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  Opening her drawer, she pulled out a peanut bar. She removed the wrapper with force and crunched down on a quarter of it.

  “I thought you just had lunch,” Trudy said.

  “I was too nervous to eat. I hope you’re happy paying for nothing.”

  Trudy just smiled.

  ~ * ~

  A week later, Lourdes had convinced herself that she was letting go of her silly infatuation, her unhealthy obsession. She had all kinds of clever catch phrases that she pulled from her mind and threw at her heart, like a rope catching a horse or a cow. Whenever her tummy bucked at a thought or memory of copper hair and sky-blue eyes, she roped it and strangled it with one of those lines, until she had convinced herself it was for the best. Henk and Dirk had reconciled. Dirk was out of her life for good. No more messages. No begging. Small amounts of money found its way to her account on a regular basis, and she didn’t act on it. If that was what Dirk needed to shed his guilt, she’d let it be.

  The problem was Henk. He didn’t return to New York as she believed, hoped, he would. He stayed. Sometimes she found herself wanting to drive out to his house, not to ring his bell or anything assertive like that, but just to see it. Those thoughts scared her so much, she decided it was time she relocated. She had only moved to Chile for Dirk, after all. There was no reason left to stay.

  “But I don’t understand,” Trudy had said.

  “I want to go somewhere less Dutch.”

  “Dutch?” Trudy had given her a baffled look. “This is Santiago, babes. You can’t get more Latino than this.”

  Her mind made up, she started looking into options. Europe. England, maybe? She had promised Trudy she would pay her until she found another job. She sure would miss her, despite her interfering ways.

  ~ * ~

  Both women had been downstairs for coffee at the deli, so Trudy went through the messages on the answering machine when they got back. Thanks to Henk’s good reference, business was booming again. Executive Events was the sole event organizer for the clinic, now.

  Lourdes stared at the map of Europe on her laptop screen.

  “You’re not going to like this,” Trudy said.

  “What?” Lourdes looked up.

  “Message from Dr. Bouwer’s office.”

  Her spine went so stiff she thought it would snap. “He needs another event?”

  “No. Says you have to come in for a retina scan.”

  “What?” Lourdes said again, her voice a shriek.

  “Gosh, I mean, is that something serious? Does it mean there’s something wrong with your eyes?”

  “Cut the crap,” Lourdes said, not feeling so calm. “Make an appointment with another optometrist.”

  “Which one?”

  “Any one. I don’t care. Go through the list on the computer and take the first opening available.”

  Lourdes went back to her map. Maybe Chez Republic would be a welcome break. Learning a new language should keep her mind off the Netherlands.

  Trudy cleared her throat. “Lourdeeeeees?”

  “What now?” she snapped. All she wanted to do was to pick a country and move on.

  “Everything is full, except for Dr. Bouwer. Tomorrow, nine.”

  “Impossible.” Lourdes typed in the name of the clinic domain and selected the appointment page. Her eyes widened. Just as Trudy had said, all the slots were marked in red, except for that one. It said ‘pending’ and her name written in yellow over the bar.

  “I don’t want to play devil’s advocate or anything,” Trudy said, “but what if he found something serious in your tests? What if you’re going blind?”

  “For crying out loud, Trudy, don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Why do you need a retina scan then? Cataracts?”

  She didn’t know. Lourdes typed “retina scan” in Google and read for a while, but no meaning sunk in. She shut her laptop screen.

  “I’m not scared to face him,” Lourdes said, more to herself than to Trudy.

  “Good, because I’ve just booked you for nine tomorrow morning.”

  ~ * ~

  There was no waiting this time because Lourdes’ appointment was the first of the day. The minute she walked into the reception area, Claudia waved her through.

  “Dr. Bouwer’s waiting, ma’am. You can go through.”

  She knocked once and pushed open his door. He sat behind his desk but immediately got to his feet when she entered.

  “Lourdes. I’m glad you could make it.”

  She blinked at the warm smile he gave her. Was that his doctor-patient smile?

  “What’s this about, Henk? Why do I need a retina scan?”

  “Procedure,” he said. “Nothing to be alarmed about. As your optometrist, I need to ensure that you do all the preventative tests needed on an annual basis. In another few months, I’ll have to test you for glasses.”

  She decided not to tell him she had to change doctors since she was moving. In six months’ time, someone else would peer into her eyes, offering her artificial tears.

  “Please.” He indicated the examination chair. After she had installed herself, he sat on the small stool in front of her and cupped her face to move it into a frame of some kind. The intimacy of the touch confused her, and then she realized that what she had felt with him that first time, here in this very room, was probably not special. This is what he did with all his patients. He was only being an incredibly gentle doctor. She swallowed the poisonous piece of hurt at the realization. It dropped into her belly like a lump of sour bread, causing her stomach to cramp. With her chin resting on a rubber band, he placed a slit lamp in front of her face and aimed through it.

  “The light may irritate your eyes,” he said. “Try to keep them open for me.”

  A few months ago, she would have done anything for him. Even now, she could barely calm the erratic beating of her traitorous heart.

  A ray of light pierced her left pupil. Her instinct was to pinch her eye shut, but she managed to do as he had asked. She finished the exam with her eyes intact. Only her heart reminded her that it was still seriously damaged. Maybe she hadn’t let go. Maybe she wasn’t moving; maybe she was running.

  “Lourdes?” Henk said gently, regarding her with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Can you please read this for me?” He held a card to her, one with fine print.

  “Is it in English?”

  He responded with the indent of his dimple. “Read,” he repeated.

  She took the card and started, “Lourdes March, you have ...” She jerked her head up to stare at him.

  “Continue,” he said patiently.

  She should refuse, but he had that look in his eyes, that gentleness she had glimpsed when he had kissed her. She had seen it again when he had looked at her that morning in his kitchen.

  She took a deep breath. “Lourdes March, you have the most perfect eyes in the world. When I look into them, I forget everything else, even myself. I have wanted to make those eyes mine from the minute I first looked into them, and for every second since. I promise to make you happy ...” Lourdes looked up quickly and swallowed. Her throat choked up with emotion.

  “Continue,” he said softly, his eyes holding hers.

  “I promise to make you happy if you give me the chance. I don’t need time to know I love you.” Tears burned behind her eyes. She had to swallow again. “But I will give you as much time as you need to say you’ll marry me.”

  No longer able to contain them, the tears fell in big blobs on the card she held, blurring the words.

  He lifted her chin with his fingers. His thumbs caressed the soft skin under her eyes. “I said I never wanted to cause you tears.”

  “But these are happy tears,” she said, blinking.

  “Are they?” He seemed so vulnerable, so hopeful, right then.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “You made it clear
you weren’t interested.”

  “Not interested?” His gaze widened. “I stepped aside, to give you and Dirk a chance.”

  “You knew how I felt about Dirk. It was over.”

  “But I didn’t know how Dirk felt. When I saw how much he loved you ...”

  “And what changed your mind?”

  “That day when we ran into each other in the restaurant, Dirk told me he could see in my face how much I care, how angry I was. He said he realized it would never work between the two of you, and he had set you free.”

  “Angry?”

  “With Hayes, for taking you out for lunch. I thought ...”

  “I’m organizing his wife’s birthday party.”

  “I know that now. I confronted him.”

  “You confronted him? Oh, no. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “You’ll have to get used to that feeling. The whole clinic now knows how I feel about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He took the card and set it aside, taking her fingers in his big hands. “It took a memo to the whole building to get all the optometrists to block out their appointment slots.”

  She felt a flush creep up her neck. “So that’s how you did it.”

  He squeezed her hands gently. “You haven’t answered yet.”

  “Answered what?”

  “Will you marry me, Lourdes? Will you make me the happiest man alive?”

  She pulled from his grip to fold her arms around his neck. “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I will marry you.”

  “Yes, who?

  “Yes, I will marry you, Henk Bouwer.”

  He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. Letting go of her, he delved in his pocket and pulled out a ring. It was a brilliant emerald surrounded by diamonds. As he slipped it over her ring finger, he said, “I love you Lourdes. I always will.”

  She was going to say she loved him too, but his lips covered hers, stealing her words and causing new tears of happiness.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Charmaine Pauls was born in Bloemfontein, South Africa. She obtained a degree in Communication at the University of Potchestroom, and followed a diverse career path in journalism, public relations, advertising, communications, photography, graphic design, and brand marketing. Her writing has always been an integral part of her professions.

  After relocating to France with her French husband, she fulfilled her passion to write creatively full-time. Charmaine has published six novels since 2011, as well as several short stories and articles.

  When she is not writing, she likes to travel, read, and rescue cats. Charmaine currently lives in Chile with her husband and children. Their household is a linguistic mélange of Afrikaans, English, French and Spanish.

  Works by the author with Melange Books, LLC

  The Seven Forbidden Arts Series:

  Pyromancist (Book 1)

  Aeromancist, the Beginning (Prequel to Book 2)

  Books by Charmaine Pauls:

  Between Fire & Ice

  The Winemaker

  Second Best

  The Astronomer

  Connect with Charmaine at:

  www.charmainepauls.com

  http://bit.ly/Charmaine-Pauls-Facebook

  http://bit.ly/Charmaine-Pauls-Amazon

  http://bit.ly/Charmaine-Pauls-Goodreads

  https://twitter.com/CharmainePauls

  THE SPARK

  by Ellyse Roberts

  Chapter One

  The bedraggled old man shuffles over to the side of the building, cigarette in hand, to find the matches he hides in the corner from thieves. The air is muggy and stale, making it hard to breathe as he labors away at the trash collected in his old home. The building is so full of discarded items and debris that no one notices the older, grungy homeless man roaming around the shadows. He picks up the discarded heaps of wood and cloth to find his one precious possession in this world. After many grueling minutes, his hard work is rewarded. He picks up the small black box full of salvation and shoves the cigarette into his mouth. He takes out a stick and strikes the red tip against the hard back. The match ignites and for a brief moment, he is mesmerized by the yellow flame dances before his eyes. Not able to wait one moment longer, he lights his cigarette and takes a deep drag from it, his lungs filled with grey sustenance. He leans against the old dilapidated building and sighs with happiness.

  Suddenly, a loud noise breaks the silence around him. From the other side of the building, a loud metal object dropped. The high ceilings echo the effect, making it sound even louder. Somehow, people have invaded his domain. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t own it; he’s lived here for years. He snorts at the disrespect of others daring to take over his home. He already has to endure the looks of pity on every idiot’s face as they pass by his makeshift home.

  He inhales deeply from the cigarette as the rage grows. They have no idea that he was a brilliant stockbroker with millions in the bank before the toxic loans of 2008 bankrupted everyone. He takes another long drag from his cigarette to ease the pain brought on by memories. They all think he’s invisible. They have no idea the power he once held in his hands. One day, he will make them all pay. He just needs one moment to make them regret that they ever saw him as human trash.

  As he brings the cigarette up to his mouth, he sees the beautiful yellow flame sparkle again as it burns from his need to breathe in the smoke.

  Then it hits him. An idea so simple, he wonders why he hadn’t thought of it before. The invaders must be forced out from this place. They must be eradicated for daring to invade his domain.

  They must burn for their treachery.

  He looks at the pile of vodka and urine soaked wood that has long since been discarded and tosses his butt down, watching as the wood takes the cigarette beneath its inflexible fingers. It disappears but isn’t lost. Within seconds, the yellow flame grows and engulfs the entire pile. He watches in fascination as the flames move closer to him, but he does not move. He doesn’t even flinch as he watches the flame lick at his legs, moving upwards until they take hold of his filthy jacket, finding the fuel it needs to thrive. He just inhales the smoke deeply and relishes in the fact that these intruders will regret the day they ever stepped foot into his home.

  ~ * ~

  “When I said ‘just drop that anywhere’, Martin, I didn’t mean on my foot!” I yell as I tend to my bruised toe.

  “Sorry, Anna Claire. I guess I had one more than I could carry,” Martin says sheepishly.

  “Ya think?” I bite out at him before I instantly regret my anger. I look up at Martin as he rings his hands together in front of me. My foot may be bruised but not as much as his ego. “It’s okay, really. That bar was heavy as hell and I know it was an accident. Don’t worry about it.”

  Martin stops rubbing his hands together in worry and smiles. “Thanks.”

  I look up at Martin to ask him if he needs help carrying the bars to the other room. We need them to redecorate for the event, but the words never come out. The smoke rising up in the distance, near the front of the high ceiling warehouse, catches my attention first.

  “What in the world is that?” I ask to no one in particular.

  Martin, Julia and two others on my team all look in the same direction.

  “Is that smoke?” asks Julia, the fear clear in her voice.

  As we all watch, the smoke slowly curls up into the ceiling. We watch it fan out when it reaches the highest point, desperate to find an escape. Before long, we see the flames licking the sides of the building across the big room.

  “Do you smell that?” asks Martin, his voice rising in panic with every syllable.

  “We need to get out of here. Now,” I state calmly, doing my best to keep everyone from panicking. I start barking orders and hope that a task will help keep them from freaking out. “Julia, call 911. Martin, go to the front and see if the flames have reached the door yet. If luck hold
s out, we can still make it out that exit.”

  As Martin runs off towards the front of the building, I put back on my discarded shoe, the pain in my foot forgotten. Desperate for an escape, I take a second to look around the building. Fear wells within me as my eyes fall upon wall after wall full of locked doors. I look up, hoping to see a stairwell or scaffolding that could help us get out, but all I see are windows that are way too high to reach. The building used to be full of offices and is a labyrinth of rooms. It was supposed to be locked down tight and took an act of congress for me to get a key to the front door.

  Martin runs back, his face a mask of disappointment. “The fire is everywhere. It’s a big wall of flames blocking the front door and moving this way. We can’t get out that way.”

  “Okay, that’s disappointing but not unexpected since the fire started up there. Let’s go to the back and see if we can find another door.”

  The five of us start to walk quickly towards the back of the abandoned building, trying to find a way out and simultaneously avoid the ever-growing flames. Julia had called the 911 a few minutes ago, but I have yet to hear the sirens. The smoke blankets the air within the building, so we all crouch lower to the ground to breathe the precious air not yet tainted by the flames. Pure adrenaline makes my heart beat overtime, but it does little to drown out the roar and crackling of the flames. We move from room to room and try each door as we go, but each one is locked up tight. We turn left and then right with no idea where we are going; we’re just running on faith.

  I watch as the arms of the blaze crawl up the sides of the building and spread out in a fan-like pattern on the ceiling. It skips the second-story, beautiful stained glass windows too high for us to reach. The fire feeds off the oxygen that remains above, letting it seep into its body as it gorges itself upon what remains of our lifeline. The oxygen acts like a drug; nourishing the fire as it moves along the ceiling menacingly. Is it my imagination or is it moving straight towards us?