His wife’s choice to give high school’s flame another chance was a shocking announcement, leaving him alive but lifeless.  Post-divorce he tried, not once, but several times to find a woman who would accompany him.  With each attempt all started well and then dwindled and ended painfully.  “Bless your heart,” the women would say, “you’re so nice; you just need to meet the right girl.”  His male friends would make case for remaining single,” If something happens to my wife, God forbid, I would never marry again.”  Truth was, he was tired of the anguish of losing love and had resigned himself to traveling through remaining years alone.  He would make the best of things, as he had always committed.  Companionship was not to be his.

She had lost her man to a younger woman, discovering so the hard way when informed by friend that her husband’s business trip wasn’t business, but pleasure.  She too tried after the marriage ended to meet new male companions to no avail.  Her ex-husband attempted to manipulate her, as he always had, by insisting they rekindle their love, after realizing what he had forsaken when the excitement of new sex gave way to controlling demands.  Fortunately, good sense prevailed and she rebuffed his advances choosing to go it alone.

Time passed and both adjusted to single life, judging it preferable to heartache.  Still, in the wee hours, when the world was dark and the house silent, they wondered if the tradeoff chosen gave away too significant a portion of what made life dear.

Business now took him to London.  He was to represent his employer—a small publisher—at a book fair his company had never attended.  Habit had ensured passport was kept current, but it had been years since he traveled and he found himself going apprehensive at the prospect.  Had he become so ingrown, so hermit like, that fear of a week away from familiar dwelling should give rise to such feelings?  That very question frightened him as it was breaking a promise made in a younger time to never be afraid of the new thing.  So shoulders back and chin up he proceeded with the plan, choosing to fain confidence in hopes the genuine article appear in short order.

Death beckoned from Italy.  Her cousin, who had chosen Umbria as residence had passed unexpectedly.  She had been close to her cousin starting at birth, growing up in houses separated by only a shout.  Her cousin’s choice to move overseas with military husband had been a difficult transition because it added such time and distance between them.  None the less, with the aid of various electronic platforms they never let life break bonds made in those childhood days.  And though they both believed there was more to come after breath was gone and heart no longer kept time, social media would not lend in reaching spiritual realm to safeguard their friendship any longer.  The loss was profound and she felt the lukewarm fingers of depression touch her throat.

London proved interesting and his anxiety diminished as he learned route from hotel to eatery to book fair and back.  Aiding also was meeting colleagues in his line of work.  He found himself surprised in how easily he joined conversation about the language of book and press and the confounded author.  Contacts were traded and by week’s end he felt himself a new more worldly man.  In retrospect, he thought himself childish, having let fearful mind nearly keep him from this journey.  Packing to leave, he now felt sorry his time over ocean was coming to end.  Bag zipped he slung strap over shoulder and pulled another behind.  When maneuvering body and bags through door the room’s phone began ringing, he first hesitated, but thought better of it and struggled back to lift the telephone’s headset.  It was his employer, the owner no less.  “Listen,” said boss, “I know this is out of the blue, but we’d like you to manage a book signing—in Paris.  The guy who was to handle things is ill.  I know traveling is difficult for you, can you do this?  It’s important.”  He had never been able to deny the owner’s wishes.  With little effort, his stateside flight was changed, his new destination France.

Cousin wanted to be buried in her adopted country.  The funeral was difficult, the priest’s Latin foreign, and standing at grave watching the earth fall atop her childhood friend’s final place of rest made real something the subconscious had denied until this place and time.  The remainder of the day was spent walking the streets of the old seaside city trying to make sense of life’s seeming randomness.  Though her ticket home bore tomorrow’s date her publisher reached out and asked that she participate in a book signing event.  She protested, but ultimately conceded as she had never made time in schedule to travel to Europe to meet her fans.  She called to let her friends know she intended to spend a few more days on the continent, “I’m taking a train north.  I’ve made arrangement to fly home from de Gaulle.”  Her cousin’s Italian neighbor drove her to the station and bid her fare well, waving as the engine pulled the cars beyond horizon.  She tried to have a read to distract, but the book she would normally finish in two days’ time required a focus she couldn’t muster and she closed both cover and eyelids, dosing as the train rumbled onward.  An imperfection in the track shook her seat, waking her.  Eyes opened to see fields of lavender rush by, a light purple blur.  Despite the weight of sadness, she managed a small smile and found herself wishing train’s conductor could make an unscheduled stop, allowing all who wanted wander the fields if only for a few minutes.  She closed her eyes and the train continued on with no unscheduled stop.

His train pulled into the city; unfortunately his bags hadn’t joined him, as they’d been loaded on another coach bound for Germany.  The rail service was apologetic, explaining that his bags would follow shortly.  This posed a problem he would need to overcome.  A tailor was recommended and he hired a car that dropped him off at store front.  The owner had been notified of the situation and sixty-eight minutes later he walked out with two shirts, two pants, three pair socks and briefs each, a belt, and a box containing new shoes.  He had been given a small stipend from the rail company for his inconvenience which hardly covered a pair of socks, but it didn’t trouble him, in fact he was pleased having not purchased new clothes in some time.  Using a combination of broken English and sign language, the proprietor of the haberdashery had directed him to another shop that offered toiletries and he walked with an easy gate arriving in less than five minutes.  He collected the things he required and made way for the counter.  There ahead of him, was a woman attempting to explain that she’d left her handbag at her hotel and that she’d return promptly to pay for her goods—a box of tampons and a deodorant stick.  She was having a time of it as the clerk only responded in French while shaking her head vigorously.  “May I be of assistance?” he asked reckoning the two had reached an impasse.

“Karen?” he asked as the author turned to face him.

“William?” she returned incredulously.

“Christmas three years ago at Richard’s party?” she asked rhetorically.

“Yes…yes, I believe your right, I forgot about that get together.  I do remember Richard tying one on,” he said with a smile.

“Madam?” the checkout girl questioned.

“I’ve got this,” William said pulling out his wallet.

“Thank you, you see I’ve left my bag…” she began, “at your hotel,” William interrupted with a laugh.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Karen answered, thanking him again.

“No worries, how often does a fella get to buy feminine hygiene products for an old friend in the City of Light?” he said wondering if his attempt at humor had crossed a line.

Karen’s face turned a mild shade of red and she laughed genuinely. 

They walked out together and as they did she realized she hadn’t laughed sincerely for weeks.

“Where are you staying?” Karen asked.

“They’ve put me up at the Hyatt,” he responded pointing down the block.

“Me too,” Karen smiled.

“Look I’m sure you already have dinner plans, but my stomach is starting to protest and I would love some company,” he said expecting her to decline.

“I would love to join you,” she said laying her hand on his arm,” I just need a few minutes to freshen up.”

“Good,” he answered as they walked toward the hotel.

Dinner was more than dinner, it was talk of how they’d arrived in Paris, of books and publishing, of hard times and of good, of decisions made and resultant loneliness, of divorce and belief that love was still thinkable.  Their time over dinner was a return to the good of teenage years, when the other wondered if her feelings aligned with his, when the future was brilliant and all things were possible.

When the establishment was to close, they were quietly asked to leave by a waitress who had witnessed their evening and was happy for them.  William walked Karen to her room and extended his hand in good night, but in looking at her beautiful pale green eyes, he was compelled to take an action he hadn’t contemplated in years, he bent over and kissed her gently—it was Paris after all.

The ending to this tale has no de Maupassant twist to remind of the harshness of life.  Rather, it is a story of hope, it is a story that began with the heartbreak of betrayal, with fear of a journey into the unknown, with death of a dear friend, with travel plans changed, with baggage lost, with handbag forgotten, and ended with a love two had longed for.

Statisticians would say the coincidence of two roads traveled intersecting at right time and right place can be explained with calculation—perhaps.

As for me, I choose not to believe in coincidence at all.