Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
I stop in front of her. “Where are you going?” It’s early. My father is still sleeping.
“To the store. We’re out of rice. I’ll get some oranges while I’m there. I know how much you like those ones from Morocco. They’re sweeter than the local varieties. Has Adeline left?”
“Five minutes ago.”
She frowns. “I was going to say goodbye. I lost track of time while getting ready. Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“I’ll drive you,” I say on impulse.
She looks taken aback. “That’s very kind of you, but I know how busy you are.”
She says it as if I never have time for her, because I don’t. I don’t give her the attention she deserves. I’m taking her too much for granted. We all are.
“I don’t have anything planned for the morning.” I take my key from my pocket. “The sun is out. A drive will be nice.”
She blinks.
She doesn’t believe me. She knows better than anyone the paper stack on the desk in the study is higher than the Tower of Pisa. There’s much to be dealt with, too much, and the pile is only getting bigger while there’s never enough time.
“All right,” she says, her smile uncertain, but she goes ahead and picks up the basket next to the door.
As I escort her outside, she shoots me a sidelong glance. She’s questioning my motives for driving her. I can’t blame her, seeing how seldom I go anywhere with her. I rarely make time for anything or anyone outside of business.
The man who takes care of the cars is new. He’s polishing my father’s Mercedes in the driveway.
I throw him the key. “Get my car. Is the tank full?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, catching the key and running to take the basket.
When he brings the car around, I seat my mother and take the road over the mountain to the village in the valley.
My mother looks at me as I park in a lot on the outskirts of the town. “We’re not going to Bastia?”
“There’s a good market here. It’s quieter. Less pollution.”
She says nothing as I get out of the car. I go around and get her door. She pushes oversized sunglasses over her face while I get the basket from the back.
The market is set up on the square under the canopy of Corsican pine trees. The morning is fresh. Our breaths make white puffs in the air. I pull my coat tighter and flick up the collar. The cobblestone street is wet, already scrubbed clean by the bar and café owners who’ve put their chairs out on the pavement. Despite the cold, a few elderly people sip espresso at the tables. They look up as we pass, avert their eyes, and turn their faces away.
“We should go straight to the supermarket,” my mother says. “We can get everything there. It’ll save time.”
I watch her closely, trying to read her. She’s nervous.
“I’m not in a hurry,” I say, the muscles around my eyes tightening in an involuntary reflex. “Let’s go through the market. I’d like to see it.”
My mother walks a step ahead of me with her head held high and the basket swinging from her arm. She looks small and thin against the backdrop of the sturdy villagers, more like a malnourished child than a grown adult.
A bustle of activity greets us on the square. Local farmers are offloading crates of parsnips and leeks from vans, and women are filling baskets with olives, tomatoes, goat’s cheese, and bunches of dried thyme that they display on the tables.
We walk through the rows, my mother inspecting the goods, and at each table, we’re met with the same reaction. The men turn their backs, and the women look away.
I witness the behavior with a nasty suspicion growing in the pit of my stomach. Anger pushes up inside me as we’re given the same disrespect stall after stall that we pass. My mother doesn’t stop anywhere, not at the rice seller from Camargue or at the fruit vendor from Morocco. Instead, she heads for the supermarket on the other side of the square where a teenager with a nose ring sits behind the cash register.
The guy doesn’t look up from his phone when we enter. He rings up the oranges and rice that my mother puts on the counter without as much as glancing at us.
Yeah. That’s not going to work for me.
Grabbing the basket, I take my mother’s arm and drag her to the door.
“Hey,” the guy says, finally lifting his head. “What about this stuff? Are you buying it or not?”
I don’t bother to answer.
“Angelo,” my mother exclaims. “What are you doing?”
I cross the road and push open the door of the general store. The chime of a bell announces our entry.
“I’ll be right there,” a man calls from a room at the back. “Help yourselves in the meantime.”