Page 17 of Tell Me What you Think

Chapter 8

Olga has always considered herself a calm, controlled woman—except when Marina is around—but right now she can't stop bouncing her leg while she waits at the post office. She's uncomfortable: she slept terribly last night, it's too hot inside, and on top of that, even though she got there early, when she pulled her ticket she found a small army of people ahead of her. She sighs and tries to settle down, but every time the screen calls a number her shoulders tense as if they'd shouted her name out loud.

When her turn finally comes, Olga signs where she's told, takes the envelope, and heads straight for the door. Her plan is to get to the office, sit at her desk, and open the letter somewhere quiet—but the first thing she noticed when they handed it over was a law firm's letterhead, and she knows all too well that no law firm ever writes to give you good news.

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, the cold, damp December air cutting straight through her coat, but she doesn't flinch. She unfolds the paper with fingers white from gripping so hard and starts to read.

All through the night she'd been mentally running through whoever might have sent a certified letter—the bank, the homeowners' association, the tax agency, that particular institution that every honest, taxpaying Spaniard, herself included, fears no matter how clean their conscience.

By the second paragraph she reads a name she recognizes: Marc Serra Vidal, and from that point on the lines begin to swim before her eyes, words and letters bleeding into each other, so that she can only catch fragments while her heart pounds like a racehorse. Estate in abeyance. Community of heirs. Rightful share of the represented party. And near the end, the sentence that knocks the breath right out of her: the possibility of a court-ordered partition and public auction of the property if the parties can't reach an agreement.

The property in question is her apartment on Paseo de Gracia—the one she inherited from her paternal grandparents.

Olga stands frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, the pages trembling in her hands while people flow around her as if she were nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle. It's her apartment. The one where her grandmother insisted on teaching her to make cannelloni. The one where her grandfather used to listen to the radio out on the balcony. And apparently it's still recorded in the property registry under a dead woman's name. What she understands from this is that the inheritance was never officially transferred—that what she signed at twenty-five, gutted with grief, wasn't what she thought it was.

She tucks the letter into her bag and walks to the office without being able to say how she gets there.

When the elevator opens on the twenty-second floor, Olga feels disoriented, because for the first time in six years, when she reaches her area, the light at the far end office is already on. Marina got here before her, and that alone makes her feel like her routine has cracked, and that absurd detail produces a dizziness she doesn't understand.

"Morning," she says, leaning into her boss's doorway. "Sorry I'm late—I had to stop by the post office and the line was—"

"I know how those lines go, Olga. Good morning," Marina replied, and there was something soft in it. "Don't worry about it. Just send me the agenda when you get a chance."

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

That's the first thing she does. She drops into her chair, turns on her computer, and peels off her coat as best she can while it boots up, leaving it draped over the back of the chair. She opens her email, finds the message she sends herself every night from her laptop with Marina's finalized schedule, and hits print without even looking at it—something she would never do on a normal day, because she goes over everything a thousand times—then gets up to collect it from the printer and take it in.

The VP takes it with one hand, scanning it while she sips her coffee, holding the mug with the other.

"Looks like we're hitting the ground running: Javier's coming down at ten to make the official announcement, and we have the first team session at noon. We'll need the big conference room—can you handle the reservation?"

"Right away," Olga said.

She goes back to her desk, sits down, pulls up the company calendar, and books the room. She lets out a satisfied breath, sure that she just needs a few minutes to collect herself and take back control—but when she checks that the time is right, she realizes that instead of reserving the large conference room, she's booked the small one.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, canceling the request and making the correction.

She's genuinely annoyed with herself. That's an intern mistake, a first-week mistake—the kind she never makes. When she's done and certain she's gotten it right, she leans back and fans the front of her sweater, waving her hand as if the flush from seeing Marina still hasn't faded.

Despite her distraction—or maybe because of it—the morning flies by, and she files into the big conference room with her boss and listens to the whole CEO speech officially announcing the Nauta Partners acquisition. She hears him say the closing is expected in the spring, that VP Cardona will be leading the transaction, and the usual line about how this is one more sign that Alcyone is moving in the right direction.

When they come out, Olga digs into the real work on the acquisition—blocking out her boss's calendar on specific dates and creating the first meeting invitations—but the whole time she has the feeling of being underwater, the hallway gossip a blur of background noise while all she can think about is that damned letter.

"Can you track down the Nauta org chart they sent us in October?"

Olga looks up and finds Marina standing right in front of her. She didn't hear her come out; her body didn't go rigid at the sound of the woman's heels crossing the floor, her heart didn't lurch when the door opened—because she's so far inside her own head that she can't focus on anything in front of her.

"Olga?"

She realizes she's been staring straight at her boss without really seeing her.

"Yes, sorry—the org chart. I'll find it and send it over right now."

"Are you okay? You look a little pale."

Olga presses a hand to her forehead. It's cold, even though she feels flushed.

"I'm fine. I just didn't sleep well, and I don't think I've had enough coffee today."