Cruel Fortunes Omnibus: Volumes One to Four

by RAE STAPLETON

  She died two days later and I went into a numb state. Leslie, drove us to the Lakehouse. I slept for a bit, but it was hard to ignore the scent of Gigi’s ghost that hung in the air. After cleaning up our dinner dishes—which consisted of take-out boxes and chopsticks—Leslie poured me a glass of wine and carried a beat-up, cardboard box up to Gigi’s room where I was sitting.

  “What’s that?”

  I looked at it. “Oh, I think that’s the box from my great-grandfather’s secret cubby.” I reached forward and pulled an album from the top out first and took a seat by the hearth. Leslie bent down and grabbed a stack of papers and then moved back to her spot on the couch.

  I looked down at the album. The first snapshot made me smile. It was an old Polaroid of my Gigi and me lying in a field of wild flowers.

  Leslie picked up a paper and then turned it toward me, pensively. She rotated her shoulders as she worked a deep breath in and out of her lungs.

  “You’re staring,” I said, irritated.

  “This is you!”

  It was a nineteenth-century portrait ripped from a history book. The image was grainy, but I recognized it. The caption below read Princess Sapphira Alexandrie of Monaco, 1857.

  She flushed and glanced at the picture and then back at me. “It’s uncanny.”

  “I saw that painting, in person. It hung in the palace study. Now do you believe me?”

  “Holy shit! I’m beginning to. Oh God, they’re going to lock us both up and throw away the key. How can you look so much like your ancestors, anyway—especially when there’s over a hundred years separating you?”

  “I don’t know that I’m related to the Princess. Maybe it’s a past-life thing.”

  “Well, is this lady from a past life as well?” she said, holding out another photo. “Because, seriously, this is you at sixteen.”

  “Now that is a relative. That’s my Great-Aunt Zafira, Gigi’s sister.”

  “Genetics are fascinating,” Leslie said. “Your name even sounds like hers?”

  “Kind of. Gigi always told me I reminded her of her sister, Zafira.

  I pushed my feet a little closer to the fire, hoping to rid them of the chill. When that didn’t work, I grabbed the next item from Grampa’s container—a shoe box—and moved to the chaise to cover myself in a black, plush blanket.

  “What’s in there?” Leslie asked, as she downed her last sip of wine.

  “Police reports, newspaper clippings and a leather notebook. You want half?”

  “Yes,” she chuckled, getting up. “But I’m going to bed. I’ve got to work tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  On impulse, I walked to Gigi closet and pulled her fur coat out. I wrapped it tightly around me. From behind closed eyelids, I could picture her ensconced in the bed the first night I came to live with her. Her room reminded me of a pillow—so peaceful with all its soft grays and muted creams. There were two banks of diamond-paned, bay windows at the far end, half veiled by gold-and-cream brocade shades and valances. The windows looked out over the dark, still lake. Chairs and loveseats were arranged in front of the windows. Against another wall was a large fireplace; across from that was a king-size bed with a large trunk at the end of it. She’d been wearing a sage green peignoir, reclining against a mountain of satiny, pearl pillows. There was a tea tray on one side of her, and she had been engrossed in a book. I had been terribly homesick and lost without my mother’s embrace. As I walked in, she had turned to face me. A bright smile lit her tired face.

  “Sophia, darling. What’s the matter? I thought I tucked you into bed an hour ago.” Her words rang in my ears as if she’d just spoken them yesterday. She’d held out her arms for me to come to her. Of course, I climbed on top of the giant bed, and she enveloped me in her arms, bending to kiss my cheek. Gigi’s hair had still been that incredible shade of fiery copper; her eyes—always her best feature—were wide and green and striking. Her skin and nails were meticulously cared for. She smelled and even sounded like my mother, so I curled in.

  I could feel her ghostly arms snuggled around me now.

  “Do you remember the story I told you when you were little?”

  “Which one?” I remembered asking.

  “The one about the magical stone from Ireland that controls time.”

  “Of course. I remember every story you tell me.”

  “There’ll come a time you won’t.”

  I shook my head no.

  “Yes, dear, there will, but it will be all right. I don’t remember everything my Oma told me. I wish I did.”

  “I’ll never forget,” I insisted.

  She’d smiled at that.

  “You do have a much better memory than me. What if I told you the magic was real?”

  I’d thought about this for only a moment and blurted, “I’d ask if I could use it to go back and save Mama.”

  I could still picture Gigi. She’d swallowed hard.

  “If you could… I’d ask you to save mine, too.”

  Wiping away a tear, I opened my eyes. I’d forgotten all about what she said. What else had I forgotten?

  I touched the satin of her favorite nightgown to my face, gently caressing, pretending I was still with her in that moment, laying against her in bed. Much like the room, the gown still smelled sweet, like her. Despite my thoughts, I wandered to the bed and drifted into that same horrible dream.

  THIRTY-TWO

  C hilled with sweat, and huddled under the blankets, I was convinced someone stood over my bed. Images of a young girl with long, dark, straight hair haunted me. She had beckoned to me from underwater, but she was always just out of reach. A shadow stood smoking a pipe at the shore. He’d followed me out of the nightmare or so it seemed. I sniffed the air; the smell of stale tobacco was gone. With one hand trembling, I fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, upset the nightmare had returned.

  It was hours later when I finally gave up on the idea of getting back to sleep and crawled out of bed. Normally, my dreams faded when I woke, but this one never did. I had endured it for years, along with a few others, each dream more vivid than the last.

  I bit back tears as I pulled on my sweater and jeans. Losing Gigi had stirred up something.

  I wandered down the hall looking for Leslie. I wanted to ask her to research the sapphire at work today. I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to know how the jewel come to be in my family. I mean, Gigi had said it had come from a curator in Ireland, but how had it come from France to Ireland. There was something there—something important. I could feel it.

  Leslie wasn’t in the guestroom, and the bed was made. It seemed odd that she hadn’t been to check on me, especially since I’d had to convince her to leave me alone in the first place. I stepped into the kitchen and was immediately handed a steamy mug.

  “Would you look at those circles under your eyes? Girl, grab me some tea bags. We’ll fix you right up,” Greta bellowed.

  “Thank you, but it doesn’t really matter how I look right now.”

  I took a sip from my mug and almost spit it back out.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “That’s a Mississippi Mudslide with a little coffee, of course.”

  “Is there alcohol in this?”

  Greta looked affronted. “Of course, there is. It’s mostly alcohol.”

  I sighed realizing she’d missed the point, and took another large sip.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked, looking around the empty kitchen.

  “No. I was waiting on you.”

  “To make you breakfast?” Of course, she was. I pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Have you heard from Aunt Addie?”

  “Yes, she’ll be here tomorrow just in time for the funeral… unfortunately.” Greta said, as she resumed filing her nails.

  “What? You don’t like Aunt Addie?” Either, I thought to myself.

  “No, Addie’s fine. She’s a big drunk—and I should know.” She laughed.

  Greta looked smal
l and stylish as she helped me cook. I use the word helped loosely, because all Greta did was file and polish her nails and whine about mosquitoes. I don’t think she had ever made a meal in her life.

  She removed a decorative, silver and black case from her purse, opened the lid and glanced inside. There were three joints left, and one of them was broken. She put one in her mouth and lit a match, touching the yellow flame to the tip. She inhaled deeply before holding it out to me. I kept looking at it, like a hungry jaguar eyeing something warm and meaty.

  “You gonna take it, darlin’, or not?”

  I shook my head after a moment of indecision, my eyes lingering on the joint. “I’d better not. I haven’t touched it in two months.”

  She shrugged and took another haul. “I quit twenty years ago. Luckily, I have a very loose definition of the word quit.” She exhaled a steady stream of grey smoke. “So what in the hell were you doing last night, anyway?” She looked like a ballerina with her silver-knotted, blonde hair but she talked like a trucker.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, perplexed by this complicated woman.

  “Well, I peeked in around ten when I got here. You were sleeping sound as a baby with a clean bottom. And then I woke to this godawful screaming around three. I can only assume it was you, since I sent your friend home. I was gonna come and check on ya, but I didn’t want to be nosey.”

  “You sent Leslie home? I thought she just left me.” I stared accusingly. Then, suddenly, I caved. I snatched the joint from her hand and inhaled deeply. She watched me exhale with obvious interest, green eyes round and mischievous.

  “What?” she twanged, waving her hands, dismissively. “She had to work today, and I’m sure she got a better night’s sleep in her own bed, unlike me, who woke to a screaming banshee. Besides, she said she’d be back tonight. So what in the hell happened? Did you stub your toe or somethin’?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m having trouble understanding you.”

  “Oh, is it the accent?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, and tried not to shout in frustration. One-two-three. Soaking in the silence of the cottage. Nothing but the ticking of the clock and the thoughts of this past week. How strange it was that I had descended from this woman. Even stranger that this vain self-absorbed creature had been born of Gigi’s warm heart. Finally I felt centered enough to speak.

  “It’s not the accent.” You’re from Canada, not Texas, you prissy bitch. “I’m having trouble understanding the fact that you heard me crying and didn’t come to console me.”

  “Well, I just figured we barely know each other. I didn’t want to be rude if you were just havin’ a moment. I mean, we all miss Mama.” She caressed her temples as if I annoyed her.

  Right, that’s why you hung around, I thought.

  “So what was the matter?” she asked, a little more sympathy in her voice this time.

  “I must have been having another nightmare.” I sat down quietly across from her in a kitchen chair and bowed my head in prayer. Something Gigi and I always did.

  “That makes sense. My therapist says dreaming is a coping mechanism. It’s probably protecting you from the pain of Mama’s death.”

  “Actually, it’s a recurring dream,” I said, handing her back the joint.

  “Do you have them often?” she asked, a little more interested.

  “Yes, for as long as I can remember.”

  “What are they about?”

  “It’s all kind of a blur. It usually involves murder, jewels and this one, crazy maniac who’s hell-bent on slaughtering anyone who gets in his way. Sometimes there’s a cop, and he’s strangling this girl. Other times I arrive too late and only find the body.”

  I didn’t bother telling her it felt like somebody was watching me, like some sort of presence peering in, intruding, as if through a crystal ball.

  “Sounds charmin’, darlin’. Maybe you should cut out the vampire shows right before bedtime—or you could take up your dear old granny’s bad habits.” She took another pull on the joint before crushing it out. “I normally sleep like I got run over by a Mack truck.” She smirked, and I laughed in spite of myself.

  “Hey, Greta, this is going to sound strange but…” I bit my lips to try to keep the words trapped in my mouth but they escaped, regardless. “Did Gigi ever talk to you about her family? I mean, did they have odd talents or gifts.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Like contortion, because I am quite flexible?”

  “Ugh, no.” Too much information.

  “Oh, you mean magic.”

  A glimmer of hope. Perhaps Gigi had told Greta something more.

  “I think one of Mama’s great aunts claimed to be a clairvoyant, but she was probably just crazy like the rest of us.”

  I masked my disappointment. “What about her sister?”

  “Come to think of it, she did say her sister was touched. She used to dream too. I also remember Daddy telling my cousin and me something about a magical stone of Mama’s that we were never to touch. I think he said that someone had trapped a curse inside it, or something and we could absorb the curse if we didn’t listen and touched it. I don’t know, maybe we just embellished that part afterward. I think we called it the Delhi Sapphire—or maybe that’s what Daddy called it. Anyway, he told us never to speak of it to Mama; it upset her.”

  “Who cursed it? Did he say there was a way to break it?”

  “I don’t think so. It was just a bunch of hocus pocus, anyway. He was probably entertaining us on a rainy day.” She paused for a moment as if thinking about it. “I mean magic doesn’t really exist.” The look on her face told me different. “Well, we should probably finish our breakfast and get dressed. We need to head to the funeral home soon. Finish up with the details before the viewing.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  M y first day back to work arrived entirely too soon. It had been two weeks and, in my head, I could hear Gigi telling me it was time to get back to the land of the living. After dressing in wool trousers and a knit sweater, it was time to come out of mourning. Today was a trial run to see if I was ready. If I made it through without sobbing then my next shift was in four days. I’d go full time starting the following week.

  After triple-checking the cottage was locked, I slipped behind the wheel and rolled down my window, taking one last second to appreciate the hushed descent of pine needles against the sunny, blue sky. Reality, here I come.

  Thirty minutes later, I was back in town and headed for campus. Thanksgiving decorations were beginning to emerge in the many storefronts. Same old, same old. As soon as I pushed through the door of the old brick building, I spotted Leslie even though it was her day off. She was wearing a cheeky floral print skirt with. tights, socks, and loafers—very eccentric in comparison to my trousers and sweater. We did have on our matching, tortoise shell glasses.

  “Morning, Les,” I said, dropping a coffee and sandwich off next to her.

  “Oh, thanks. How’d you know I was hungry?”

  I rolled my eyes. Leslie was always hungry.

  She smirked. “I can’t believe these people you spoke of are real.”

  “You believe me now?”

  She shot a dirty look from over the thick encyclopedia. “You’re cranky today. Have some coffee.” She went back to the book.

  I left her with her research and settled in behind the circulation desk helping a customer and wondering why I hadn’t come back sooner. The room grew busy, but busy was good. I still missed Gigi, but I was at least feeling a little more like myself. The students were all filing out by dinnertime—most likely, off to the pub.

  I grabbed my lunch bag and joined Leslie at her table, peaking at the notes she’s jotted down on her legal pad. She had on headphones so she wasn’t paying attention.

  She looked up startled. “The Graf is hot,” she said, a little too loud. I like his hipster moustache.”

  I laughed and tugged the buds from her ears.

  “Oh, sorry. Did I shout t
hat?”

  I nodded, unpacking the food I’d brought and opting for a banana. “It’s okay. It’s cleared out.”

  “It’s just as before,” she said, now almost whispering, “everything suggests Conrad killed her and that one book still says they were married. I thought maybe your presence would have changed things.”

  Books scattered and pages fluttered through her fingers until she stopped abruptly, her hands going slack. “You sure that engagement feast wasn’t actually some sort of wedding at Conrad’s castle.”

  “Are you asking if we were hand fast?”

  “Yeah, that or maybe they both survived after all and he forced her into marriage after you left.”

  I frowned at Leslie’s exaggerated tale.

  “No, he definitely died in front of my eyes. And there’s no way, she would have survived that fall. Besides, Conrad wouldn’t have done that.”

  Leslie gave me an exasperated look and sat back, “Sophia, if you’re completely sane and this all happened—which I’m not saying I believe—but if it did, do you think our fate is sealed?”

  That statement was heavy. I rubbed my hand over my face and stopped when it covered my mouth as if to keep my words inside. Leslie looked up and took the hint. “Never mind, I’m overthinking things.”

  I nodded, taking a sip of my water bottle.

  “Are you gonna eat that?” Leslie said as she pointed to the half-eaten ham-and-cheese sandwich. The crinkled yellow wrapper from the one I’d brought her lay empty on the table.

  I smiled and shook my head no.

  “Good. I’m starving. Anyway, tell me what it was like to live in the 19th century. I mean, what was the Graf like?” she asked, finishing off a sandwich and reaching for my small container of chocolate and a plastic spoon I’d packed. “What’s this? Dessert?”

  “It’s a protein pudding.”

  “It tastes funny,” Leslie said, stealing a bite. She pointed at me with her spoon. “You want some?”

  “No, finish it.”

  I paused to remember him. “He was romantic—serious but charming, and gallant. I mean he chased me down when I fled the Palace, just to check on me, despite the fact that I must have sounded looney to him with my claims of being someone else. Then he rescued me from a group of bandits and died trying to help me save the Prince.”