The Wind in the Willows

April is a fickle month in Philadelphia. Cherry trees and dogwoods burst open into an unknown future, not sure if their fragile pink blooms will flourish in the warming sun or wither under the shock of an unseasonable freeze. Still, every year they open their petals in colorful optimism. Spring is the season of promises that may or may not be met.

Laura was not feeling optimism as she waited for the 8:15 train to Center City. She’d uncharacteristically slept past the alarm on her phone and rushed through her morning routine. That feeling that you forgot something important? She felt it in her bones.

McCormick & McCormick Publishing was having a 10:00am meeting with their international partners. Laura, their recently appointed Associate Editor, would be in attendance. It would be her first experience of a high-level conference.

All of Laura’s senses felt heightened. The sun seemed too bright, the smell of cigarette smoke from another waiting passenger was unusually strong, and the chugging of the nearing train sounded unnaturally loud. Between waves of feeling chilly or too warm, she couldn’t decide if she should leave her gray peacoat unbuttoned. My anxiety, she told herself. Anxiety exaggerates everything. It’s the loudmouth in the back of the room you want to ignore but can’t.

The obnoxiousness of anxiety had pushed its way forward earlier that year as Laura and her husband of 20 years, Mark, tiptoed towards their divorce. There was no villain. Their marriage had somehow slipped between their fingers before they realized it was gone.

Mark had always called her his beautiful bride. Then one day she couldn’t recall the last time he’d said it. It had been months, maybe a year. About as long ago as she’d felt genuine interest in his day. She would ask about it by rote during dinner, her mind wandering while he replied.

Then one Sunday night, after dinner, they sat in silence in the living room. Mark read that day’s Philadelphia Inquirer and Laura read a cozy British mystery. She still didn’t know what had prompted her, but she’d put down her book and looked at Mark.

“Do you think we should stay married?”

He was startled, and she felt horrible. The silence in the room felt tangibly painful. But then he folded the paper, sighed, and looked at her. “I don’t know.”

Laura felt slightly less horrible. She knew in that moment it was over  The things that brought them joy were no longer things they shared. The end had started that night. And the court date for their divorce was three months away.

Throughout the ride to 30^th Street Station, Laura stared out the smudged window at the familiar images that flashed by her every weekday. Closed factories, modest rowhouses, graffiti marked buildings… then skyscrapers getting closer and multiple train tracks weaving in and out of each other. The conductor, a man in his mid-30’s – about ten years younger than Laura – walked down the aisle with the weariness of a much older person.

“30^th Street Station. Next stop 30^th Street Station.”

Laura collected her purse and briefcase and stepped down to the platform. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the case. She was one of the few people at McCormick & McCormick – or maybe anywhere - who still used a briefcase. Of course everything she needed was available digitally. But sometimes, as someone who found satisfaction in creative writing now and then, she liked holding paper in her hands when she read. She’d made some notes, using a #2 pencil on a yellow legal pad, of possible points to bring up during the meeting.

But there was more to the briefcase. It had belonged to her mother, whose great-great grandmother had been the first female lawyer in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Caroline Burnham Kilgore. Her mother had not been a lawyer but had been in a leadership position at Strawbridge & Clothier, when the department store had been in its prime in downtown Philadelphia… with a branch in all the regional malls. The briefcase was made of a richly textured leather that had achieved a remarkable patina through the decades. Whenever Laura was troubled with self-doubt, clutching the briefcase handle reminded her that she had descended from strong, fearless women. It allowed her to tell herself that she, too, was a strong, fearless woman.

As Laura finally reached the offices of McCormick & McCormick, she was glad she’d left her coat unbuttoned. She pushed through the brass-framed revolving door. Tom Campbell, the receptionist, greeted her as he did every day.

“Good morning, Ms. Brennan!”

“Good morning, Tom!” She walked past him, glanced over her shoulder, and called. “Remember, I owe you lunch from Moustaki’s.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He leaned away from his desk, watching her. “All I did was get a Lyft for you a couple times.”

“That was enough for repayment in gyros.”

Laura tapped the up button on the polished elevator panel. She glanced over at the huge clock hanging beside the paned glass window that stretched almost from the floor to the ceiling. 9:15. It was fine. It would all be perfect. Her newly manicured fingers again gripped the handle of the briefcase.

Looking straight ahead, Laura stepped off the elevator, turned right, and walked towards her office. She made another sharp right and bumped into a man refilling his bottle of water at the company’s Green Ticker water fountain, its display proudly showing how many plastic bottles were saved to date by refilling them there. 217,582. As Laura glanced at the number, the man turned around and smiled. She’d never seen him before. He was taller than her, with tousled hair, and a warm smile.

“Hello!” Laura felt awkward and pointed at the fountain. “Thank you for doing your bit to save the planet.”

He gave a light laugh.

“Ah, well, it’s the least I can do.”

He had an accent. Laura could usually distinguish accents but felt flustered and made a random guess.

“Oh! You must be here for this morning’s conference. You’re from our office in Oslo?”

He put his hands on his hips, tilted his face back and laughed before smiling again at her. He shook his head.

“No, no! I am from France. The Burgundy region. It seems most Americans think if one’s from France, they’re Parisian. So I pre-correct.”

“Pre-correct? I like that.” Laura could feel her cheeks redden and she was annoyed with herself. “Well, I’m sorry that I guessed the wrong accent – by quite a lot!” She extended her hand. “I’m Laura. Laura Brennan.”

“Ah! Laura Brennan. Yes, I recall seeing the name as Associate Editor here on the agenda.” He shook her hand. “I am Julien. Julien Fournier.”

“Oh! I – aren’t you the Associate Editor in our Paris office? I mean, not Paris, but –“

Julien nodded his head. “It’s a bit confusing, no? The office is in Paris, but I do much of my work remotely, from my home. I go in for meetings at the Paris office a few times a month.”

“Ah! I see.”

As Julien took a sip of water, his suit jacket slid down his sleeve enough for Laura to notice his cufflink. Cufflinks! When was the last time, she wondered, have I seen a man wearing real cufflinks? Well, probably the last time anyone other than me walked around carrying a leather briefcase.

Laura gestured down the hallway. “I’ll just put my brief – my things in my office and I can show you the way to the conference room.”

“Oh.” Julien tapped on his phone, then held it up for Laura to see it. All the words were in French, and she felt insipid that she smiled at the phone.

“It says that before the meeting, we will be taken to the Japanese – ah, Japanese – “ He gave a light laugh. “It’s some building in a garden?

“Yes! Shofuso. The Shofuso Japanese Cultural Center. I forgot completely about that.”

Julien shrugged. “It sounds like it will be pleasant. A way for everyone to chat before the – intensity of a meeting.”

Jim McCormick, the current owner of the company, came charging down the hall like a pied piper with a large group of people following him. He waved at Laura and Julien.

“You two have met already? Come on, the cars are waiting for us.”

Julien and Laura joined the moving, chattering crowd. As they walked through the reception area, Laura quickly handed her coat to Tom Campbell with a whisper.

“Please hold this for me. I’ll pick it up later.”

Tom winked and whispered back. “No problem. Just remember extra tzatziki sauce with the gyros.”

The McCormick & McCormick group wandered around the 17^th century style Japanese building, the centerpiece of the carefully landscaped gardens. They’d divided into four sets, getting to know each other within their group. Laura’s group stood near a huge flowering cherry tree, its expansive branches and glory of blossoms reflected in the pond beside it.

Mary Hartig, from their London office, was telling a delightful story about her first day at work. Out of the corner of her eye, Laura noticed Julien standing by the pond. He glanced at her with a smile, and she quickly turned back to Mary.

Laura’s heart was beating with something she hadn’t felt for some time. She glanced down at her wedding ring. She would not be divorced for another three months, and, at her core, Laura had always had her integrity set at a fairly high bar. She turned the ring back and forth a couple times, then stopped. Laura briefly closed her eyes. She was still a married woman. Someday it would be different. But not today.

“Mon ami?”

Her eyes flashed open, and she smiled at Julien. “Yes?”

He gestured towards the massive cherry tree. “I saw you looking at the cherry tree.”

Laura felt herself redden. Again. No, no, no! He saw me staring at him and he’s trying to give me a way out. This is so embarrassing and –

“So I wondered if, maybe, you would like me to cut a branch from it for you?”

“Oh, no! What? That’s against the rules!”

Julien raised his eyebrows. “Against the rules!”

“Yes! I mean, this – “ she waved her arm at their general area, “This is a cultural center… a museum. You can’t just cut a branch off of one of their trees.”

“Would they notice, though?”

“That’s not the point. They have rules that we have to follow.”

“Ah. Rules.” He nodded solemnly. “Rules are quite important to you.”

Laura hesitated. “Well, I like to be respectful.”

Mary appeared at Julien’s side and touched his elbow. “Julien, I was just telling Talia about that awful writer who wouldn’t stop emailing you. But you tell the story better than I can. Come on.”

She smiled at Laura, “Sorry, but this is a story that everyone has to hear.”

Laura watched as they walked away. Should she follow? No. No, she should introduce herself to the other groups, as any professional would do. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her leather briefcase. Everything was going to be fine.

By the time they returned to the McCormick & McCormick offices, Laura retrieved her coat from Tom, and hurried to her office to leave it there with her briefcase. Jim McCormick tapped on her open door.

She smiled. “I’ll be in the conference room in a minute!”

Jim made a grimace. “I am so sorry, Laura, I know this meeting was going to be a big deal for you. But John Weston is in the lobby. He’s mad as hell about a typo that was in his last book, and someone’s got to talk him off the ledge.”

Laura felt her stomach sink. “Oh. So, should I talk with him and then join the meeting late?”

“Eh, that might be disruptive. I really need you to talk with him here in your office. It may take a while.” He raised his chin. “But I promise you’ll be present at the next international meeting, no matter what.”

Laura nodded. Jim left, closing the door behind him. Unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes. She quickly wiped them away and stared at the ceiling. Why was she so upset? She shook her head. This ridiculous – whatever one could call it – with Julien. It was nothing. But three months before her divorce, it felt like it was everything. There had definitely been a connection. It was feeling like a man genuinely found her attractive. And she had felt the same way about him. She’d experienced moments when she felt alive again, that there could be an exciting, unpredictable future waiting for her.

But now, it had all crashed down to the need to placate an angry writer.

Jim Weston, who reminded Laura of a husky Norman Mailer, waddled into her office and plopped into the chair across from her desk. It took all of three minutes for Laura to reassure him that the typo would be corrected in the next print edition, and it would be immediately edited in the Kindle version. As she spoke, he pulled one wrapped chocolate after another from his jacket pocket, nodding and chewing at the same time. Which she found oddly disturbing.

After he left, Laura was tempted to join the meeting, but remembered Jim saying it would be disruptive. She opened her briefcase and took out her yellow legal pad. She read the notes she’d made that would have been helpful at the meeting. Laura typed in her password on her monitor, then glanced at her Google calendar. The day was blocked out for the meeting until 2pm.

Laura watched as Mia, the receptionist, wheeled a cart filled with lunches from the Walnut Street Café. She glanced into Laura’s office, pulled a container from the cart, and brought it in.

“Here you go!” Mia smiled. “That spicy chicken sandwich you love.”

Laura reached for the container. “Aww, thanks, Mia! That’s perfect.”

As she ate in silence, she glanced at her Apple watch. 1:15pm. Laura clicked open a document she’d been working on and started editing it. But her mind was elsewhere.

Laura could hear a nearby church bell strike two.  As she stared at her computer screen, she heard a light tap on the glass wall of her office. Julien.

He was a part of a moving throng heading out. Laura stood up, then froze. What could she say? What could she do? Julien winked at her and quickly slid something under her door. He gave a wave goodbye, which she returned.

As soon as the group passed, Laura hurried over to the door and picked up the piece of paper. It was a sheet of yellow legal pad. On it was a surprisingly talented, detailed drawing of a cherry tree branch in full bloom.

It was signed, “I was able to achieve my goal without breaking a rule, mon ami. Please remember me, Julien.”

Laura took a deep breath, then held the paper to her heart. April is a fickle month in Philadelphia. And Spring is the season of promises that may or may not be met. Laura carefully opened her leather briefcase and slid the drawing into the front sleeve. She folded the top over, then placed it at her feet, her fingers tight on the handle.