“Andre, what are you talking about?”
He trailed one hand up her neck, his fingertips dancing on her cheek. “For this, we have to go visit my mother.”
“Yours? But …”
He scooped his hand behind her head, her hair falling over his wrist. “But the shoe is on the other foot, and you are uncomfortable.”
“Yes.”
He chuckled, then sobered. “This is also something your mother should know, but I want mine to tell it to you. It’s the final fragment of all these twisted lives.” He drew his mouth close to hers and longing thrummed between them. However, he held back, standing and pulling her to her feet.
“We’re going now?” she asked.
He placed his palm in the small of her back and steered her across the lot. “Now.” He’d have this out today, so he could spend his evening doing the other.
Packing her in the passenger seat, he headed for the freeway. The drive to his mother’s condo was quiet, Cerise mostly looking out the window. He parked in the lot at the base of the building and led her to the elevators. They exited on the sixth floor and continued down the carpeted hallway to a door at the end.
He rang the bell and waited.
“Are you sure she’ll want to see me?” Cerise asked.
He glanced at her. “Yes. She told me to bring you.”
“But maybe …”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “No maybes. It’s okay. She knows who you are.”
The chain on the opposite side rattled, and Cerise seemed to wilt. He strengthened his grip.
His mother’s friendly face gazed out the open door. She reversed herself. “Come in.”
Andre guided Cerise ahead of him and shut the door behind them.
His mother faced them both, her head craned left. “He said you were beautiful, and I believed him. But words don’t do you justice.”
Cerise seemed to not notice the compliment. “Mrs. Garner, I …”
His mother waved her silent. “Cerise, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“There is much to be said for forgiveness, Cerise, and that’s why he’s brought you here.”
They moved through the foyer and into the living room where they settled on the couch.
“He hasn’t told me everything,” his mother said. “I asked him not to, but I gathered enough to realize that there is one person you haven’t forgiven.”
“But I don’t know you,” Cerise blurted, “and if you don’t know the story, then what right have you to tell me who to forgive? After what was done to my family …” She let the thought trail away.
“After what was done to me,” his mother said.
Cerise’s cheeks pinked. “I didn’t mean to … to belittle what …”
His mother waved her hand. “It’s okay. But see, there’s the difference. I feel no pain anymore. Sure, my life was bad for a time, but look at the fine man my son has become and the beautiful girl he’s in love with. That makes it all worth it.”
Cerise leaned back, her body fitting next to his.
“He asked me to tell you what happened to Levi. He said you believe he drowned.”
Cerise simply stared. “He did. My grandmother said …”
His mom interrupted her. “I don’t care what she said because it isn’t true.”
“I-it isn’t?”
His mother wagged her head. “No. He lived with me for the last year of his life … with us.” She motioned toward Andre. “He held his son in his lap every night and rocked him to sleep, for as long as he was able.”
Andre blinked back the sadness forming in his eyes.
“As long as he was able?”
His mother crossed her legs. “Yes. It started not long after he moved back in. He had symptoms: rashes, breathing problems. He lost a great deal of weight. I tried to get him to the doctor, but he always refused. Not until he went into a coma did I succeed, and that was EMTs and many nights in the hospital. Turns out, he was diabetic. Apparently, had been for years. His drinking accelerated the problem. The doctor said his body was shutting down, and it was only a matter of time.”
Cerise turned her head and met his gaze. “You knew?”
“No. Not until she showed me the picture.”
“Wh-what picture?”
His mother produced the framed photo that had told him the truth, and Cerise held it in her lap, her thumb running over his dad’s frail image.
“I thought my dad killed him,” she said. She raised her gaze. “But he didn’t?”
“Nor did he ignore his son.” Andre pointed back at the picture, and there seated in his dad’s lap was himself, a miniature version of his dad.
Cerise exhaled, long and loud. “I never knew, never knew what kind of man he was, but I used to wonder.”
“He was one of a kind,” his mother said. “Did you know he was an artist like his son?”
Cerise spun her head forward. “An artist?”
“Oh, yes. I haven’t even told Andre about this. Here, I have proof.” His mother rose from her chair and left the room. She returned minutes later with a small box in her hand.
Cerise wriggled in the seat, her face shading pale.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She nodded toward the box. “I’ve seen that before. It’s just like the one the necklace was in.”
“A necklace, did you say?” his mother asked. She opened the box and lifted a gold chain from inside. “Like this one?”
Andre stared dumbfounded at the jewelry in his mother’s hands. For there it was, a single, large amber stone.
Cerise reached beneath her blouse and tugged the matching glass gem from its place against her skin. “Like this one,” she said.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, his mother sat silent and stared. A lump formed in Andre’s throat. All this time, she’d felt less, insignificant, yet he’d loved her the same. The necklace was proof. Proof of a man, who though his life was cut short, though he was troubled perhaps by many things, had left a legacy to be proud of.
Andre took the photo from Cerise and stood it on the side table. “I think dad’s earned the right to sit with us,” he said.
Cerise turned her gaze to his. “He earned that long ago. We simply never knew it.” She revolved on the couch to face him, her legs folded beneath her, and her fragrance captured his mind.
“Mr. Garner, you come from a great man.”
He smiled. “I know.” The best man, a man he was honored to have as a father.
“I love you,” she said.
His mother excused herself and left the room.
With her exit, Andre drew Cerise close. Drunk on his senses, he cradled her head in his hands and claimed her mouth. Dipping his tongue between her lips, he stopped only long enough to catch his breath.
“I love you, too,” he said.
EPILOGUE
Five months later
The house seemed to have aged in the last six months, though outwardly there was no specific sign of it. Spring flowers sprouted from rich, black garden soil. Birds flitted to and from from feeders spread out beneath the trees. Yet somehow beneath its glory sat decay, mortality.
Andre stepped aside so Sullivan could better organize the workers. Toting the fixture up the slope to the house would be a task. Especially since floating it over on the barge had been hard enough. To keep it stabilized, where it wouldn’t pitch and roll, had been a nightmare, this despite the calm winds.
“We’ll be half-dead before we get it to the door,” Sullivan said in his ear.
Andre grinned. “We’re not going in the front. There’s a side entrance, so it’s even further.”
His comments were greeted with a corporate groan.
Sullivan motioned toward the barge. “Well, let’s get on with it.”
He was right about being half-dead. Andre did his part to carry portions across the lawn and around the corner of the house. But six trips and three hours later, there was still the
greatest piece to bring. This one would take everyone.
Andre checked the time on his phone. “Okay, we have an hour to do this, and it has to be done very slowly,” he said. Very slowly. One mishap and the whole design was bust.
“Mistah Garner.”
Andre turned at the familiar voice. “Osiris, good to see you.” The two clasped hands.
Osiris well-lined face broke into a smile. However, it faded just as quick.
“How is she?” Andre asked.
Osiris made no motion to look behind, signaling he knew who Andre meant. “As can be expected, suh. And Miss Cerise?”
Andre laid a hand on Osiris’ shoulder. “Engaged.”
“Engaged, suh? Why, that’s happy news!”
“Thank you. We’re both very happy. You understand why she didn’t come?”
Osiris nodded. “Of course, suh. Is understandable, and I don’t blame her. But we miss her somethin’ terrible.”
Andre hesitated. “She wants you to come, both of you, to the wedding, but understands if it’s a hardship, given her grandmother’s mental state.”
“Missus Yolanda will be glad to know that, suh, and I’m sure will do her best to come.”
“She’s also asked me to send someone to take over her grandmother’s care that day,” Andre offered. “It would mean so much to her for you to be there.”
“That is very kind, suh, very kind.”
Andre inhaled deep. “Well, we have this last piece to get. Daylight’s fading.”
“Yes, suh. I understand. I will go unlock the door.” Osiris turned and headed for the house.
In the end, it took more than an hour to bring the final piece to the door. The group poised and looked at each other.
The silence that greeted their entrance into the room was tangible. Eyes wide, faces revolving in all directions, time and the task were temporarily forgotten.
“It’s mind-blowing,” Sullivan said at last. “So much …” He paused before a green glass vase. “Midas glass. Never thought I’d see it. There’s only three in existence.” He continued on. “This looks like Barteau. Holy cow and it’s signed.” A whistle escaped. “Seems a shame to leave it all here.”
Andre only nodded. He agreed and had talked to Cerise about it. They’d formed an idea, but it was secret, for now. They wouldn’t reveal it until her grandmother’s death., and that could be years away.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” Sullivan leaned on one hip. “You have a plan don’t you?”
Andre looked toward the disassembled pieces. “For today, to hang this monstrosity.” He sensed Sullivan’s disappointment in his lack of an answer.
“You are going to do something with all this glass. Aren’t you?” Sullivan pressed.
Andre stared back at the group. “There’s work to do,” he said. He returned to the pieces of the fixture. “Let’s get going. This will take the rest of the afternoon, and we have to be on the return boat by six.”
They shifted and obeyed. Andre stood back.
Yes, they had definite plans for the glass. He’d already had them drawn up. The Levi Garner Museum of Glass would come into existence one day, on the mainland. Meanwhile, he would marry Cerise, acquire the right piece of land, and maybe have a child or two. His mom and hers couldn’t wait to have grandchildren.
He suppressed a laugh. He couldn’t wait to give them some either.
Assembling the light went fairly quick, given the size of the piece. The wiring had to be done first. Frankie spent an hour doing that portion alone. Then each section was connected using a series of specially manufactured hooks. The final piece to hang was the glass in the center. Andre handled this himself. He stepped back after, his arms exhausted, but his insides light.
“Where the old woman?” Sullivan asked, standing at his side.
Andre pointed across the room. “Inside. She’ll come out after we’re gone.”
“So we won’t see her at all?”
No, and he’d asked for that. He wanted her to experience the effect by herself, for her to stand there, if she was even lucid, and see what her money had bought.
“Can we light it?” Pierson asked.
Andre walked over to the switch. All these months, all this hard work, came down to this one moment. It was almost sacred somehow. He mumbled a thank you to God under his breath and wordlessly counted to three.
Then he flipped the switch.
***
“Come now Missus,” Yolanda grasped the old woman’s arm tight enough to keep her from wandering away.
It should wait until morning, viewing the new light, but the young man had insisted. Nightfall. Turn the switch on after dark. And so here they were.
Mrs. Delacroix wagged her head back and forth on their way through the foyer. “Where’s Cerise? I want to see Cerise.”
“She’s not heah, Missus. I tol’ you that,” Yolanda replied.
“Well, where is she?” the old woman pressed. “And why are we going this way? The glass cannot be seen at night.”
Yolanda shoved the old woman toward the double doors. “T’isn’t dark in there. You had the light made.”
“The light!” the old woman crowed. “Is it installed?”
“Yes’m, and ready for you to see.”
Mrs. Delacroix clapped her hands. “Call the mister. Make him come and see.”
Yolanda held her peace. She’d taken to saying that a lot, but her husband had been dead almost eleven years now.
“Well, open the doors,” the old woman said.
Yolanda obeyed, turning the knob. The room was dark, but a gleaming blackness reflective of all the objects inside.
“The switch, the switch. Turn it on.”
Yolanda felt Osiris’ hand lay light on her shoulder. “I’ll get it,” he said softly.
She held her place. He knew she disliked the darkness. But her duties kept her there, as well as her love for the missus and a strange desire to see the new piece.
The click of the switch flooded the room with light. Swirling around them, it cast elongated spheres in a discordant pattern on the walls. It seemed to rotate and change. Violent almost. Turbid. Roiling and tossing in a head-spinning flurry.
Yolanda’s heart beat faster. What was this? Why would he create such?
Osiris took her hand in his. “Don’t you see?” he asked.
Yolanda’s gaze was drawn to the old woman standing directly center of the light. She stared up entranced, her hair askew.
“I see only brutality and confusion,” she said.
“That’s the point.”
Yolanda’s eyes froze on the old woman. She stretched one aged hand toward the amber glass hanging above.
“It’s the storm,” he said. “The one that blew the night he came.”
And it was. She could see it now. He’d recreated the awfulness in the texture of light.
“What is that in the center?” she asked.
It was beautiful that portion, a golden illumination that came from everywhere at once.
“He didn’t,” the old woman screeched. She leaped toward the fixture, clawing at the air. “That young man seeks to torment me …”
Yolanda wandered forward, taking hold of the old woman and holding her tight. It was enough, she’d seen it … whatever it was. “We’ll go upstairs now,” she said.
“No, take it down. Destroy it. He’s done this to me,” the old woman wailed.
“Please, missus, it’s just a light, and you paid so much.”
She hauled her toward the door where Osiris helped them into the hall. But upon entering, he didn’t turn off the light.
“You leavin’ it on?” Yolanda asked.
He nodded and smiled. “That there represents Miss Cerise’s eyes. Don’t you see it? It’s that same coluh.”
Yolanda’s face changed. “I ‘spose, but it ‘minds me of something else from long ago.”
He shook his head. “Can’t think what that’d be.”
She continued moving toward the stairs, the old woman held to her side. But at the bottom rung, she stopped cold. “I know it now,” she said.
“What’s that?” Osiris spoke in her ear.
“It’s that necklace with the stone, the one Mr. Garner gave Cerise’s mama,” Yolanda nodded. “Looks just like it to me.”
FROM THE AUTHOR
I saw this story in its entirety early one morning while lying in bed, and in that moment, knew every twist and turn from the beginning to the ending.
Truthfully, after reading it back, I know that was God’s doing. My friends joke that my mind never shuts off, and though I tend to agree, even with all the thought in the world, I could never have developed such a complicated storyline. I am so blessed and grateful to my heavenly Father for trusting me with the tale.
It’s a tale meant to entertain. I love writing romantic suspense. But it’s also a story with a bit of a moral, that all the awful things in your life can be wiped clean in one moment through forgiveness in Christ. It’s really that simple. God can take the mess of your existence and turn it into something wonderful and glorious, far beyond your dreams.
I should know. I’ve been at the bottom, begging God to help me climb out, and now, sometimes have to pinch myself to believe where He’s brought me. But that’s how He is. He’s the God “who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think.” (Eph 3:20 NKJV)
Suzanne D. Williams
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors.
To learn more about what she’s doing visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.
Also by Suzanne D. Williams:
Nonfiction:
Fearless
Short Stories:
Glass Page 10