The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  I wasn’t expecting that last paragraph. My heart aches at the idea of Étienne and Nathalie’s life being cut so short. Dragging my hands through my hair, I try to take a deep breath. I tell myself to calm down and there’s nothing I can do, but my body doesn’t find that good enough. My legs are itching to jump up and do something. Something isn’t right about how Étienne died. Deep in my heart, I know it. He suffered, along with Nathalie and the ten staff members. My nails dig into my scalp.

  “Breathe, Serene, breathe.”

  If someone walked into my room right now, they would think I was fucking crazy, but what I’m doing is a lot better than what I want to do, which is scream in agony.

  There’s nothing I can do. I didn’t watch Belgrave burn, but I swear I can feel the flames attempting to lick my skin. Traces of smoke fill my lungs, and my eyes burn.

  It’s all in my mind. I know that. But it feels so real. After a few seconds, I open my eyes and blink my room into focus. I take a few deep breaths and continue reading, even though I don’t want to.

  “The fire resulted in widespread media attention. There was initial outrage in Charleston that foul play was involved. It was announced in September 1912 that the cause of the fire was electrical complications and deemed an accident.

  As the sole survivor of the family, Livingston Lacroix inherited the ravaged remains of Belgrave and Lacroix Shipping. He never married and enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1914. He died in combat in May 1915.

  With Livingston having no will in order and the property not placed in a trust, the plantation was sold to Asa Calhoun for $30,000 in 1916, with the aspirations of restoring the home, but very little was done. In 1924, Mr. Calhoun sold the property for the meager sum of $12,000 to a foreign investment company. They wanted to build a luxury hotel out of the remains but were denied permits. As they refused to sell, the Great Depression swept across the nation, and Belgrave withered away. The roof caved in, windows were broken out, and vandals stole valuable pieces of the skillfully crafted mansion.

  The plantation became a local hot spot for photographers, capturing the decay of a once-beautiful estate.

  In 2009, Belgrave was donated to the National Register of Historical Places of Charleston County. 2010 brought the announcement they were raising funds to restore the plantation. They estimated the cost to be around three million. Soon after, work began on clearing all debris, trimming trees and grass so the driveway could be accessible. In 2011, structural work started on the East Wing. It was revealed that the budget was brought to four million. Funds began to dwindle, and all work on the plantation was put on pause for two years. It was proposed in 2012 that a better, more cost-effective option would be to demolish Belgrave. During a city council meeting, the Preservation Society of Charleston countered that Belgrave was a historic landmark.

  In 2013, it was announced that tours around the Belgrave grounds would be available to help raise funds. The misfortune surrounding the Lacroix family and the sad demise of the plantation swiftly caused Belgrave to become a tourist attraction, with their busiest times between June and September.

  They estimate that by the summer of 2018, they will have the funding available to restore Belgrave, and rehabilitation will promptly resume directly after. Once restoration is complete, tours will extend to the home.”

  What I read has me frozen in place. I blink rapidly as I gawk at the screen.

  Do something, my heart urges.

  It isn’t right that all of the Lacroixs’ hard work went down in smoke and Belgrave’s legacy is a tragedy instead of triumph.

  Do something.

  I get up from my bed and pace my room. It isn’t right that Étienne and his family are written down as people who left the earth too soon.

  Do something.

  Frustrated and heartbroken, I rest my forehead against the cold window pane. My warm breath fogs up the surface. I wipe the window clean and continue gazing at the landscape. If I squint and tilt my head at the right angle, the trees that line our driveway become the ones at Belgrave, and if I close my eyes, I’m touching the window pane in my room in Belgrave. The scent of wild honeysuckle drifts into my room, and the curtains billow lightly. The plush green and the marshes in the distance create a breathtaking view.

  Do something.

  My eyes flash open. All this time I’ve been waiting for time to take me back, but what I’ve failed to realize is that time is all around me. I just have to reach out and touch it.

  I don’t need that photograph of Étienne. I need to go back to the place where we fell in love. I need to go back to Charleston.

  And that is something I can do.

  MY HEART ISN’T in it this Christmas. I smile and talk to relatives I haven’t seen in over a year. But my mind is decades away, fixated on a person who needs me more than any other person in this room.

  I have a plan, and now it feels impossible to sit still. Christmas dinner is torturous, and the idle chit-chat afterward has me inching toward the hallway. By the time the last relative leaves, it’s ten at night. I fly up the stairs, shut my door, and grab my laptop.

  There’s so much I need to do, and the first step is booking a flight.

  One hour and three sites later, I’ve booked my ticket. I found a flight from Washington, D.C. to Charleston for around a grand. That includes my hotel and rental car. I winced at the cost, but only for a second, because if this is what I have to do to get back to Étienne, it’s worth it. I spread the cost over two credit cards and max one out in the process.

  Even though it’s only been five days since I left Étienne, it feels as though it’s been an eternity. My mind frantically whispers that I need to go to Charleston. Not today or tomorrow but yesterday. Time has been wasted, and my overwrought heart doesn’t want to lose any more.

  After I’m done packing, I creep downstairs as I used to when I was a teenager trying to sneak back in after curfew. Only this time, I’m an adult who can do what I want and there’s no secrecy to what I’m doing. I merely want privacy to go through the family photo albums, and if I do that around any of my family members, they’ll bombard me with questions.

  Best to do this when they’re all sleeping.

  All the lights are off downstairs. There’s only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking in the dining room and the refrigerator quietly humming in the kitchen to keep me company. It’s slightly eerie.

  I’m making my way toward the living room when I spot a thin slice of light slipping through the cracked door of my dad’s office. I hear the murmurs of two voices inside, so I approach the door and peer into the office.

  “The bitch jacked up the fucking price again,” Bradley says bitterly.

  “How much is it now?”

  “Three point five million.”

  Ian whistles. “Damn.” He leans forward and toys with the Newton’s Cradle on Dad’s desk. “She’s smart though. Everyone knows that land is hard to come by in McLean. She’s going to use that to her advantage.”

  “But three point five? It’s too much.”

  “She’s claiming that the price is so high because of the house.”

  Bradley snorts and slams a fist against the desk before he leans back in his chair. “I’m going to get that land.”

  “Good luck with that. A lot of people are bidding for it.”

  “I’m going to win,” Bradley says with steely determination.

  The conversation shifts to a different subject. I slowly back away from the door and walk toward the living room, trying to piece together my brothers’ conversation. What land are they talking about, and why do they want it so badly?

  I make a mental note to ask Ian later and turn on a lamp on the end table. It fills the room with a soft glow. There’re two living rooms in the house: the first one immediately to the left of the front door and this one close to the kitchen. My brothers and I call the first living room the “palace of perfection” because nothing is ever touched. No one goes in there, so the vacuum lin
es the maid creates each week? They stay there. The one I’m sitting in now is lived in: worn-out carpet, leather sofa that has small indents from where one of us favors a particular spot, blankets that are used but never folded.

  Mom stores all the photo albums in the entertainment center, directly beneath the TV. When I open up the cabinet and see the stacks of photo albums, I remember just how meticulous my mom is about preserving photographs. It takes me two trips to grab all the photo albums, sit on the floor cross-legged, and start the tedious task of going through each one.

  As I skim through the photographs, I think of what I read about Belgrave. So many things stood out to me, but the one sentence I can’t stop thinking about is how Asa Calhoun bought Belgrave after Livingston died. I’ve always been suspicious of him. That he ended up owning their land is convenient for him.

  And that photo of my great-great-grandpa with his wife? It looked like Asa’s back, so now I’m searching for Asa in the family photos to see if my outrageous theory is correct. There are photos of my parents’ wedding, their senior pictures, photos of them as children, and even pictures of their parents as children, but no pictures of Teddy. What’s more interesting is that in the photos of the De Valc side, my mom’s family, they’re all smiling and happy. They seem to genuinely love each other. The Parows though, they’re solemn. Rarely smiling and never seeming to have fun. I never once thought anything about the fact that I never saw my grandpa Parow. I assumed that was normal behavior.

  My mom once explained to me that grandpa Parow didn’t know how to show affection because his father never showed him affection.

  Ian walks into the room, drops heavily onto the sofa, and stares at the stack of photo albums beside me. “Isn’t it a little late to take a walk down memory lane?”

  “Isn’t it a little late to be working?” I retort.

  He smirks. “Touché.”

  Neither of us says a word as I turn the page of the photo album. I scan the pictures at lightning speed. This is photo album number three that is filled with nothing but pictures of my brothers and me growing up. I know some albums are solely filled with great-grandparents and relatives. At least I thought they were.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m trying to find a photo of our great-great-grandpa Teddy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  Ian sighs and sits up. “Does this have anything to do with the photo Will said you were obsessing over?”

  His comment makes me narrow my eyes at him. I knew it was only a matter of time until Ian brought up what Will said to them.

  “No,” I lie. “It doesn’t. I was up in the attic helping Mom, and I stumbled across a photo of our great-great-grandpa. Now I’m curious to see if there are any more of him.”

  Ian mulls over my reply then shrugs. “All right. Do you want some help?”

  “Sure.” I hand him a photo album. “The photo I saw of him today was of his back, so just look for a really, really, really old photo.”

  “Really, really, really old photo. Got it.”

  The two of us become quiet, with only the sound of the crisp pages turning. Bradley appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. We both look up at him.

  “Are you heading home?” Ian asks.

  Bradley runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “I should be working, but I’m exhausted. I need some rest.” He opens his mouth to say more, but he hesitates as his eyes meet mine before they veer back to Ian. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  Ian’s oblivious to Bradley’s reluctance and shrugs. “Sounds good.”

  Bradley gives me a half-hearted wave goodbye and leaves. The minute the front door slams, I abandon the photo album and sit next to Ian on the couch. “What was that about?”

  Ian avoids eye contact and continues to scan the photo album in his lap. “Don’t know.”

  “Liar.”

  My brother exhales loudly and closes the album.

  “Seriously. Tell me what’s going on,” I say. “I’m not blind. I know something’s up with Bradley.”

  Ian doesn’t say a word.

  “Is he sick?”

  He snorts. “Definitely not.”

  “In trouble?”

  At that, Ian hesitates.

  I pounce. “Tell me. He’s my brother too. I deserve to know if he’s in danger.”

  Ian looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Did you ever think he’s trying to protect you?”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Protect me? What are we, in the mafia?”

  “No. But that might be a better scenario,” Ian mutters.

  “Ian. Start talking. Now.”

  My jovial Ian becomes somber. “You know how our family takes pride in Ravenwood, right?”

  I nod.

  “And you know Bradley took over running Ravenwood after Uncle Jeff retired last year?”

  Again, I nod.

  “Well, what you don’t know is that when Uncle Jeff handed over the reins to Bradley, the company was in bad shape. Bradley has spent the past year trying to pull Ravenwood out of the muck.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “How much trouble is the farm in?”

  “It’s in big trouble. Bradley already has creditors barraging him daily. He has restructured the company and found some more investors. Dad is on board with the idea that if we buy the Carradine land, we’ll have the opportunity to add more horses. And more land equals a better chance for equestrians to visit Ravenwood.”

  Quickly, their conversation from earlier clicks into place.

  “And Constance Carradine isn’t keen on selling their property to us,” I say.

  “Bingo. Other companies and real estate investors are bidding for the land.”

  In local media, the Carradine home has been dubbed “The House of Horrors.” What no one knew about the perfect Carradine family until a few years ago is that Naomi was sexually assaulted by her father, Michael, from a young age. Three and a half years ago, she shot her dad in the family home in self-defense, but details of his death have always been murky. While the community tried to reconcile the fact that something so heinous was happening directly beneath their noses, all I could think was that Naomi’s strange behavior as a child and being admitted to Fairfax suddenly made sense.

  Naomi’s mother, Constance, moved out of their five-thousand-square-foot mansion months after the murder. It’s been for sale ever since. No one will go near that house with a ten-foot pole, but the land? Their land is an entirely different story. Everyone wants it and now there seems to be an all-out bidding war with no end in sight.

  “But if Bradley is finding more investors with creditors nipping at his heels doesn’t that put the farm in more debt?”

  “Not if his plan to purchase the Carradine land goes as he plans.”

  “I don’t know much about running a farm the size of Ravenwood, but a lot is at stake and Bradley is taking a big leap. Wouldn’t it be easier to forget about the Carradine land altogether?”

  “It would,” Ian agrees. “But once Bradley gets his mind set on something he won’t give up until it’s his.”

  I lean in. “Why did you say that so bitterly? I don’t understand what Bradley’s doing, but he’s trying.”

  Ian sighs and gives me a look filled with pity. “Serene, our family doesn’t fight fair. We can be cutthroat, and when money is on the line, we’ll do next to anything to get it.” He looks away. “Greed can do that to you.”

  In the past, Ravenwood has had its up and downs, but our family views those problems with a hint of pride because we came out on the other side okay. And to be honest, I’ve always felt that way. But the way Ian describes our work ethic and business decisions makes it all seem insidious and wrong.

  Ian slaps his hands on his knees and stands. “I better get going. It’s getting late.”

  “Wait!” I jump off the couch. “I have an important question to ask you.”

  He groans. “Can i
t wait ‘till tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  Ian shrugs and nods toward the door. “Then ask me as I walk to my car.”

  I slip on my shoes and glance behind me to make sure no one’s following us. When the front door softly closes behind me, I take a deep breath. Fine mist appears in front of my face before it disappears.

  “What’s up?” Ian asks.

  “I booked a plane ticket to Charleston for tomorrow,” I say in one giant rush as we walk down the pathway.

  My brother’s head whips in my direction. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I booked the ticket a few hours ago.”

  For once, Ian seems at a loss for words.

  “I got a call from Liz about a beautiful antique clock she found online,” I lie. “She knows I have some free time on my hands and asked if I would go there to look at it.”

  This isn’t a fabrication I made up on the spot. I knew I couldn’t just up and leave my family the day after Christmas without a valid excuse. And this one is at least a bit plausible. I just have to cross my fingers that no one talks to Liz to confirm the story.

  “And you have to fly all the way there to see it?” he asks skeptically.

  “Well, you, Bradley, and Will thought it was a great idea I take a ‘break’ from work and now I’m bored out of my mind.”

  My brother goes silent. But that’s not a bad thing. It means he’s mulling over the situation.

  “I only need you to drop me off at the airport,” I add.

  Ian narrows his eyes at me. “What time?”

  At that, I hesitate. “Four in the morning.”

  “Four in the morning?” he gripes.

  “That’s the only flight they had available!”

  Ian stares off to the side, muttering that four in the morning is too fucking early to get up. I stand there and don’t say a word. He hasn’t said no yet, and that means there’s still hope.

  “It’s only a seventeen-minute drive to DC. Twenty tops,” I say quietly.

  He closes his eyes. His shoulders slump as he takes in a deep a breath. When he opens his eyes and looks at me, I know that he’ll agree before he utters the words. “Fine. I’ll take you.”