Working

The doctor was Mademoiselle in July at the café, back when she came two or three times a week. She requested my company during off-hours, and I obliged with the owner’s approval. We conversed in French over my writing, my past life, and Dawn.

She paid handsomely, and each time I stuck her tip in the register. I long figured out that Génoise et Thé was losing money, that Alain was making up the difference from his savings, that Hortus was working without pay. Her generosity was one of many reasons the business stayed afloat that summer — the other being the curator’s arrival in August, marking the first time I saw the doctor’s smile. I learned that the name of the glasses lady, the generous regular in the turtleneck, was Charlotte — pronounced in French, she insisted. “Charlotte,” said Selene. The two women caught me listening in, and invited me to their table.**