The windows start at the floor and span the whole length of the wall, all twelve or so feet, up to the ceiling.

Instead of sliding open, they fold open like an accordion but their hinges are so thin they are practically invisible.

“Olive,” someone calls my name.

Her voice is quiet and delicate and I stand here for a moment without turning to face her to relish the moment.

13

Olive

When I see her…

“Olive,” she says again.

I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and turn around.

The woman before me is about average height but petite in frame. She is in her early forties but she could easily pass for thirty-five.

Dressed in leggings and a loose t-shirt, she doesn’t look like someone who would own a house like this.

“You’re….Josephine,” I say quietly.

She gives me a slight nod and asks me to sit down.

It’s only now that I notice that she’s not wearing shoes or socks and has a silver anklet with a palm tree around her right foot.

She takes a seat in the wingback chair and crosses her legs.

“How can I help you?” she asks.

Either she has no idea why I’m really here or she is playing her cards close to her chest.

I sit on the edge of the couch next to her and take a deep breath.

Afraid to meet her eyes, I look a little past her.

How did I not notice this before? The wall is covered with pictures of her family.

There are photos of Josephine and her husband in cities all over the world. Intermixed with shots of them in London, Rome, and Sydney are pictures of them near waterfalls and glaciers.

“Is that your family?” I ask, pointing to the picture closest to her.

It’s her smiling ear to ear with her husband and two small kids, both under the age of five.

“Yes,” she says softly.

I wait for her to elaborate but she doesn’t. “How can I help you, Olive?”

Right, of course.

She wants to get to the point.

I’m stalling.

Not just because I’m afraid to come right out and say what I need to say but also because I want to spend as much time with her as possible before she kicks me out.

“What does your husband do?” I blurt out.

The question is about as inappropriate as one could be, but once it’s out there I can’t really take it back.

“He works for me,” she says, broadening her shoulders and smiling out of the corners of her lips. “With me,” she adds.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I add, totally humiliated.

Why did I just assume that she had all of this because of a man?

And even if I did, why did I come right out and say it?

I’m such an idiot.