice sounds far away. Fading into something wistful.
“You’ll get there one day,” I tell her. “When the stars align.”
“I guess so. First, my mom. Then, Esme. Good reasons to stay. Good reasons for a change in plans, but still… when I hear you talk about it…”
A pause. More silence.
“Maybe someday those stars will align.”
And the way she says maybe, makes me want to rearrange the entire universe.
DAY 6
I send a pale gray cashmere wrap. It’s not extravagant, but it’s elegant. It’s something that says: You deserve softness. You deserve warmth.
I send a handwritten note:
Thought you could use a hug.
DAY 8
I send croissants to the library. Dozens.
Fresh. Flaky. Made with real French butter, flown in that morning. Delivered warm.
Even if she can’t be in France, she can have the taste of a French morning.
No note. But she knows. Later, I get a text:
Someone sent a kajillion croissants to the library today. I brought some home, and Esme and I ate them for dinner. To quote her: “Yummy! Yummy!”
DAY 9
I send a toddler-sized wooden boulangerie play set: a croissant, a baguette, a pain au chocolat—all tucked inside a tiny wooden bakery crate with a custom sign that reads “Boulangerie Esme.” Esme’s Bakery.
Inside, a tiny note written in careful print:
Bonjour Esme,
Un croissant pour toi, une baguette pour maman, et un pain au chocolat juste parce que.
Bon appétit, petite boulangère.
A croissant for you, a baguette for mama, and a chocolate bread just because.
Enjoy, little baker.
Rhea texts:
Esme thanks you. So sweet. But seriously, if you send one more thing, I’m going to start feeling like a kept woman.
Followed by a winking emoji.
I take that as permission to keep trying.
DAY 10
I call again.
She answers, laughing softly. “You’re relentless.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She tells me Esme found a permanent marker and used it to redecorate the bathroom wall. “I’m calling it her abstract period,” she says dryly.
We laugh.
Then I say, “I’ve got a plan. A surprise. But it requires you to come into Boston. I can send a plane.”
“A plane?” she laughs. “To Maplewick?”
“There’s a small airport nearby. I’ve checked. I’ll come along—the pilot and will meet you there. Any chance you could take the day off, or leave by noon on Friday?”
She hesitates. “I’d love to,” she says. “But I try to save my PTO for when Esme gets sick.”
“Well... what if it was grant-related work?” I suggest. “What if you told your director that I reached out with a request to come to Boston and share some of your success in person?”
She laughs. “That’s a stretch.”
“Maybe. But, you are having great success and I would love to hear more about it. We can dedicate some time to that. Honest.”
“Okay, I’’ll run it by Gordon. See what he says.”
“Great,” I acknowledge, but I don’t let it go.
“Rhea, I know I’m pushing, and I won’t ask again. But I’d really love if you could stay Friday and Saturday night. There’s so much I want to show you . . .”
And I consider just telling her what I’ve got in mind, but settle for, “and something really special.”
DAY 11
She calls.
I’m in the middle of a meeting with the Donaldson Group, deep into a $55 million deal, but when her name flashes on my screen, I don’t hesitate.
“I’m sorry,” I say, rising from my chair. “I need to step away for a moment. Time-sensitive.”
Gina scowls from across the table. I give her a wink—just to keep her guessing—and slip into the glass-walled conference room next door, one eye still on the deal unfolding in the room behind me.
“Hey,” I say, closing the door. My voice drops without thinking.
“Well, Mr. Persistent,” she says, and the sound of her voice already does something to me, “I have a plan.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Two things. Gordon’s thrilled to have me present the project in person Friday morning.”
“Smart man.”
“He’s hoping it’ll make us your favorite and maybe open the door to future funding.”
“It just might,” I say, smiling.
“And,” she adds, “Laney’s agreed to keep Esme both nights. So yes, Mr. Devereaux—I accept your offer.”
Then she lowers her voice just slightly and says, “Votre proposition est trop intrigante pour être refusée.” Your offer is just too intriguing to refuse.
Lord help me.
The French. The way she says it—soft, smooth, completely unprompted—goes straight to the part of me that’s been imagining her in my bed since the minute she last was.
“Careful,” I murmur. “You keep talking like that and I might have to fly out there today.”
“Alors… fais ce que tu dois faire.” Well. . . do what you need to do.
So I do.
I cross a line I’ve been circling for days. I pull out the contact info I’ve tracked down for Laney Jefferson and give her a call.
“Laney?” I say, when she answers. “You don’t know me, but my name is Spencer Devereaux.”
A pause. “Spencer? Like… Rhea’s Spencer?”
I can’t help smiling. “Yes. Rhea’s friend,” I say carefully. “I’m calling to ask a favor…”