Like any other regular day, the next morning Frédérique woke up and started putting on the clothes she had prepared the night before. She preferred to dress up for all her clients, not out of vanity, but out of sheer marketing: it was always a safe bet to make a good first impression and that was something she was good at.
She chose a pair of fine, tight, moonlight blue jeans, knee high boots and a tight little white cotton jacket - with thin silver and pink threads - that fit her waist and rounded up her overall balanced silhouette, with just a little cleavage. She braided her long, thick dark brown hair and rolled the braids around her skull – in a Grecian style like her mother had taught her – leaving some lose strands. She barely wore any makeup, but accentuated her eyes with some mascara and liner, her cheekbones with just a splash of powder and barely-there lipgloss on her lips. Finally, Frédérique sprayed on a little bit of her favourite unisex cologne – the same one she had used since she was 13.
She headed straight out through the tunnel towards the highway and as soon as she left the chaos of Manhattan Pennsylvania
She started singing along at the top of her voice and in record time she was already in Bear Run. She took the guided tour of Fallingwater, enjoying the beautiful green surroundings and then stopped for a cappuccino before heading for the meeting point. She had estimated it would take about 35 minutes to get there from where she was, but decided to allow 45 minutes just in case the location proved more difficult to find than expected.
As Frédérique approached the site, she could see a black truck parked right outside the gate. Her stomach clenched at the thought of arriving late - unpunctuality was something she couldn’t understand and wouldn’t allow herself to inflict upon others, least of all a potential client - so she checked her cell phone to see the time, it was 7 to 1. Phew. She looked around but saw no movement whatsoever. She parked and got out of the car to approach the truck and knocked on the driver’s side window.
Nothing.
She tried to peek through the tainted glass windows by using both her hands as a shield on the sides of her face and coming close to the glass until her nose bumped against it, leaving a small dot. Then looked around.
Nothing.
She took a deep breath. Patience. She sat back on the car leaving the door open, as she listened to the music coming from the speakers. It was a slightly cloudy day and the temperature somewhat comfortable, but she could see darker clouds forming on the horizon and prayed that it didn’t rain until she was through with the meeting.
She sat back, one leg hanging out from the car seat, the tip of her boot brushing against the gravel beneath it as she swung it back and forth. One thought crawled back into her head – what if..? That would be funny, no? But what difference would it make? He was just a human being for crying out loud, and bottom line he was just a client.
She looked at the time. 2 to 1. Patience.
Singing along to one of her favorite songs in the album, Frédérique remembered the 6 months she had traveled like a gypsy all around Europe with some of her friends from college. Her feminine singing voice dwarfed in comparison to Nelson’s.
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We’re the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way is…
Suddenly she heard another voice joining
…on the road again,
I just can’t wait to get on the road again…
She incorporated herself and came out of the car, as she saw the owner of the voice coming out of a winding path that disappeared into the bright green background. He was statuesque: tall, thin and muscular. He was wearing light brown cargo pants and a body-hugging long sleeved white top, the trail of buttons that went down to the middle of his chest completely undone. Shoulder-length wavy chocolate hair flapped backwards as he walked towards her with a smile, still singing…The life I love is making music with my friends…and I can’t wait to get on the road again. Growling when he accentuated the word “road”.
She recognized something of the man she had seen on the CD booklet the night before in the man in front of her, but this one - though older - looked, if at all possible, much more attractive. Anyway she made some quick maths…if he was around his 30’s when I was 14, then by now he should be around…45? 50? No way. This person looked no older than in his late 30’s or early 40’s. She had trouble wrapping her head around the idea that they were the same person.
He looked so relaxed and at ease it was contagious. Frédérique couldn’t help but smile, not the “marketing” smile - the real one - as he greeted her.
“Ms. Balbé?”.
“That must be me, yes. Are you Mr….?” she said extending her hand.
“…Sambora...um…Richie” he finished and - catching her French accent – taking her hand, he kissed it, bending forward a little as if paying courtesy: “Enchanté, mademoiselle”.
