Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas

by Pepper Basham

  “And now I can go back.” Her voice was heavy with exertion. She smoothed his hair, she touched his cheek, her fingers tripped over the curve of his chin and settled into the clef sign of his neck and chin. She tried a smile but it didn’t make it past a slight hover over her lips, certainly didn’t brighten her eyes. “Because I will always remember that a man treated me like porcelain.”

  They turned at a rustle in the doorway that roused Widow Barclay who stood rather quickly for someone so recently in the throes of slumber. Startled, Esther took a step and toppled the chess board Nic had moved to the floor.

  “Mr. Titus Fang,” the Widow said before Nic or Esther could move or speak. “I confess that the climate and dust in this space is overwhelming me. Would you be gentleman enough to see me for a small stroll in the fresh air?”

  To Titus Fang’s credit, he answered in a quick affirmative growl that wasn’t exactly gentle but perhaps of the timbre a man of his size and stature would use when speaking to a grandmother. And, blessedly, with the Wolf and Granny out of sight, Nic and Esther could properly say goodbye.

  “I love you, Esther.” Nic whispered over her hair. “I should have told you the other day. Of course I love you. And I said things because I thought you were bound and I know your sense of duty but that was before I knew that he abused you. I was weak. And caught off guard. Tell me what my next move is.”

  “I can’t leave my father and break my word.” Esther said slowly. “And you can’t leave your father. And where would be possibly go? Our next move has to be goodbye.”

  She knew he would honourably latch onto her but at what cost? That would set him gigantic steps back from his path. Supporting himself and her out of his natural dignity and honour. She wanted all for him and none for herself. She wanted to take the bounty of her ambition and circumstance and the hard-bought privilege and tear it off in certain strips so that he could realize the potential hovering in saw dust and dimly lit rehearsals.

  Esther bent over the carnage of stray chess pieces moating the overturned milk crate and retrieved a rook by its smooth head, tucking it so tightly into her palm her skin broke.

  “Esther… you can’t.” he stood quickly. She had noticed on several occasions that his chin would meet her forehead. He was the perfect height to tuck into. His arms slid so easily around her before. So naturally. “Please.” he entreated. “I can take care of you. There has to be a solution. I know I cannot live with you but I cannot live without you.”

  “A paradox to stump Mozart and Mathematics.” Esther said.

  She had been stupid for not anticipating love could reach down to your toes, clutch your heart and stir your head. That the slightest sadness projected from another would sting its way through you until it sliced you open.

  Esther faced Nic as she had countless times from their first meeting: as a woman recognizing her counterpart. She aligned herself with him and kissed him again as if the sky were falling, as if the moon were dissolving with the pressure of his lips on hers. She felt him everywhere: from the curve of her cheek to the tip of her fingers, from the thrum of her heart to the turn-over in her stomach. Consuming her and brandishing her pride and timidity and second guesses. Right now… this… was ownership. This was hers for the taking, thrilling and keeping. A woman might harbour a hope chest, Esther harboured one in her deepest core. Treasured feelings and touches and lips and sighs. He was warm and there and present.

  And he loved her. It was certainty. It was feeling without translation. It was in every soft caress over her hair and forehead. It had been rooted since the moment they met. The need for breath and the determination to keep a slight semblance of propriety cast them slightly apart. Memorize his eyes, she lost a bit of her soul in the glisten of his dark, sad gaze. Memorize his touch, she stirred at the knuckles grazing her cheek, lowing beneath her chin.

  “Duty trumps love.” Nic said against her cheek.

  “I will honour the promise that I made to my father for my dead mother’s sake. And you will stay with your father. That’s love, too.”

  It was too soon to say goodbye but Titus Fang and Widow Barclay shadowed the door and Esther reached for her handbag. Now, they would be watched. She couldn’t steal a last kiss so she let it take residence in her eyes. She visually traced over his ears and his nose and the smile lines at his mouth. One last time.

  She straightened her shoulders and watched his heart break in his eyes. “Well, Mr. Ricci.” She was proud her voice was sure and unrippled. She extended her hand. “You have been a wonderful rehearsal pianist and I will be sure to write you a recommendation whenever it is needed.”

  Esther felt Nic’s palm like a parting kiss in the gentle way he took her hand: a feather lightness compensating for Thomas’s brutish touch the day before.

  “You sing like an angel,” he said.

  “Widow Barclay.” Esther summoned her chaperone. “Don’t you want to bid goodbye to Mr. Ricci? This was the last of our rehearsals.”

  Widow Barclay clearly was not quite awake or addled by the sun because all she said was, “Oh I will be seeing Mr. Ricci again very shortly. This is merely a brief adieu.”

  Puzzled, Esther crossed the dusty boards of the squat rehearsal space once more, leaving the happiest weeks of her life behind her.

  10

  Nic walked. And walked. And walked. There was a symphony to his neighbourhood: the turn of an automobile, music from his father’s homeland on a phonograph seeping through an open window and blessing the street below, the rickety wheels of a cart, the laughter of children and the lyrical language of his mother’s home. As much as he had wanted to escape the confines of red brick and cobblestones, sneak out of the squat alleys and tight corners to a world beyond, he recognized that it wasn’t a prison so much as a haven. He had been safe here. He had learned chess and played piano, watched his mother barter for cannoli as he hoisted a mesh bag full of oil, tomatoes and basil on his shoulder, rolled his eyes at his father each time his English was corrected.

  He was absolutely the least qualified Prince to rescue Esther. For what did he have to give her? Except for this. All of this. He didn’t have money, as his father reminded him, but he had a connection to place and a reverence for the warmth of family he knew she had lacked her whole life.

  The street was soon smiles as Nic took the time to make eye contact with familiar faces from his rambles and shopping and organ playing.

  He made a quick stop at the butcher’s for his dad’s evening meal before turning his street corner home.

  He was surprised to find Widow Barclay and Mrs. Mayweather talking at the door of his building.

  “What are you doing here?” Nic asked kindly.

  “Fairy godmothering.” Mrs. Mayweather explained, using the same term she had when first he had fixed her piano.

  “Oh.” Nic said and led them upstairs.

  Once inside, Nic saw to tea and his dad accepted their request to speak to Nic alone, retreating with his crossword puzzle and taking one of the delicacies from a white box Mrs. Mayweather set on the side table.

  “Is your piano alright?” Nic asked, shifting in his seat, wondering how these two knew each other and why they were both here.

  “Mr. Ricci, you’re a smart man.” Widow Barclay said.

  “T-thank you.”

  “And a wonderful piano player.”

  “T-thank you, Mrs. Mayweather.”

  “And now we need you to be a knight.” Widow Barclay looked pointedly at the chess board on the table bearing a half-finished game Nic had started with his father.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thomas is a brute.” Widow Barclay said.

  “And a lout,” added Mrs. Mayweather.

  “I know.” He was nauseous just thinking about it.

  “Mr. Ricci, you are a teacher of mathematics are you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And so I assume you are familiar with statistics?”

  “Yes, Widow Barcl
ay.”

  “So statistically speaking, how likely is it that I am sleeping during your piano rehearsals with my young charge?”

  Nic felt all of the words and feeling and thought deflate from his core and settle somewhere down in his toes, taking his breath with them. “Er…” Because if she wasn’t asleep, statistically speaking, then there was a very sure probability that she had heard …and heard and … and hadn’t he thought he could read a ghost of a smile more than once when he checked to see the widow slumbered? He supposed it to be a pleasant dream, a calm reflex of relaxation.

  “Mr. Ricci,” Mrs. Mayweather inspected her teacup. “The widow and I would like you to know that while we appreciate your efforts as a rehearsal pianist, we could have found much better.”

  “I am very confused.”

  “Father Francisco has spoken of you for years. I have seen how you tune the organ, how you offer free piano lessons. I have seen how the children love you. Mr. Ricci, you were not chosen as a rehearsal pianist…” Mrs. Mayweather chose a rather annoying time to take a long, emphatic sip of tea. “But as a suitor.”

  “A charming prince.” Widow Barclay said.

  “F-for Es… for Miss Hunnisett?” Nic wasn’t sure how he was holding it together. Widow Barclay, if indeed awake, had heard the delicious sparkle of Esther’s laugh in his presence, had witnessed more chess playing than concentrated practice and then… there was the matter of kissing. It wasn’t a very loud activity, to be sure, but certainly its prolonged bouts of silence must have sparked some curiousity.

  “You must save her, Mr. Ricci.” Mrs. Mayweather said.

  “How do you factor into all of this? How do you two know each other?”

  “Esther’s mother was a close friend of both of ours.” Widow Barclay explained. “And it is in her memory that we pry Esther from the greed of her father and brutish tactics of Thomas.”

  “But Est..Miss Hunnisett believes she is honouring her mother. She has a strong sense of duty.”

  “Love trumps duty.” Widow Barclay quoted him.

  “And how do you propose we do this?”

  Mrs. Mayweather leaned toward the table and exchanged her tea cup for a pawn. “Chess, Mr. Ricci, is all about tactical strategy.”

  “And you will need that and more if you are going to rescue our Rapunzel from her tower,” added Widow Barclay.

  “Rapunzel?” Nic said.

  Widow Barclay laughed into her tea cup. “Oh Mr. Ricci, my dear, must I remind you that I wasn’t sleeping? The next tenants of that dire little lean-to will find discarded hairpins in the floorboards for years.”

  “What possible strategy can I have? The man is powerful.”

  “Even the most powerful men have the weakness of thinking they are beyond reproach.” Mrs. Mayweather reached into her handbag. “Have you seen the newspaper?”

  III

  Capture: To remove a piece from the board via a legal move.

  Esther’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Widow Barclay was seated opposite her on the chaise lounge in her bedroom and talking of Nic. Of her. In detail. Great detail. Details she thought were safe given the widow’s shroud of sleep.

  “I wasn’t that asleep.” Widow Barclay explained. “Do you really think a Barclay would snore?”

  Esther removed her palm from its position: slapped over her gaping mouth. “B-but… Then you know that…”

  “That Thomas is a brute and Nic is a gentleman? It’s ironic, isn’t it? Thomas has the lineage, that ridiculous wave in his hair and Nic comes from nothing and yet one is a prince and the other the dragon. One would trap you and the other would cherish you: down to every last clever bone in your body, my intelligent girl.”

  “But…”

  “My sweet, first I had to test him for you. Find out if he was worthy. The moment Mrs. Mayweather said she had a young man by to tune her piano, I was intrigued. Nic stayed to tea and as well as being remarkably handsome he told her all about his father. Father Francisco confirmed the rest during one of our Charity Bazaar drives. He was handsome, he had a heart of gold and he had the intellect and musical quality needed for our Esther.” She stroked Esther’s cheek. “I promised your mother, my dear and we are looking out for you. Then, I had weeks to watch you fall in love.” Widow Barclay laughed. “Perhaps not watch so much as hear.”

  Tears formed in Esther’s eyes and then they trickled: one, two, a hundred. They might never stop flowing. “You allowed me this kindness. And I wasn’t always kind to you.”

  “You didn’t know you were in the presence of an ally.” Widow Barclay took out the handkerchief that usually meted the slow breaths of her charade of a snore and passed it to Esther.

  “I was your mother’s companion first, my dearest. And I promised her I would watch over you. Your mother left me a kind inheritance. She had sold a necklace when she turned poorly. I am calculating a way to ensure you never have to worry again.”

  “I have seen the evidence of liquor smuggling. In Thomas’s satchel and because Mrs. Mayweather told me about a faulty delivery to her husband’s factory. Also, I have overheard his conversations with my father. The sooner he gets me away the better. He wants to leave by the end of the week before the authorities close in.”

  “To arrest him?”

  “Oh they won’t prosecute him. He can probably buy the police off. He probably has already given the amount of inventory there is. But he is worried about the family name. The Weatherton name is half of Boston harbour.” Esther shook her head. “But if I leave Thomas, then perhaps my father will be left to the authorities.” She spread her hands.

  “Serves him right.” Widow Barclay held tightly to Esther’s hand. “You’ll need a strategy.”

  “What strategy? I am lost. I can’t report my own fiancé to police that might not act on his crimes. Then I will bear his punishment the moment he has me imprisoned at Rutherford.”

  “Do you trust me?” Esther nodded. “Do you trust Mr. Ricci.”

  “Yes.”

  Widow Barclay turned and rummaged in her knitting bag. She retrieved the Ever After compilation and pressed it in Esther’s hand. “You forgot this at the rehearsal room today. Trust that Nic can save you from your tower, my beautiful Rapunzel.” The widow gently fingered a strand of Esther’s flowing curls. “But also trust that you can meet him halfway in that rescue.”

  Esther looked down at the book. “Why? How?” she smoothed her finger over the gold embossed lettering. “How will this help me? To cheer me up?”

  “Look inside.”

  The widow kissed her gently on the top of her head and left Esther in the bower of her bedroom.

  Esther crawled under the covers of her canopied bed and peeled back the cover. She flipped through the chapters and sketches, ran her fingers over the detailed illustrations, read a few favorite sentences. Tucked just inside the beginning of the Rapunzel story was a note in a fine, clear hand.

  My dear Esther,

  There is nothing I desire more than to rescue you and spirit you off. Alas, I don’t have a trusty steed, I don’t even have a second-hand Ford…

  The kindly Widow Barclay and Mrs. Mayweather, two unexpected allies in our plight, encouraged me to look to chess for our solution. And so I have. On the back of this letter is a map for our strategy. Together we will perfect 4 moves that will win us the game.

  So we’ll castle early, move our king to safety and put our rooks into play.

  Let’s pretend you’re playing white because you will be our knight Esther. You could try the Queen’s Gambit, but might I suggest an English opening?

  The fact of the matter is, I simply cannot live without you.

  I have never given my entire heart to a person before, but now that it is yours, it is quite incredibly freeing. I see that it was never truly mine to begin with and to keep it tucked inside any longer is just downright selfish.

  And so, with all of my love, I am trusting your skill, which is immeasurably better than mine and putti
ng both of our hearts and lives in your more than capable hands… and brain. You cannot be alone in the match, but with a second player we might be able to pull off our victory.

  I await your next move.

  N.R.

  Esther read the letter several times before turning the page over to study the strategy. Four key moves. They wouldn’t win the whole game but they gave her a start.

  First, f 3 – e5 or a Fool’s mate. Capitalize on your opponent’s key mistakes. The second, N x e 4: a classic example of at two knight’s defense or a fork trick to take out two pieces in one move. Rh1 + 28. Kxhl Qh2# A pin! Yes! To pin the opponent’s pieces using Queens, rooks and bishops to pull off a powerful move wherein the opponent cannot move a piece without exposing a more valuable defending piece to capture by the attacking piece.

  Rh7 + The skewer. Truly, Esther hadn’t realized chess sounded so violent before. But, why shouldn’t she revel in the attacks and the skewers? They were going into battle. The skewer was similar to a pin but often found the King in absolute check.

  Esther kissed the note before leaping from her bed in the direction of her desk and blotter. She retrieved a few sheets of paper and a pencil and copied the strategies from Nic’s letter. Then, she set to work. She had allies in Widow Barclay and Mrs. Mayweather. She knew her opponent Thomas’s deep weaknesses. She knew where to expose his most vulnerable culpability. But there were still rogue pieces on the board. Her father, for one. Titus Fang for another. For the man had become a fixture outside the door. His brawny shadow darkened the hall and startled the already-silent dinner table into a resounding thud.

  Esther smoothed the paper with her hand and scribbled. Sleep took a long time in coming as Esther was too excited to put the game into play. When it finally arrived it was filled with dreams of him. A fireplace. A chessboard. A piano. His lips over her ear and his fingers in her hair.

  She awoke, rested and excited, the last outline of Nic dissolving slowly with her subconscious to the point where she couldn’t remember the dream in great detail. Only that he had been in it so clearly, so constantly that she was determined to shift the dream into constant reality.