Apricot Kisses Read Free Page B

revenge for our conversation in the elevator. I gasp, but Claire is faster than I am.
    “Just as a reminder, mademoiselle ,” she says to Sasha. “We are the journalists and you’re the intern. We might not be sticklers for hierarchy in this office, but the rule still applies: you’re the one who makes the coffee. That means your workday begins before ours, so you can turn on the machine. Understood?”
    “So I’m late because I stood in line for you at the coffee stand. Well, that makes my day.” Sasha rolls her eyes.
    “I knew you were smart. Now get lost and bring me a café au lait , s’il te plait. And after that, you’ll send Hanna’s mementos to their owners without mouthing off anymore. The way it’s always done.”
    “Coming up! Immediat . . . amente. ” Sasha salutes, then ducks when Claire tosses a pen at her.
    “Get lost?” I grin. “Claire, you’re a sweetheart.”
    “I’m not sweet at all—stop kissing up. Hellwig wants to see you. Today. At the airport. And it didn’t sound like an invite for a chat.”
    Absentmindedly, I pick up Claire’s ballpoint pen from the carpet. “I thought the boss was in Helsinki.”
    “He fit in a layover in Berlin before flying to Vienna. The Austrian office—oh, don’t even ask.”
    I don’t need to ask to know what Claire means. Our Viennese office manages to win the internal award for most boring edition every single month. It drives our editor in chief crazy.
    “Do you know what he wants to talk to me about?” It can’t be a good sign that Hellwig is summoning me to meet him at the airport. I hope he isn’t considering transferring me to Vienna. Although, come to think of it, Viennese coffee and those delicious buttery confections might sway me.
    “Well . . .” Claire purses her red lips.
    “Don’t make me pull each word out of your nose.”
    “You want to pull words out of my nose? You Germans are seriously crazy.”
    “Claire!”
    “Honestly, I have no idea what he wants. All I know is that you have exactly an hour and a half to arrive at the airport on time. So chop chop.”
     
    Fabrizio
     
    I don’t know what I expected. An empty restaurant at noon? Respectful silence, as hurrying people learn, from one look at my face, that I can’t tolerate being jostled?
    With my carryall on my shoulder and Nonna’s urn under my arm, I wind my way through the crammed airport restaurant. I’m lucky: there’s an empty table in the back of the place, right by the window. I navigate around a baby stroller, climb over pieces of luggage, and nod to a woman who graciously pulls her suitcase out of my way. I drop into the chair and push away the last person’s tray—an abandoned plate of spaghetti that the gourmet splattered with ketchup. A waitress shows up out of nowhere, her order pad at the ready. Her smile reveals an impressive row of white teeth.
    “What can I bring you?” she asks.
    “Your dentist’s phone number.”
    Her smile widens. “You’re Italian.”
    “That so? Thanks for reminding me.” I have no choice: I smile back, even though she’s wearing too much makeup and I’m not in the mood to flirt. “I haven’t looked at the menu yet. What would you recommend?” I try not to stare at her full chest.
    She giggles. “We’re not a starred restaurant, you know.”
    “You aren’t?”
    “The daily special is pork roast with mashed potatoes. It’s only six euros.”
    “Who could resist that.” I grin and set Nonna on the upholstered chair next to me. She’s not very stable. Changing my mind, I plop the urn on the table. “All right, I’ll take the special and some water.”
    “Are you in the food-service industry?”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “You scrunched your nose when I told you our daily special.”
    I glance at the red-and-blue monstrosity. It doesn’t seem right to put one’s grandmother next to instant mashed potatoes. And Nonna didn’t like pork.
    “You should study psychology,” I say.