The Surviving Trace (Surviving Time Series Book 1)

by Calia Read

  Livingston chuckles. “I think you do.”

  “He can’t tell me what to do.”

  Livingston is quiet for a moment, then he shrugs a shoulder. “This is how you two are. You have your spats. Retaliate. He’ll get over it.”

  His words make me freeze. That he views my actions as normal, that he puts me in the same box as the Old Serene should be a victory. I’m acting like her. But that’s the problem—I’m acting like her. I don’t want to be her. Old Serene sounds like a bitch.

  “Have I always been awful to Étienne?”

  Livingston peers at me curiously. “Of course.”

  “This is your brother you’re talking about.”

  “I know that.”

  “Shouldn’t you and Nat hate me?”

  “Why are you suddenly so concerned about our relationship with you? Would you rather have us despise you?”

  “No, no,” I rush out.

  He gives me a devilish grin. “But to answer your question, no. I don’t hate you. You’re not my wife. I don’t have to live with you.”

  “Fantastic,” I mutter.

  “Why are you askin’ all of this?

  “Just curious.”

  We’re steps away from the car. Livingston stops and stares at me curiously. “Have you been takin’ some laudanum? You’re skittish.”

  Laudanum? I frown, trying to figure out how and why that word is familiar. It finally dawns on me. I snap my fingers and point at Livingston. “By laudanum, you mean drugs?”

  He slowly nods.

  “No. I haven’t been taking anything.” Although I wish I were. Might make this all a bit bearable.

  Livingston’s brows form a tight V. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. I’m fine.” I smile, hoping that will be enough to placate him.

  He continues to watch me, and I meet his gaze. Perhaps I could tell Livingston the truth. He seems understanding and caring. Besides, what do I have to lose?

  “Can I tell you something?” I ask.

  Livingston shrugs. “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Is it about my brother?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re bein’ evasive,” he remarks.

  “I’m in a difficult position.”

  “Because?”

  My mouth opens. “I—”

  “Serene!”

  I jump away from Livingston.

  Étienne’s standing next to the car, wearing a furious expression. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  “About?” I challenge.

  Étienne’s eyes cloud over with anger. “It is private.”

  Being alone with the man is akin to being alone with a master manipulator. I don’t know what he’s going to do, how he’s going to react. I walk on pins and needles around him, and it’s getting tiring. Fast. I stand up straight and tilt my chin up.

  “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Livingston.”

  Livingston clears his throat. “I don’t know if I necessarily agree with that.” He inches toward the car. “I think I’ll keep Nat company.”

  He walks away without a backward glance, and I’m left alone with the only man in this time who can help me but won’t.

  I watch Étienne cautiously. He strolls closer with that loose-hipped stride of his. I don’t like his personality and he’s not even good-looking, but he executes powerful masculinity that makes me feel unbalanced.

  He stops a few inches away, towering over me. In the sunlight, his scar is more pronounced and I can spot several black specks swirling within his green eyes.

  “You were gonna tell my brother that ridiculous story of yours,” he says.

  “It’s not ridiculous.”

  He arches a brow and leans in until our noses are inches apart. I suck in a sharp breath. “You think I don’t know you, but you’re forgettin’ I’ve had time to learn all the tricks up that sleeve of yours. Once you become bored, you create a scene, whether it be a man of your choosin’ or at one of your many parties.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing now?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  My hands curl into fists. “I can promise you that the last thing I want to do is create a scene. But if that’s what I have to do to get your damn attention, then so be it.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Is that why you were late? I told you to be ready at twelve sharp.”

  The damn hat is in my way. I take it off and bat my eyelashes at him. “I was gettin’ ready,” I say in my best Southern accent. “Wanted to look presentable.”

  “Liar,” Étienne growls.

  “I would never lie to you, husband.”

  Bleh. That word tastes like bile.

  Étienne’s eyes flare. “Do not test me, Serene.”

  I step forward until my breasts brush against his chest. He tenses up. “Likewise, Étienne.”

  We stand there, both of us refusing to back down until Livingston tells us to hurry up. Étienne steps back. Another small victory for me.

  “Let’s go.” He has me walk in front of him.

  Livingston holds the door open to the Model-T. I gather the hem of my dress in one hand and my hat in the other and lift my leg to get in when Étienne’s hands span my waist, scaring the crap out of me. I have multiple layers on, but I can feel his touch like fire. With ease, he places me in the car as though I’m a rag doll. Because of the stupid corset, my breath becomes stuck in my throat. My hands are shaking as I scramble to sit next to Nat. The door slams behind me.

  “Are you all right?” Nat asks.

  I try to laugh, although it comes out choked. “Never better.”

  Étienne takes the seat next to the driver, and away we go.

  I STEP OUT of the car, staring at the house in front of me, and take a deep breath. Livingston is quick to escort Nat up to the front door, leaving Étienne no choice but to walk with me. Reluctantly, he holds his arm out. I subtly brush past him and say, “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.” I make it three steps before I’m grabbed from behind. My entire body goes rigid.

  “We will walk together,” Étienne says against my ear. “All of Charleston knows we’re not in love, but basic civility is nice.”

  I turn toward him. “Is this what this is? Basic civility?”

  Étienne stares at me and doesn’t say a word.

  “If you want basic civility, treat me with a bit of respect,” I say.

  He snorts and tucks his hands into his pockets.

  I advance on him. “What’s so funny?”

  “You mentionin’ the word respect. I’m surprised you even know what it means, considerin’ you haven’t respected our marriage since day one.”

  I want to scream at him that I have no idea what he’s talking about and what he’s accusing me of are things I’ve never done. But I don’t, because we’re already earning curious glances from fellow guests walking up the steps.

  Étienne notices too. He straightens his shoulders, holds his arm out, and waits for me to grab it. A few seconds pass, but he stubbornly stays put. I give in and hook my arm around his. He tucks it close to his side as though I’m a toddler that keeps straying from its parent.

  I grind my teeth as we approach the front door.

  A slight breeze lifts the hem of my dress, and it brushes against Étienne’s black slacks. My heels echo on the brick pathway toward the back of the house. The sound of voices mingling with laughter makes my heartbeat pick up. If Étienne notices my apprehension, he doesn’t show it.

  You can do this. All you have to do is pretend you belong and no one will look twice at you.

  Brave words, almost encouraging, but there’s not a single thing I can tell myself that will prepare me for this brunch. What am I about to walk into? This is supposedly at Old Serene’s parents’ home, and since I’m her, will my entire family be here too?

  God, I hope so.

  We round the corner, and I almost stop short; the
re’s a massive white-tablecloth-covered table that looks as if it can fit up to fifty people. From where I’m standing, it appears that’s how many people are here, and it’s clear they’re the elite—part of a social circle that most never have the chance of entering.

  As Étienne directs us around the guests, I spot waiters in tuxes, holding silver trays with glasses filled with champagne. We pass the table, and I admire the white wicker chairs around it. The colorful flowers in vases decorate the middle of the table. Fine china is placed in front of each chair. The silver is wrapped in ivory cloth napkins and put sideways on each plate.

  We move away from the table and merge into the sea of people.

  “Where is your damn mother?” Étienne grumbles.

  I swallow. “I don’t know.”

  I’ll know my mom when I see her, and so far, she’s nowhere in sight. Neither is my dad or brothers.

  “There she is.”

  Panic sets in because I have no idea who he’s referring to. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. What do I do?

  We stop beside a woman with a crowd surrounding her. She’s beautiful—slim, dark hair, and pale skin. She laughs softly at something someone said. A sharp pain lances my heart because she’s not my mom and I want her to be; I want to see a familiar face.

  She glances my way and smiles broadly. “Darling! You look…” This fake mom looks me up and down, making me feel as though I’m a breakable trinket that could be damaged. “You look lovely.”

  She kisses my cheeks. Stiffly, I mimic her actions. She’s oblivious to my discomfort because she’s too busy trying to flag down a waiter. One is by her side within seconds.

  “Would you like a glass, dear?”

  I’m not a big drinker, but I find myself nodding and accepting a glass. I down the champagne so fast that I place the empty glass back on the silver tray.

  Fake Mom’s eyes widen slightly. Étienne frowns. If they were in my shoes, surrounded by complete strangers, I bet they’d be doing the same thing. Liquid courage is precisely what I need.

  I smile apologetically. “Sorry. I’m thirsty.”

  “That’s fine. Please try to pace yourself though.” She turns away from me and directs her charming smile Étienne’s way. “It’s wonderful to see you, Étienne.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Delia.”

  Her name is Delia. It fits her well, but to me, she’s merely Fake Mom. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Étienne and Fake Mom have a polite conversation. As I listen to them, I quickly learn that the stocky man next to Fake Mom is Fake Dad. His name is Frederick. From his thinning hair to his permanent scowl, this man is nothing like my real father.

  These two people are frauds. Fill-ins. Actors playing a role. Just like me.

  A stranger comes up and speaks to Fake Mom. The stranger calls her Mrs. Quentin.

  Delia and Frederick Quentin. I add the names to the ever-growing list of things that don’t make sense; I’ve never heard those names before. My last name is Parow. My parents are Katherine and Daniel.

  The stranger and Fake Mom chat for a few seconds before Fake Mom glances my way. “Where are my manners? Serene, this is a new acquaintance of mine I’ve been telling you about. Stella, this is my daughter.”

  Stella smiles, so I smile back. It’s instinctive.

  “Lovely to meet you,” she says.

  “Likewise,” I say. Although it comes out more like a question.

  “Serene is a unique name.” Stella turns to Fake Mom. “Is it a family name?”

  I open my mouth, ready to tell the story I’ve heard my whole life, but Fake Mom beats me to the punch. “It’s an interesting story. Originally, Frederick and I said that if we had a girl her name would be Serena. If we had a boy, he would be named Christopher.” Fake Mom smiles at her husband affectionately. “But our baby arrived and here she was. Our little girl. I told the doctor what her name was. She didn’t hear me clearly though and wrote down Serene. Once I saw it, I knew it wasn’t a mistake. That was her name.”

  Everyone “oh” and “ahh” and smiles at Fake Mom and me.

  But I’m frozen. I think my heart stopped beating for a second.

  Every single word she said has come out of my mom’s mouth… a century later. Nothing that’s occurred since I’ve arrived here has made much sense, but this takes the cake. These parents are not mine, but it’s almost as though time has plucked specific memories and moments from my real life and shot them back through time with me.

  My hands are shaking so much I have to cross my arms to conceal them. It takes someone coughing for me to realize I’m still staring at Fake Mom.

  She smiles, and for the hundredth time, I’m asked the question I’m beginning to hate. “Serene, are you all right?”

  No, no I’m not all right. I’m shaken to my core.

  I don’t say that. Instead, I smile like a good little actress and say, “I’m fine.”

  My performance is convincing enough because she nods and smiles at the people surrounding her. “Brunch is almost ready. Shall we head to the table?”

  Étienne surprisingly escorts me. He shoots speculative glances my way. Doubt lingers in his eyes.

  THIS ISN’T A brunch where people sit down, eat their food, talk a bit, then get up. No, these people do not play around when it comes to brunch. There are so many courses, I lost count around the sixth plate of food placed before me. There are oysters, roasted pigeon, filet mignon, and other dishes I’d never seen before. Everyone seems content to have so many courses. Probably because their food is only in front of them for a good five minutes before it’s whisked away.

  Servants move back and forth between the house and the table. I’m tempted to beg one of them to let me join them; I don’t belong at this table.

  From Nat, I learn that these social gatherings—or soirées, as she calls them—have many activities: croquet, polo matches, archery, and the most popular activity of them all, drinking.

  Lots and lots of drinking. If I wasn’t bound and determined to snoop through Fake Mom and Dad’s home, I could’ve finished off an entire bottle of wine myself. Instead, I listen to the insipid conversations that make me want to nod off right there at the table. How can they tolerate this farce? It’s almost as though everyone here shares an inside joke I don’t understand.

  But I have discovered one important thing. Southern people have a special way of pronouncing certain words and sayings. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the woman on the opposite side of the table is calling the man next to her sugar. It sounds like sughah.

  They join words together and stretch out the vowels, and they do it all with a smile, making you unsure if they love you or secretly want to kill you.

  Across from me is Étienne. He gives noncommittal smiles and politely speaks to the men and women around him. He nods as if what they’re saying matters to him. As he talks to everyone, his gaze always finds its way back to me.

  A few chairs down, two men are talking about how after lunch, they’ll participate in a game of archery. What about the women? I want to ask, but I don’t feel like having everyone stare at me as though I’ve grown three heads. Besides, I already know the answer—the women will probably sit and watch and quietly talk to each other. At this point, I don’t care. I just want to get away from this table because Johnathan keeps leering at me.

  The creepy factor for this guy is at a ten. I shift in my seat, subtly turning away from Johnathan, but I can still feel his gaze on me.

  I can’t take another second of this. I’m frustrated, and my butt is numb from sitting on this uncomfortable chair. I need to get inside the house directly in front of me to see if I can find anything that might lead me back to my time.

  Abruptly I stand, making heads lift. Including Étienne’s. He barely raises his head my way, but I feel those hooded eyes follow me as I walk toward Fake Mom.

  I bend down until our faces are level and tell yet another lie. “I need to use the restroom.”


  Conversations come to a grinding halt as everyone glances at me. Nat coughs into her hand, and Étienne takes a long swallow of his drink.

  Fake Mom’s cheeks turn pink, but she smiles and pats my hand. “Of course, dear.”

  Another faux pas on my part? More than likely. But I don’t know what they call the bathroom in this time or how they announce they gotta go. It was either that or just get up from the table and walk away. That seems far ruder.

  With my head held high, I walk toward the back staircase, feeling a pair of eyes burning holes into my back. I fight the urge to quicken my pace; I have to look as though I know where I’m going. In reality, I have no idea which doors to enter. First, I’ll try the French doors directly in front of me, and if those are locked, I’ll search for a second way in. The smallest part of me wishes to be back at Belgrave. Ridiculous. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve come to think of that home as a safe zone.

  The doorknob easily turns, and I slip inside. From the chintz-covered wicker furniture and potted ferns, I realize this is the sunroom. Another set of doors in front of me leads to the rest of the house. My footsteps reverberate through the narrow hallway.

  This home is beautiful and tastefully decorated, but it doesn’t have the grandeur of Belgrave and far fewer rooms to navigate. If my father were here, he would say I’m in the tail end at the age of opulence. If he were here, he would examine everything in amazement, furiously scribbling notes and trying his hardest to take everything in.

  I find the library instantly. It resembles the Lacroixs’ library in one way—both spaces are well used. The shelves aren’t perfectly stacked with books. The settee against the window is well-worn, the cushions lumpy in some areas. A blanket has been draped over one side of the settee, but it’s only to hide a tear on the cushion. I can see the fluffy contents threatening to spill out.

  I walk past the shelves. Some books are hidden by picture frames of Fake Mom and Dad and an assortment of people I’ve never seen before. Even so, I peer carefully at each one; I might see a close relative or someone I recognize. Anything.

  One photo makes me stop and stare. It’s Étienne and me on our wedding day. We’re standing in front of a brick building. Étienne is dressed in a tux. Even though he’s cradling my hand between his, there’s still a reasonable distance between us. He looks miserable. I’m wearing a white lace gown and a scalloped-edge cathedral veil. I look miserable.