Kiddie Pool (Incipit)

“Looking great, Madame Espinosa!” Omar cheered from the other side of the pool.

He jogged towards her as she pulled herself out of the water, merely earning a disapproving tsk for his swiftness.

“You of all people—” she began.

“I know, I know. No running around the pool,” he sheepishly admitted.

“If I have to hear you yelling this to my kids all summer long, it’s not for you to break both your cardinal rule and these gorgeous legs of yours,” she chided, albeit amused.

Omar chuckled away his discomfort and handed the soaked woman a towel.

“Thank you, cariño.” She smiled like his mother used to when he bought aspirin for her back pain instead of his father’s Gitanes cigarettes. She looked around the empty pool area, noticing how low the sun had dipped in the now blood-orange sky. “Dios mío, I had not realized it was this late. I must be keeping you away from your evening plans.”

“It’s alright, Madame. You’re my favorite guest,” he flashed his signature grin and watched the blushing woman plodding toward the main building, her gaudy pink swimsuit still dripping.

Zora will kill me, Omar’s mind raced as he imagined the tiny but terrifying woman slapping the back of his head and blaming him for the wet carpet. Shaking off his nascent fear, he strode towards the pool shed. He removed his sweat-soaked cap to let the early evening breeze cool down his head and attached it to the door handle. Grabbing a net, he walked back to the pool and finished his shift, itching to take his girl to the restaurant Vivienne had told him about.

As he headed for the employee entrance, a chorus of hushed voices caught his ear. Curious, Omar swiveled on his heels and crept toward the noise instead and peeked behind the building. Océane Leblanc leaned against the sandstone walls, her silk camisole wrinkling under her weight. Her brows were furrowed, and her face was a shade away from vermilion.

Omar did not recognize the man standing mere centimeters from her face, whose hushed tone merely exacerbated an already intense word-to-spit ratio. Omar could not hear any of the words exchanged, making it impossible for him to decide whether to save Océane from the man’s salivary clutches or let her finish her business. She was his boss’s daughter after all.

“Do you need something?” Océane inquired abruptly, her nose scrunched like the haughty rich girl she pretended to be.

Omar stammered an apology that neither of its recipients could hear and retreated to the employee locker room, where he truly belonged. Behind him, the man made a comment about his interruption, which Océane urged him to ignore, dismissing Omar merely as the "new cabana boy."

With the lights out, Omar changed in the darkness, hoping his new linen shirt was properly buttoned. He left the hotel grounds, his mind troubled as he feverishly paced near the docks.

“Evening, Omar,” Monsieur Simon greeted a few minutes later as he steered his boat into its usual spot. He held out his hand and pulled the young man aboard. “How was your day?”

“Same old, same old,” he sighed heavily, watching the Grand Hôtel de Lérins falling away on the horizon. The awe that had beguiled him upon his first arrival on the island was long gone and all he could see was an old abbey that had been profaned and replaced with another temple. Only this one had been erected not in the glory of God, but of Léonard Leblanc. Omar supposed that on Saint-Honorat Island, these two were one and the same.

“One of these days you’ll understand that ‘same old’ is the best it’ll ever get,” Monsieur Simon lectured, right on cue.

“Whatever,” Omar muttered.

“So, what are your plans for tonight?”

“I’m trying out a new place,” Omar said, hoping to divert his thoughts.

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“Il Nido. You know it?”

“Don’t I! Never been though. Too pricey for this old man,” Monsieur Simon chuckled.

Silently cursing Vivienne and her managerial salary, Omar disembarked on the mainland and he dropped his body on the nearest bench, resting his eyes for what he promised himself would be a minute. A series of footsteps running in his direction alerted him awake and a pair of hands wrapped around his head to cover his eyes before he had time to react.

“Guess who!” a female voice rang in his ears.

Omar’s lips curled up as he spun around and pulled Océane by the waist into an embrace.

“I’m sorry about what I said back there. You know I had to,” she explained apologetically.

“Yeah, I know.” He laced his fingers with hers and pulled her away from the port, aware of Simon’s perceptive gaze.

“Where are we going?” she giddily asked.

“It’s a surprise,” Omar replied cryptically, pulling her down the lively streets towards the center of Cannes. For a brief moment, they walked side-by-side in anonymity. But when Omar’s fingers grazed Océane’s silver bracelet, he covered up his telltale jolt with chivalry the pair both knew he did not have. Nevertheless, she carried on in front of him and agreed to follow the direction of his voice alone.

When they reached Le Repère des Brigands, a buoyant bistro across upscale Il Nido, Océane’s lips curled into a smile.

“Really, Omar?” she teased.

“What? It’s kind of funny,” he defended himself with a grin and pulled her inside. “I know what you rich people think of me. I’m only trying to deliver.”

Océane shook her head in mock disapproval and took in the dizzying laughter filling the space. There once was a time when her face would have fallen at the sight of the dirty tables and grimy parquet. There once was a time when she would not have traded her gilded cage for anything. Before meeting Omar, form had always trumped function in her book. But the intrepid boy seated across from her had gone and ripped out all of the pages. At least, that was what the boy desperately wanted to believe.

He ordered for the both of them, his gaze carefully trained on the candle’s flame dancing above the wick.

“Don’t,” Océane cautioned softly.

“What’s up?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Don’t you go all shy on me when you’ve been pestering me all week.”

Omar grinned. “I’m just lost in thought.”

“Well then,” she rested her elbow on the table and leaned towards him. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Why the hell did you say yes?” he blurted out.

It was Océane’s turn to be suddenly overcome by the beauty of the dancing flame as the shadows carving her face darkened.

“So it was just a ‘fuck you’ to your father,” he scoffed.

“Not quite, but the truth is much worse.”

“Okay, I won’t pry,” he conceded, partly because he was annoyed. But a bigger part of him was disappointed in himself for holding Océane to a higher standard than he had any other girl he liked in the past.

“I’m planning on killing him and pinning it on you,” she revealed as casually as if she was discussing the weather.

Omar’s boisterous laugh echoed through the bistro as he shook his head. “You’re funny.”

“You have no idea,” she murmured as a waiter approached with their dinner.

“Do you come here often?” Océane asked, breaking the silence that had enveloped them since the waiter departed.

“Nope. First time,” he admitted.

She replied with a nod. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“No. We moved a few months ago from Marseille.”

“We?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“My parents, my sisters, and me,” he elaborated.

“You'd know this place is an institution if you were a local,” she asserted with pride.

“So, you’ve been here before?” he asked, taken aback.

“Of course, I have! What must you think of me?”

“Then, why did you let me order?”

“Because you’re cute when you take charge,” she teased.

“Don’t mock me, Océane.” Omar’s annoyance had migrated from the situation to the girl he had coveted for weeks. He had never been one for games, and it seemed Océane Leblanc had plenty up her sleeves.

“I’ll stop when you stop,” she countered.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking you’ve got us all figured out.” An air of melancholy glazed her eyes and she resumed eating. After pushing her empty plate aside, she softened her voice, “I didn’t mean to deceive you, I’m sorry. It’s just that everyone at the hotel knows I like sneaking away so I haven’t been able to for a while. Not until I met you.”

“Why don’t you just buy a boat and leave?” he asked with more bitterness than intended.

“Because if I do that, I can never return.”

“You don’t have to go back, Océane! If it’s that unbearable, then just start over somewhere else.”

“What, with you?” she asked, amused.

Omar fought to calm his rising temper, forcing his body to lean back into a feigned nonchalance. “Nah, you’d just be a nuisance. Besides, I’ve only just landed this job. I’m not about to lose it for aiding and abetting.”

“So he’s got you in his pocket, too,” she remarked coolly.

“Well, he pays me very well,” he admitted.

“It’s all about money, then?” There was no mistaking the disappointment lacing her words, though it only served to unnerve Omar further.

He shook his head, exhaling deeply. "Whatever you say."

After insisting on settling the bill, Omar left the bistro in silence. Océane grabbed her purse and hurried behind. The streets of Cannes were as lively as ever, and the pair tried their best to pretend like they were in similarly happy moods. As they neared the sea, their disingenuous smiles dissipated upon the sight of an empty dock, with Monsieur Simon being nowhere in sight.