Chapter 12

The next morning was grey and rainy, with a chill wind from the Mediterranean. When she looked out over the campground, she saw that the orange cat was huddled in a relatively dry corner of the balcony where he avoided most of the rain. He looked at her with disgust. She shook her finger at him and went out, dressed in a warm sweatsuit, to get croissants for breakfast and bread for the day.

Helen spent several hours writing reports and talking on the phone with clients and with Marie in Paris. She was working at her computer on revisions to the Freiburg Project. There were a few minor changes to the design: she was really only fussing with details — costly details, but not fundamental structural changes.

Mid-morning, a gust of wind rattled the window, and Helen noticed the orange cat was still huddled into the corner of the balcony. She battled with her better judgment for at least 45 seconds and opened the door. The cat rose, stretched, and walked into the apartment. He spoke briefly to her — something not particularly complimentary — made a cursory investigation of the living room, and curled up under the radiator next to the window. He did not acknowledge Helen's existence.

She returned to her work. Her last project was finished. She had had a final walk-through with the owner and now was concerned only with making sure the contractors completed the punch list of remaining details that had resulted. Her attention was now wholly on her new job. The groundwork was well advanced. Over the past month or two, she had developed the designs for the contract she had won and now had to turn into a profitable job. Design and build is a form of architecture that gives the architect the ability to design a structure in an optimal way so that she can then build it profitably.

When the sun did not appear after lunch, Helen changed out of her sweat suit. When she put the orange cat outside, he let her know he was not pleased.

She drove to Beziers and spent some time buying groceries and wine. She looked in a few clothing store windows, dodging the occasional raindrops, but felt no need to shop.

'I'll come back when it's nicer, not so wet, ' she thought. On her way home, she recalled her earlier promise to visit Sandy Duvin's new store, and turned in. There were parking spaces in front, next to a forbidding wire fence. A gate with a security keypad allowed entry to the area inside. There was an entry marked "Accueil" at the side near the gate. There was another window and entry at the other end of the building, apparently unused, and an entrance in the middle, probably to an apartment on the first floor.

The rain had resumed, and she had to dig out her umbrella before dashing into the office. Sandy came to meet her, dressed in a sweat shirt and jeans. He glanced at her tightly zippered knit shirt and brief skirt.

"Hi," he said, reaching to shake Helen's hand. "I didn't really expect to see you today of all days, with the weather like this."

"I never got here the other day. Then I was out of town over the weekend until yesterday, and this afternoon I decided to go to Beziers," Helen replied. "Do some shopping, order some wine. When I came this way, I remembered that I'd said I'd come in. So I did. Sorry I couldn't make it sooner. What's this all about?"

Sandy took her umbrella and put it in a corner stand. "You said you haven't been in America much?" he asked, then went on. "In nearly every town there are places like this." He gestured to a wide window on the back wall. "Those buildings out there are made up of rooms or lockers of different sizes, each with its own door. They're for storage — you can put anything in them. Anything legal, that is. You pay by the month on a credit card and you put your own lock on the door. Access to the yard is computerized; I give you a code to get in the gate and that means I will know when you use your space. You can come any time, day or night, and get at your stuff."

"Can you make money at this?"

"Well, obviously I can if enough people sign up for space. It's not labor intensive, thanks to the computer system. I expect to get vacationers of course, but I also plan to get merchants and businesses here to take space as well. That's good solid revenue."

"The French aren't used to this, you know. Businesses tend to use buildings they own or rent themselves," Helen said. She shivered in the draft from a partly open window.

"Come upstairs," Sandy suggested. "It's warmer and I can show you the rest of this building on our way." He led her through the door.

The first floor was indeed warmer. There were large, empty rooms above each of the two front offices, and to the rear, a neat, comfortably furnished apartment with a spacious living room, two bedrooms, kitchen and bath.

"As for getting commercial business, you're right, that may take time," Sandy observed. "How about a glass of wine?" he asked, reaching for a bottle of local red wine on the kitchen counter. When Helen nodded, he took down clean glasses and poured for both of them. Helen realized that she liked the way he moved. His manner put her at ease.

They returned to the living room and sat on the comfortable couch. They talked for some time, sharing information about their recent backgrounds, discovering some common viewpoints, shared pleasures. They wandered about the room. Sandy produced snacks. He told familiar anecdotes about tussles with the French bureaucracy. Helen was able to shed some light on lessons she had learned during her efforts to renovate her apartment. Being an architect had not spared her the vagaries of the French planning authorities, though her experience had allowed her to bear the inconsistencies and pettiness with both resignation and resourcefulness.

At one point Helen thought to herself, 'I'm having fun. I'm having a great time.' And she went on with the talk that was somehow more than conventional chat.