Monarch Manor

by Maureen Leurck

  Sufficiently depressed, I clicked off social media and glanced back at my in-box, and Gerry’s e-mail about the letter from Louisa to her sister caught my eye. I opened it back up and scanned it, my gaze landing on the line about visiting relatives in Adare Village.

  I took another long sip of wine. “Ireland, huh? Well, Louisa, that’s always been on my list, too.”

  Luke and I had talked about going to Ireland for our honeymoon, what felt like a million years ago. He wanted Spain, I wanted Ireland. I tried to pull the heritage card out, saying I was sure that I had relatives still living over there and it was a kind of birthright trip, but he didn’t buy it. We compromised and went to Greece, touring the islands, stuffing ourselves with baklava, and washing it down with the most incredible wines. We promised each other that we would make it to Ireland and Spain at a different time. But then, of course, life happened. The last vacation we took was a weekend trip to an indoor waterpark two years ago, when I think we both slept four hours over two days and vowed to never leave our house again.

  I went back to social media, liking pictures of distant cousins’ birthday parties and commenting on baby announcements. I stopped on a picture of one of my mother’s cousins wearing green and drinking a Guinness. The caption read: It’s St. Patrick’s Day every day around here!!

  I thought again about Louisa’s letter and did some quick calculations. If Emily, my great-grandmother, visited her cousins, then surely some would still be living there. I knew that the cousins in Ireland had the last name of Diamond, and I remembered my mother talking about how they owned a hardware store in Adare Village, or at least someone did at some point.

  I clicked over to Google and entered Diamond Hardware Store in Adare, Ireland, and a list of results popped up. The first couple were for jewelry stores, but then one halfway down was a review of Diamond Hardware in Adare.

  Great service, Denny and Therese always treat their customers like family.

  Back on Facebook, I looked them up. One click away and jackpot. Therese Diamond of Adare, Ireland. I studied her profile picture. She had long dark hair with streaks of gray swept to the side, and the same too-round cheeks that I was cursed with. Her eyes were a bright blue and in the picture she had her arm around what I assumed was her husband, Denny.

  “How neat,” I said as I reached for my wine again. After a quick sip, my finger hovered over the keyboard. “What the hell, right? They’re family.” I typed a message introducing myself and briefly explained my quest to find Amelia and John and mentioned the letter from Louisa to Emily. At least, I intended for it to be brief, but when I looked up it was ten paragraphs long. Before I could stop myself, I hit Send.

  I walked back over to my bed and collapsed onto it. I fell asleep with my clothes on, lying on top of the blanket. When I woke up the next morning, my head was pounding before I even opened my eyes. I slowly sat up, pressing the heel of my hand to my right eye, desperate to stop the pain. I could still taste the syrupy wine in my mouth as I put my head in both hands. I took some slow, deep breaths, and as the headache subsided only then did I remember my discussion with Luke.

  We were going to have to sell the house. Then, another kind of pain moved through my body and wouldn’t let go.

  CHAPTER 29

  AMELIA

  “Help me with this, Rose,” Georgina Lindemann said as she tried to wriggle out of her life jacket from her seat on the yacht. She still held a glass of champagne in one hand, the sticky sweet liquid sloshing over her beaded gown.

  “Leave this on, Georgina. For goodness’ sakes, we all know you can’t swim!” Rose said with a laugh. Yet she still held one hand out and helped her friend take off her life jacket.

  Amelia heard Captain Scott’s protests from behind her and could see that he was shouting, although his words were whisked away by the winds whipping across the water, churning up waves and blowing the sweat from her face. John shivered, and Amelia pulled him toward her, pressing her hand against his side.

  “No one here can swim!” Amelia heard the captain shout.

  And as far as he knew, that was true.

  * * *

  A year earlier, when John first put his face in the water, Amelia thought her heart would burst in the seconds between when he submerged and when he reappeared. It was at the YMCA, when he was four years old, his tiny body bobbing up and down in the water next to his swim instructor. Amelia sat on the side of the pool, perched in an uncomfortable metal chair, as she watched John’s every movement and flutter in the cold water. Her hat was pulled down low over her brow, shielding her face from anyone who might recognize her, even though it was after hours and she had paid the staff to let her and John in. If any of her society friends wanted their kids to learn how to swim, they hired a private instructor to come to their personal swimming pool or to take their child out onto the lake for lessons.

  That was exactly what she had counted on when she had paid for the lessons, and for the use of the pool after hours, six months before, right before his fourth birthday.

  The first time he saw the water, his eyes went wide with fear and he tried to turn on his heel and run out of the building, away from the water. Of course, he had seen deep water in Lake Geneva, at Monarch Manor, but this was different somehow. This was more terrifying. That was also something Amelia had expected and the reason why she chose a pool rather than the lake. She needed him to learn how to stay calm in scary situations in the water and to learn survival skills.

  She needed him to learn how to swim to save his own life.

  So each week, on Tuesday evenings when he didn’t have lessons with his tutors scheduled, she had her coachman drop them off three blocks away from the YMCA building, under the guise of going for an evening stroll with her son. He would always look them up and down, meet her eyes with curiosity, and then nod. She doubled his salary, even though she couldn’t afford it with the small allowance from Margaret, and the curious looks stopped.

  She had coaxed John into the water for the first time by hiking up her skirt and putting her feet in, shoes and all. She could feel the instructor staring at her, and she pulled her hat lower down on her brow.

  “Look! Look at me!” she signed to John as she splashed around, water beading off of her black shoes. The water was freezing, but she smiled and threw her hands up in the air like the silliest mom in the world.

  John had looked from her shoes to her, a grin spreading across his face, and he took a tiny step closer to her, wanting to see how far down her legs went.

  “Put your feet in the water,” she signed to him, gesturing encouragingly and patting the wet tile next to her. She could feel the cold seeping through her skirt, and for a moment she wondered how she was going to get home without everyone noticing she looked like one of the otters that lived under the pier at Monarch Manor.

  John shook his head but crept closer to the edge, and she saw his thin shoulders relax as he studied the water. He was always like that, observing everything and everyone. She often wished she could close her eyes, put a hand on his head, and see what he was thinking. She felt as though nothing escaped him, and she often felt like he shared only an iceberg’s tip of what he felt and thought.

  His swim instructor, Michael, tried to bring him into the water also, lightly splashing at the surface and gesturing how to pick the water up with his hands, letting it fall through his fingers in mock surprise. But John remained in place, watching the water lap against the side of the pool.

  The next week was more successful, and he dipped a toe into the water. He quickly pulled it out, but still, Amelia knew this was a success. The following week, it was both feet, and then after that, his legs. It took two months before he would stand in the water, and each week she sat on the side of the pool, water soaking through her skirts. After the first session, she wised up and brought a change of clothes so she wouldn’t have to lie about unexpected puddles or rainstorms to the staff.

  Then, finally, he was ready to put his face i
n. Amelia knew this was an important moment. If Michael could get him to hold his breath and blow bubbles under the water, then he could survive. They could teach him to tread water, but the breathing would come first.

  He had looked at her with fear and uncertainty right before he did it, and she gave him the biggest smile she could muster and nodded her head.

  It’s all right. I am right here. I will never let anything happen to you, she whispered in her head.

  His face went under, and Amelia didn’t breathe until she saw tiny bubbles come up from under him as he exhaled. Then, his face popped back up, water streaming down, and Michael hugged him tight, patting him on the back in triumph. She had told him that she would give him a hefty bonus once John was able to take the first step, and for his continued discretion.

  Amelia started clapping and cheering, frantically signing in between to John.

  And so the lessons continued, in secret, until he was able to jump from the side of the pool, kick to the surface, and tread water until he was rescued.

  Then, she knew he was ready.

  * * *

  On the yacht, in the distance, across the shore from Monarch Manor, Amelia saw a flickering light. From her vantage point in the water, even though the rain splashed on the surface of the lake, she could see three distinct flickers: flash, flash, flash. Then a pause, and it repeated itself over and over again.

  It was just two weeks ago that she had told John of the plan: “We are going to go on a boat ride after Aunt Jane’s wedding. And then, we are going to go for a swim, and we will swim, swim, swim to the other side of the lake. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  “Will it be scary?” he had signed back.

  She pressed him to her chest for a moment, kissing the bridge of his nose as she had since he was an infant, and then looked in his eyes. “It might be, for a moment, but I will be right there. I will make sure you are safe. You are a good swimmer, and you are ready,” she had signed back.

  He had cautiously nodded, mulling over the possibility in his mind. Each day after that, she reminded him of the plan and stressed that it was their secret—that it was the most important secret they would ever have between them. She was for once thankful that his world was small, without many people in it, and she could more easily make sure he didn’t tell someone their secret.

  “Remember, do not go in the water before the boat ride,” she had reminded him after the ceremony.

  But now it was time.

  CHAPTER 30

  ERIN

  “Well, you’ll have to paint the stucco on top, that’s for sure.” Jeannine Grant, a realtor married to one of Luke’s coworkers, squinted up at my house from the front porch. She was blond and thin and looked like she spray tanned once a week. Her tiny nose wrinkled for a moment before she turned to me and smiled. “Let’s see the rest of it.”

  Luke held an arm out and let Jeannine and me go first. I heard her grumble about the steep pitch of the concrete stairs leading up to the front porch, and then she did an exaggerated half pitch as she walked across the slanted porch, her wedge heels creaking against the old wood. Luke and I exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised, as we trailed behind her.

  “So you never painted the wood inside. Interesting,” she said as her neck craned around the foyer, taking in the original oak staircase and the wide baseboards and hand-carved crown molding. “I’m sure some buyers—those with a hobby in preservation—will be interested in such a thing.”

  I thought about the article I had read the night before, when I was doing research on what the market was like for historic homes and came across an interview in the Chicago Tribune about a woman whose life passion was preserving old houses. Alex Proctor was her name, and although she lived up in Wisconsin, she had become something of a local midwestern celebrity with her dedication to preserving the past. She had said in the article, “Old houses are a treasure, and should be treated as such.”

  “Some people think old houses are a treasure,” I repeated to Jeannine.

  She made a noise and nodded as she continued through the house, her gold dangly earrings softly clinking together as she swished her head back and forth. “Oh, hello!” She stopped when she saw Will and Charlotte sitting on the couch, iPads in hand.

  “Say hi, kids,” I said automatically. Charlotte looked up and quickly waved, but Will’s gaze remained on his screen.

  Jeannine frowned and walked over, bending down and putting her face near Will’s. “Hi there!” she said brightly.

  I saw him jump, and then instinctively his hand went out and unfortunately made contact with her long sparkly earring, catching it. She yelped in pain, holding her ear. She reeled back, pulling her hand from her ear and checking for blood. There was a tiny drop on her fingertip.

  “I’m so sorry! Will! That was terrible. We don’t hit; you know that,” I said as I rushed forward. When he didn’t look up, I took the iPad from him, which got his attention. He started flailing on the couch, his arms moving like propellers as he reached for it.

  My face burning, I grabbed him, ducking from his arms. I looked at Luke and hissed, “I’ll take him outside; you handle inside.” I didn’t even look at Jeannine.

  I hauled Will across the front porch, and down the steps, and to my car in the driveway. I managed to get the door open and pin him down in his car seat as I strapped him in, his hands hitting my face and head. Finally, I got him inside. I turned the car’s air-conditioning on and sat in the driver’s seat, listening to his wails and screams of frustration as I reminded him to stay calm. I pulled the laminated visual card out of my purse, the one that said: Take a deep breath. Calm body, and pointed to it several times, trying to desperately hand it to him, but he was too far gone in his meltdown to come back.

  As he screamed, I watched Luke and Jeannine walk through the upstairs of the house. First, they went into Charlotte’s room and she opened the drapes, peering out onto the front yard. Then, I saw her in the bathroom, and even from the driveway I could see a look of concern on her face. Next up was Will’s room, which we had tried to straighten the best possible, but he moved everything around immediately. The blue LEGOs were supposed to be lined up on the windowsill, and the Thomas the Train figures had to be on the floor, in a line, all their faces perfectly matched, without any space in between.

  I saw Jeannine pitch forward, and I could only imagine that she tripped over the train figures. I glanced back at Will in the mirror, and he was starting to sob rather than scream, a sign that his meltdown had peaked. I unbuckled my seat belt and got into the backseat. I held his sweaty hand, his body on fire. I slowly took him out of the seat and pulled him onto my lap in the back. His body scrunched up into a tiny ball like an infant’s, and I rocked him back and forth.

  “It’s my fault. I made a mistake. You’re safe. You’re calm. I’m here. We love you,” I whispered over and over, my eyes closed. When I felt his body relax and his breathing go steady, I opened my eyes, and I saw Luke and Jeannine walking out of the side door, down the rickety steps that we were told had been put in by an owner in the 1920s. The basement was once a cellar with an outside door, and a previous owner had walled in the side door and the entrance to the cellar in a very homemade way, and the staircase was terrifying even on a good day.

  We had talked about not taking Jeannine that way, at least on her first visit, and I could see the look on her face as she and Luke stopped in the driveway and spoke. She seemed to be talking very fast, her head bobbing back and forth, with her dangly earrings swinging, as she rocked on the heels of her wedges. Luke nodded several times, his hands in his jeans, his head down. Finally, she turned and walked toward her car. She gave me a bright smile as she walked past the car and then an exaggerated sad frown when she saw Will in my lap, his body huddled against me. Luke walked over to the car and got into the passenger seat.

  “Well?” I said. The air in the car suddenly felt heavy, despite the constant flow of cold air from the vents.

  He
didn’t turn around and I saw his shoulders sag forward.

  “That bad, huh?” I tried to keep my words light, but they caught in my throat like a lump of dough that had too much water in it. Sticky, immobile, unyielding. Will whimpered and I kissed the top of his head, even as he leaned away from the touch. “How can it be bad news? We’ve done so much to the house since we moved in.”

  It was true; besides painting every room, turning it over from blinding shades of yellow, green, and burgundy, we had replaced the carpeting in the family room that smelled like dog urine. (And, truthfully, occasionally still did on hot summer days. Soaked into the subfloor, is what the contractors had told us. Whichever dog had lived there before was like a urine ghost, haunting us evermore.) We had also pulled down wallpaper, refinished the floors in the living room, repaired the fence, and done dozens more projects that slowly ate away at our savings each year.

  “Market isn’t the best,” he said. “A few houses some blocks away were short sales, and drove the price down for everyone. Not to mention, it’s going to be the holidays soon, and no one wants to buy then. If we list now, we have to list for an aggressive price, according to Jeannine, if we have any hope of selling and getting Will into Lakewood for the rest of the school year.”

  “Aggressive price? So you’re saying we have to basically give the house away.” I looked up at the giant maple tree in the front yard, the orange and yellow leaves still clinging to the branches. I loved the way it shaded the yard and seemed to be even older than the house. The first year we lived here, we watched in dismay as the leaves seemed to regenerate the moment we had them all raked up and in yard waste bags. More than once, Luke had threatened to chop it down as we sweated and raked and bagged. He always said it directly to the tree, too, as though it were listening. Last year, I was pretty sure it heard him, since right after he whispered, “Enjoy your last season,” it dropped a pile of leaves on his head.