California, Berkeley, then attended Stanford Law School, passed the California bar, and immediately moved to Laguna Beach where he had found a small office above an antique store on Glenneyre Street and opened his own practice. The sign on the side of the building read: “LAW OFFICES M. A. Zennelli, Attorney at Law.” He didn’t have a lot of clients, but the ones he had seemed to keep him busy processing mostly real estate litigation. He drove a new navy blue BMW convertible, worked out daily, and liked to eat out a lot. Anna had thought that he was a sweet guy the day she had literally run into him jogging on the beach near her condo. They had started dating and, she had to admit, they had fun together, but the relationship had never blossomed, despite Mark’s occasional suggestion that it might.
Since she had returned from France, he had been trying to understand what was going on with her. She had been indifferent, aloof. He liked her enough to be patient, telling himself that it was her grief over her grandparents that had caused her to become more distant. So he had come up with a plan. The package sitting at her door represented the initial effort.
CHAPTER 12
M ark and Anna stood in front of the open French doors of her condo. Outside, the shimmering blue-green Pacific Ocean sent sparkling waves crashing to the beach. Mark’s hazel eyes reflected the ocean as he watched her open the mysterious package that had arrived that afternoon on her doorstep. It was a large oil painting—one of those Paris street paintings.
“I found it on consignment in one of those small galleries just down the highway. I thought you’d like it,” he said. “I guess some old lady had bought it on a trip to Europe decades ago and didn’t want it anymore. I know how much you like Paris, and it sort of, ah, reminded me of you.” He shifted his weight to his other foot and waited for her reaction.
The painting was a cliché. In the impressionistic style of Paris street artists, it was the often-painted scene of the place du Tertre in Montmartre, the artists’ square, with the white dome of Sacré-Coeur visible in the background. In the foreground was the Café Gascogne, with a blurry assortment of people seated at tables under a green awning. A couple walked in the square, the woman clothed in a bright, tulip red. It appeared to be a cloudy day, and the artist had given the street a mirrored effect as if it were wet from a recent rain.
“You know, it’s odd, but I’ve never purchased one of these paintings in Paris, Mark. All the time I’ve spent there, I’ve admired lots of the artists’ work. I always thought it would be too much trouble to get through customs. This one is rather nice. Thank you.” Anna was touched by Mark’s thoughtfulness. Her brown eyes glistened. She looked up. “I have the perfect spot for it—over there, on that wall.” She pointed to an empty space above the persimmon-colored couch. “It will go perfectly with the colors of the room.”
“Anna…” Mark hesitated a moment and then dropped what he was going to say. “I…I’m glad you like it.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. Without pulling back, she let him kiss her. He was warm and smelled of musk. His strong arms enveloped her small frame. “How about dinner tonight? My place. I’m cooking for a change. Spaghetti alla Bolognese . It’s a family specialty.”
“That should be a treat. Sure.”
That evening, after dinner, with Paris at their feet, they lay wrapped in a large beach blanket on the chaise lounge on Mark’s balcony. He listened with his arms around her as Anna shared with him the story that her grandfather had told her before he died in the hospital. She told him about the Corsican father she hadn’t known who had died as a soldier in Algeria, and about the mother who hadn’t cared to know her. She poured out her heart to him about losing her grandparents, all the questions she had
Since she had returned from France, he had been trying to understand what was going on with her. She had been indifferent, aloof. He liked her enough to be patient, telling himself that it was her grief over her grandparents that had caused her to become more distant. So he had come up with a plan. The package sitting at her door represented the initial effort.
CHAPTER 12
M ark and Anna stood in front of the open French doors of her condo. Outside, the shimmering blue-green Pacific Ocean sent sparkling waves crashing to the beach. Mark’s hazel eyes reflected the ocean as he watched her open the mysterious package that had arrived that afternoon on her doorstep. It was a large oil painting—one of those Paris street paintings.
“I found it on consignment in one of those small galleries just down the highway. I thought you’d like it,” he said. “I guess some old lady had bought it on a trip to Europe decades ago and didn’t want it anymore. I know how much you like Paris, and it sort of, ah, reminded me of you.” He shifted his weight to his other foot and waited for her reaction.
The painting was a cliché. In the impressionistic style of Paris street artists, it was the often-painted scene of the place du Tertre in Montmartre, the artists’ square, with the white dome of Sacré-Coeur visible in the background. In the foreground was the Café Gascogne, with a blurry assortment of people seated at tables under a green awning. A couple walked in the square, the woman clothed in a bright, tulip red. It appeared to be a cloudy day, and the artist had given the street a mirrored effect as if it were wet from a recent rain.
“You know, it’s odd, but I’ve never purchased one of these paintings in Paris, Mark. All the time I’ve spent there, I’ve admired lots of the artists’ work. I always thought it would be too much trouble to get through customs. This one is rather nice. Thank you.” Anna was touched by Mark’s thoughtfulness. Her brown eyes glistened. She looked up. “I have the perfect spot for it—over there, on that wall.” She pointed to an empty space above the persimmon-colored couch. “It will go perfectly with the colors of the room.”
“Anna…” Mark hesitated a moment and then dropped what he was going to say. “I…I’m glad you like it.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. Without pulling back, she let him kiss her. He was warm and smelled of musk. His strong arms enveloped her small frame. “How about dinner tonight? My place. I’m cooking for a change. Spaghetti alla Bolognese . It’s a family specialty.”
“That should be a treat. Sure.”
That evening, after dinner, with Paris at their feet, they lay wrapped in a large beach blanket on the chaise lounge on Mark’s balcony. He listened with his arms around her as Anna shared with him the story that her grandfather had told her before he died in the hospital. She told him about the Corsican father she hadn’t known who had died as a soldier in Algeria, and about the mother who hadn’t cared to know her. She poured out her heart to him about losing her grandparents, all the questions she had
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