The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  Étienne snorts and riffles through the paperwork. “I know that better than anyone.”

  “No, you don’t get it,” I say slowly.

  Say it! my mind chants. Rip off the Band-Aid and tell him the truth!

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I straighten my shoulders and walk toward the desk. Placing my palms flat on the desk, I lean in until we’re mere inches apart and he’s forced to acknowledge me.

  He studies me from beneath his lashes. My heart picks up.

  “I’m not your wife,” I say carefully.

  He blinks. Once, then twice. It’s impossible to tell what he’s feeling with his blank, shuttered expressions. Without breaking eye contact, he says, “Get out of here, Livingston.”

  “What? Now? I didn’t escort her into town for nothin’.”

  “Out,” Étienne barks.

  Livingston grumbles, but he leaves, promising to return in five minutes to retrieve me.

  Once the door is shut and we’re all alone, Étienne stands. He mimics my posture—palms flat on the desk, head leaning forward, green eyes furious. If you weren’t prepared for this man, he could plow right over you; he has this potent energy that consistently throws me off guard.

  “Pardon me?” he says, sounding deathly calm.

  “I’m not your wife, and up until last night, I’ve never seen you before in my life.” With the picture not included, of course. “Last night, I time traveled.”

  “This is ridiculous.” He doesn’t attempt to hide his disgust. “Ridiculous.” He walks to the door.

  Once again, I’m being dismissed.

  Before I walked into his office, I told myself I was going to be rational and calm. A fat lot of good that did. I go into panic mode; I know my chances of getting Étienne to help me are slipping away like sand through my fingers.

  “Étienne!” I call. “Stop.”

  Abruptly, he turns. His eyes are blazing, and his lips are pulled into a taut line. Instead of yelling, like me, he walks back toward me and doesn’t stop until his left shoulder touches my right. He dips his head and speaks in a deliberately quiet voice. “Everythin’ is a game to you. For the past three years I’ve put up with your antics, but now you’re bringin’ it to my work. I won’t stand for that.” He pulls back, curls his hand around my arm, and guides me toward the door. “You need to leave. Go have lunch with your friend, spend my money on dresses. Go buy a whole new wardrobe. I don’t care. Leave.”

  I’ve never had someone gaze at me with such disdain and hatred. If a raging lunatic came barging into his office with a gun, the chances of Étienne using me as a human shield are incredibly high.

  So not only do I have to convince him that I time traveled, but I have to convince someone who hates me with a fiery passion to believe me and then help me.

  This is next to impossible. But what other choice do I have?

  Like last night, I fight back. I elbow him hard enough in the gut that he lets go. I smooth out my skirt and glare at him. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

  One second I’m opening the door, my dignity intact, and the next I’m jerked back into his office. The door slams shut before my back slams against the door.

  Étienne grips me by the forearms and dips his head, so we’re eye level. “Don’t you ever come into my office demandin’ a thing. I let you cheat. I give you money. I give you a home. I allow you to have parties filled with debauchery. All with one rule–that you never involve me.”

  I’d love to tell him to fuck off. I’d love to tell him that I’m not involving him, but that’s precisely what I’m doing. I stand on my tiptoes until we were eye to eye. “You do not own me, and you don’t allow me to do anything.”

  His finger brushes against my jaw. “That’s where you’re wrong.” His voice is deceptively low. “I paid a lot to give you the Lacroix name.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “If you’re done, I need to get back to work. Tomorrow, be ready at twelve sharp.”

  “For?”

  “What do you think? Your parents are havin’ some ridiculous brunch.”

  I swallow. I have a family here?

  I want to ask him so many questions. Questions he thinks I already know. There’s no time to ask him or to say anything because he all but shoves me out of his office.

  The door slams behind me.

  Livingston gives me a sympathetic smile while Edward pretends nothing is amiss.

  I clear my throat and give Livingston a weak smile. “I think I’m ready to go.”

  He gestures for me to walk ahead of him and I do, my head held high when all I want to do is hang my shoulders. I feel so defeated.

  “How did it go?” Livingston asks as we walk out the front door.

  “Oh, amazing,” I reply, deadpan.

  Tears well up in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall down my cheeks. I will not cry over that asshole.

  Étienne dismissed me today, but he can’t reject me forever. I’ll find a way to make him believe me.

  WHEN I WAS fifteen, I had the bright idea to try out for the school play. I wasn’t particularly dramatic, although I did have my moments. Typically, I clammed up in front of a crowd. But my friends were trying out, so I thought, “What the hell?”

  The play was A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was trying out for the role of Hermia—a girl caught in a love triangle between Lysander, a man she loves, and Demetrius, who loves her but she doesn’t love back.

  It seemed simple enough. I studied the lines over and over. I had the script down pat. The day of tryouts, I walked up on stage nailed every line. I stepped off the stage feeling pretty damn confident in myself. This acting thing? A piece of cake.

  Two days later, the roles were announced. My name was not across from Hermia. Or any character for that matter. I was more embarrassed than anything else. Why didn’t I get it?

  I was competitive by nature and couldn’t stop myself from asking one of the teachers directing the play what I’d done wrong.

  She sighed and smiled gently at me. “It wasn’t a matter of you not knowing the part. It was us believing in you as Hermia. There was no conviction or feeling in your words.” She patted my shoulder. “Acting might not be for you.”

  Her explanation never resonated with me. But it does now, more than ever, because I’ve been forced into playing the role of Serene the socialite, wife of Étienne and best friend to Nat, and it feels all wrong. It’s day two of being in this time, and already I’m questioning everything I do, everything I say. I feel as though my actions are scrutinized by everyone. Which is impossible. But my mind is screaming at me that I’m playing a role I don’t understand and never will.

  The only person who notices is the one person who goes out of his way to ignore me–Étienne.

  Last night he came home, but instead of having dinner with Nat and me, he had his dinner in his office. Afterward, I knocked on his door; he didn’t answer. I pounded on the door, but that didn’t earn a reaction. After a few minutes, my arm became sore, and my fist ached. I gave up pounding and grabbed a chair from the receiving room—whatever that means—and planted myself right in front of Étienne’s door.

  I stayed there for so long that my butt went numb. It’s almost as if he knew I was stubbornly sitting outside his door, because not once did he leave the room. While I sat there, fuming, I decided that until I found a way to get back home, I would refer to the Serene I’d replaced as the Old Serene.

  Eventually I nodded off and was awoken by Nat gently shaking me. The house was shrouded in darkness and Nat was dressed for bed.

  “He’s not gonna leave his office,” she whispered sympathetically. “Why don’t you go to bed? You can speak to him tomorrow.”

  It had to be the sleep-induced haze that made me agree. I left the chair in the middle of the foyer and went to bed.

  I went downstairs the next morning, and the chair was gone. The office door was cracked open, but there was no Étienne in s
ight.

  What I wanted to ask him, more than anything was this—what happened between you and your wife that made you hate her so much? I knew the chance of me ever getting an answer was incredibly slim. Besides, right now, I have more pressing matters.

  “Please, Mrs. Lacroix. Put this on.” Hannah holds up the corset and gives me a pleading look.

  I point at the corset as though it’s a rabid dog. “No way, no how.”

  Getting dressed in this era is an event all of its own. Women change up to three times a day. No wonder Nat lies around all the time; she’s too exhausted from all the changing. Even now she’s on the bed, arms flung over her head, staring at the canopy.

  With a loud sigh, she jumps off the bed and snatches the rib killer contraption from Hannah before waving it in front of my face. “This is what women wear.”

  “No, this is going to be what kills me!”

  “How do you think you get your tiny waist?” she challenges.

  “It may look good, but I’ve decided I don’t want my organs smushed together.”

  Nat stands beside me and lays the corset flat against my waist. “Beauty is pain.” She stares at me in the mirror with imploring eyes.

  The only reason I’m entertaining the idea of wearing Old Serene’s clothes is that I had to relinquish my underwear to be washed. I want to keep all my clothes, but I also prefer to be clean too. Hannah reassured me twenty times over she would clean them and bring them back to me.

  Now I’m stuck in a pair of underwear Nat keeps calling drawers.

  “I’m not going to be able to breathe with that thing on.”

  “Serene, no one is arguin’ that it’s comfortable. But it is… it is necessary.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s feminine,” Nat whispers as though letting me in on a little secret. “Without a corset, the jewels, the hat? Why, I daresay, no one would know who you are.”

  With a deep breath, I snatch the corset from her and give it to Hannah. “Put it on.”

  Nat smiles gleefully and claps. “Wonderful.”

  What I’ll never tell her is that with every tug of the laces, with every breath stolen from me, I’m reminded I’m on borrowed time. The seconds, minutes, and hours are slipping away. I can feel it. And I know, with every fiber of my being, these are minutes I can never get back in my own time.

  By the time Hannah’s finished lacing me up, my waist is so narrow that when I place my hands on it, my middle fingers practically touch. I turn to the side. Plus, it does wonderful things to my breasts.

  But it comes at a cost. I’m confident this corset is crushing a few ribs.

  “I’m so excited I hardly slept a wink last night,” Nat confesses.

  “Because of a brunch?”

  “Of course! Why else? Your parents’ brunches are by far the most entertainin’ events to attend.”

  I nod as if I know exactly what she means.

  Outside comes the faint sound of a car pulling up. Nat pushes back the curtains and squeals. “Étienne and Livingston are here. I’m going to say hello and let you finish up.”

  I wait for the door to click shut before I look at Hannah. “What time is it?”

  “Twelve.”

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  There’s a stubborn side of me. In my own time, it rarely shows up, but around Étienne, it rears its ugly head, and right now, it’s telling me he can take his, “Be ready at twelve sharp” and shove it.

  At the last minute, I tell Hannah I want my hair down. And curled. Definitely curled. I figure that will tack on an additional forty minutes, but Hannah owns that iron and has my hair done within twenty minutes. She wants to put my hair up and demonstrates the style, but it looks like two oversized buns attached to my head. I look like Princess Leia after a massive rager.

  No, thank you.

  Instead, we agree to style it with combs that hold my heavy hair back from my face. Hannah strategically places a few curls around my face. Once she’s finished, I don’t look half bad.

  “Serene! I know you’re up there. Come down here! Right. Now.” Étienne’s bellow travels like a gunshot through the house. I swear everyone within a mile just stopped and held their breath.

  “We best hurry, ma’am.”

  I smile. “We’re not going anywhere. Mr. Lacroix can suck it.”

  Hannah looks confused by my words, but the implication is there. Her cheeks turn beet red.

  “Besides,” I say, “I still haven’t figured out what to wear.”

  There are so many dresses in the closets, but they’re not my taste; the Old Serene loved bright colors. More importantly, she loved pale pink. I hate that color. Nevertheless, the detail that went into each of these dresses leaves me slightly awestruck. Not to mention the designers: Callot Soeurs, Jeanne Paquin, Paul Poiret and that was to name a few.

  I was touching items that are preserved in museums in my time.

  Hannah selects an ivory dress with navy stripes with a sash in the same color. Her hands shake as she buttons me up.

  “Take your time. There’s no need to rush.”

  “But Mr. Lacroix. He—”

  “Leave Lacroix to me. I’ll take the blame for being late.”

  She nods mutely and ties the sash around my waist. She selects a pair of ivory lace-and-kid gloves. This time, I accept them. Then comes the most dreaded part—the hat. The Old Serene has a ridiculous collection of hats. Massive hats piled with flowers, feathers, lace, and so much more. I pick out an ivory one with a medium-size brim and a small cluster of flowers. Even so, it seems gaudy to me.

  After that, I can’t stall any longer. I thank Hannah as I leave and take my sweet time walking toward the stairs. Am I being a little bitch by purposely being late? Yes. But I have no control here. In this time, I’m vulnerable to everything around me, and I hate that feeling. Being late and defying Étienne is the only way for me to feel any control over my life.

  I stop in front of the photos hanging on the hallway wall. They’re mostly old, stern-looking Lacroix ancestors. All of them seem pissed off. Can you blame them? They lived in sweltering heat, wearing layers of clothes, and there was no air conditioning. I wouldn’t smile either.

  Toward the stairs is a portrait of a little boy. I’ve passed the portrait a few times but never really stopped to look at it. The boy has brown hair, neatly swept from his face. His eyes are the same color as Étienne’s. Unlike the solemn faces in the other portraits, this boy smirks. It’s the same smirk Livingston gives when he’s about to say something inappropriate. He has to be their sibling.

  “Can you tell me how to handle Étienne?” I ask the boy.

  He stares back.

  “Come on,” I coax. “Give me anything, because I am drowning here.”

  “Are you talkin’ to my brother?”

  I jump and look over my shoulder. “God! Nat! You scared me.” She stands a few steps away, impeccably dressed for brunch. When these people dress up, they don’t play. Nat looks as though she’s dressed for her wedding instead of going to have lunch.

  “You look wonderful,” I say.

  “Thank you.” She gives me a meaningful smirk. “I believe you’re evadin’ my question. Were you talkin’ to my brother?”

  I want to ask if this boy is her brother, but the Old Serene should know that. I nod sheepishly. “You caught me.” I glance back at the picture. “I don’t think anyone has ever told me how old he was here,” I say, carefully phrasing my words.

  A far-away look clouds Nat’s eyes. “I believe Julian was nine in that portrait.”

  Julian.

  Was.

  Something obviously happened to him. Something that I should know, but won’t uncover right now.

  Nat looks away from the portrait. “Are you ready to go? Étienne sent me to retrieve you. He’s furious now that we’re gonna be late.”

  I let her link her arm with mine as we walk down the stairs. She talks nonstop about people I don’t know and plac
es I’ve never been. I feel like a bobblehead doll because all I do is nod every few seconds and paste on a smile.

  Once we reach the foyer, I stiffen up; Étienne and Livingston are quietly talking. Étienne glances at his sister for a second before he regards me. He holds my gaze then looks me up and down with nothing but contempt in his eyes. What else did I expect though? Him to stare at me with stars in his eyes, tell me I’m the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, and profess his undying love for me? This is Étienne we’re talking about. I may have arrived here a short time ago, but a blind kitten can see he hates me.

  He brushes past me as though I’m invisible. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. “You look beautiful,” he tells Nat.

  She smiles and takes his offered arm. “What about Serene?”

  Étienne turns and gives me another once-over before he nods. “The dress is beautiful.”

  That’s the most passive-aggressive dig I’ve heard in a long time. I open my mouth, ready to tell him to go fuck himself, when Livingston steps in between us. “We’re gonna to be late if we don’t leave.”

  I let my anger simmer in my eyes as I glare at Étienne. He narrows his eyes. If I were a weaker person, I’d be thrashing on the ground in pain from his gaze. I think the fact that I’m not backing down pisses him off.

  Bring it on.

  Étienne’s nostrils flare before he looks away. I feel as though I’ve won a small battle. “The driver is waitin’,” he says curtly and walks past me toward the front door.

  Livingston sighs at his brother’s retreating form, then glances at me. He holds out his arm for me, and I take it.

  “I see things are going great between you and my brother,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Oh, it’s going swell,” I reply without missing a beat.

  “Were you purposely late?”

  We walk down the front steps. The sun slashes across my face. I put on the dreaded hat and feign indifference. “Huh? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Livingston chuckles. “I think you do.”