“You seriously think they’ll be able to…?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve got to try something, don’t I? Something’s got to change; to give. Something has got to shift in all of this, for the better, right?”
Confetti rolled over again, and then, as if on cue, ran toward the door as someone rang the bell. With a sigh, Paloma got up, taking the phone with her. “Someone’s at the door; hold on,” she told her friend.
Moving the cat out of the way gently with her foot, she glanced out the window.
Now, how was it that Dirk and Omega had shown up right when she needed to discuss something with them? She had barely gotten the words out of her mouth!
Only God, she thought, opening the door and stepping outside onto the porch. “I was just talking about you all with Tawny,” she disclosed, nodding to the phone in her hand. “How can I help you today?”
“I think you know we’re here to help instead, don’t you,” Omega asked her, his smile wide as he fidgeted with one of the cuffs on his green plaid flannel. “But since we’re here, could you help with this shirt? Too long for this heat, but I don’t wanna cut it; just won’t stay up where they belong, these sleeves,” he continued, smiling even wider.
“Well,” she said. “That, I can do,” she said. “The rest, you’re right… I have no idea, and I’m hoping for some heavenly insights.”
“You got that right,” she heard Tawny say, and laughed. “I’ll let ya go, Girl,” her friend continued. “The situation gonna get something going for it, you watch.”
She said her quick goodbyes, and watched her friend press her thumb to the screen, and it blipped back into the phone handle. Turning once more to Dirk and Omega, who were sweating profusely and still arguing with their flannel over-shirts, she smiled and decided it was time to get down to business.
Even if it meant showing them a few things while she told her story; a story they likely knew already. And even if it meant doing things she was not altogether happy with.
She’d deal with it.
She had to.
Part Two:
De la Vie et de la Mort
(Of Life and Death)
Fourteen
Perpignan, France… July 2, 1707
Gaspar made his way into his wife, Galya’s, chamber once more and knelt down near her bed.
He was thankful mother and child had lived through the attempt on their lives, and it was a miracle in itself, but that Galya was still so weak, and their child still in danger appeased him not.
“Mother Mary,” he prayed quietly, “speak to your Son today on our behalf once again, that He may grant life, and that in abundance, for there is no joy in this other than the hope for their lives to continue to be spared. I… I plead before you,” he continued, grasping the edges of the sheet covering his wife’s sleeping form, “that your Son make a way where there seems to be no way, and tarries no longer to do so. Bring joy, and peace, and grace, and mercy, and help there to be life here.”
It had been his prayer daily since she’d been poisoned; and it took all his strength not to send anyone after the woman who had created such a mess of things in their lives. A woman scorned; a woman unable to accept that he was married and that he loved his wife.
A woman who had been in his own employ!
But what good was it to seek her out, to have her hunted down, when his energies must be here, with his family? Caring for his sisters, his nieces and nephews; for his wife and their unborn child?
Gaspar had wanted vengeance and justice, but the more he seethed in rage, the more the Holy Spirit convicted him to forgive and allow God, Mary help him, to have things his own way. And so, after three days of fighting with God and watching his wife and child teeter between life and death, he had given in; God had won.
Outside, he could hear the laughter of the older children as they made their way into the manor, and he smiled.
Yes.
There was still much to be thankful for, even in this.
Even though he didn’t understand, and even though sometimes he wanted to bellow his frustrations out to the world around him, he knew it would do no good; it would do harm.
And then where would he be? Where would his family be, and where would his reputation be?
No.
They must endure this, and they would.
God-willing, they would.
Looking down at Galya’s thin and gently rounding form, Gaspar reached for her closest hand and grasped it lightly through the sheet. She stirred, but did not wake, and he sighed in relief.
Though his knees ached and his heart was heavy, he was thankful.
Life was beginning to come back together again, though he had felt his whole world shattering around him. All that he thought he’d lost was still there, waiting for him to embrace it; all of the loved ones that mattered were still part of his life, and those closest to him were still alive, and doing better.
And all he could think on was God’s grace.
He could have shunned the pain of watching Galya and their son – he was almost convinced it was a son – go through so much struggle. He could have treated her as though she’d done something wrong, when she hadn’t. He could have chosen to believe she was being overly dramatic for attention, when deep down, he knew she wasn’t, but thank God, he hadn’t.
And all he could think on was the grace of God.
Fifteen
Boston, Massachusetts… July 2, 1942
Steven Wishart-Laurent made his way through the side streets to toward the Rockford’s home, glancing behind him every few yards along the way.
If Shannen – or any of his family, for that matter – realized he’d gone back to gambling, it’d be all over; he’d done his best to stay away, but it had been a struggle from the start. And while stopping had saved him money, and probably his marriage, running into Jimmie Foxx had just about done him in.
And it hadn’t helped that he’d just parted ways with his brother-in-law on their way to work, either.
Foxx had played an awesome season; the Red Sox in general had done well. But it had been evident when Steven ran into him that the man was having trouble walking. And it was evident that there was a reasonable explanation why the baby-faced, brawny man was wobbling when he crossed the street.
There’d been rumors of his drinking, and sure, Steven had seen it a time or two first-hand, but he hoped that the man would get things under control. His career in baseball would surely go downhill if he didn’t, and that would be a shame; a waste of his talent, and his life.
But what could he do about it? It was Jimmie’s life, wasn’t it? He could barely live his own, and that, he thought as he walked toward the back door of the Rockfords’ place and knocked, was something he wasn’t doing so well at, himself.
A firecracker went off nearby, causing him to startle as Big Frank – so called due to his extreme size – opened the door and let him in without a word. In the distance, he heard a horse skittering at the noise as a car backfired.
“Long time,” Frank finally murmured once the door was closed and Steven had carried a chair for himself into the back parlor.
“Been a while, true. Had some other things happening in life,” he said, hoping not to have to explain more. The larger man shrugged, and they walked inside the well-lit and crowded room; two tables, as usual, each surrounded by men, cards in hand.
“Poker or gin rummy,” Rocky asked him without as much as a hello. He pointed to his table for poker; the other for gin rummy, and Steven set his chair down between Rocky and a player he was unfamiliar with.
“Alright, you’re in next round; we just started this one up,” the man on his left told him. “I’m Al,” he said by way of introduction.
“Steven,” he told the tall, thin bespectacled man before falling silent again.
Listening to the conversations around him, Steven sensed a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
I shouldn’t be here, he thought, his c
hest tightening and his breathing becoming jagged. I should have just stayed away. I should have listened to Shiloh and Peter and….
He could feel sweat beginning to form under the collar of his shirt, and another firework went off nearby, causing him to jump.
The room began to spin for a moment, and he closed his eyes to steady himself. When he opened them, he saw Rocky staring at him, shuffling cards in one hand.
“Everything alright,” he asked.
Steven nodded, saying nothing as he tried to keep his breathing steady. His hands shook when he picked up the cards dealt to him.
What have I gotten myself back into, he thought as he glanced at the cards in his hand. And how am I going to get myself back out of it?
Shiloh Schwartz climbed the stairs to his sister and brother-in-law’s apartment two at a time, his heart hammering in his chest.
Behind him, his wife, Jerusha and their children, Rachel and Elliott, followed more slowly, each holding onto one of her hands.
Finally reaching Steven and Shannen’s apartment, Shiloh knocked briskly, and then tried to open the door; it was locked.
“Just a minute,” he heard his mother, Liraz say quietly. “Who is there?”
“Imma, it’s me,” he told her as he heard her footsteps come closer. “We’re all here, Imma… my whole family.”
He waited a moment as he heard the lock slide out of place; heard the chain clink, and waited until his mother opened the door for them. He waited for his wife and children to walk inside ahead of him, and then found a seat on the couch.
Shannen Rose, Eve, and baby Deborah were sitting at the table in the middle of the room, a book in Shannen Rose’s hands as she read her siblings a story. Deborah was in Eve’s lap, clapping along with the turning of a new page.
“So, where are Shannen and Steven,” he asked once they’d all settled in.
He looked from the children to his mother and back to the children.
“Shannen has a headache, and is laying down. As for Steven, we can only hope for the best. He’s more than an hour late, and last time that happened, he…” Imma paused, cleared her throat, and looked pointedly at him.
Understood.
Last time, he was off gambling.
“Is this the first time he’s…?”
His mother nodded, some of the white frizz coming unbound from her handkerchief in the process.
“I think I might have some idea where he’s…”
At his announcement, his wife and mother both looked at him. He could sense the curiosity in his wife; the anger in his mother.
“You mean to say you think… you think that if Steven has returned to… that… you think you know where he might be doing such… things,” his mother wanted to know.
Shiloh looked from his mother to his wife and back again; two beautiful women who loved him. Two beautiful women he’d disappointed. Why had he not told them, and Shannen, for that matter, the location of the place he’d seen Steven heading the night he’d run into Jimmie Foxx? Why hadn’t he told them about Rocky Rockford, and about how baseball players and office personnel alike gathered in the man’s home, in spite of his having a large family and a mortgage to care about?
Not that he’d met any of the Rockfords, but from what Jimmie had told him in subsequent conversations, there was quite a passel of responsibility being taken advantage of there, in that house. And that’s why Jimmie rarely went to play anymore.
That, and he was considering a contract with another team; hoping for one.
“I mean, I’ll be back soon,” he said, making his decision quickly and standing abruptly. “I’m almost positive I remember how to get there, and if I find him there, so help me-”
Jerusha placed a small hand on his arm, standing up more smoothly. “Wait; I think we should just… let’s wait here until he gets back and just… talk to him. Maybe send Imma and the kids all over to our place, and…”
Shiloh glanced at his mother, who nodded in assent; he glanced at the children, and at his sister’s closed door, and back to his wife.
Could he really sit here and do nothing but wait?
He’d rather shake Steven until his senses came back, but what was the point in that if all it did was drive him further away into gambling?
If that’s where he really was at all.
Could he have been held late at the office with a project?
“Why don’t I call his office first, and then we’ll see from there,” he finally said, sighing. “Maybe we’re all just jumping to conclusions.”
“You can call,” Imma said, shaking her head, “but we tried five times now and nobody answered.”
As much as Shiloh hated to use the phone, and as much as he loathed the idea of just sitting there, doing nothing but wait, an idea began to form.
“Imma, why don’t you and Jerusha take the kids to my place; I’m going to call Peter and Michael; ask them to get over here. Maybe Arkadiusz, as well; he’s close by and they seem to be good friends,” he said as he began walking to the kitchen to where the phone sat on a little yellow table between the wall and the end of the counter. “And I’ll call Steven at work, just to be sure, but… if he’s off at…”
He glanced at the children, most of whom were looking at him now and let his words drop.
“We’ll talk with him when he gets home. And we’ll see what we can do from there. It may just be that Warren’s death was just too…” Tears came to his eyes, and he glanced at his wife. “It may have pushed him back over the…”
Jerusha nodded, and for a moment he thought she was going to come over and hug him, but she didn’t. Instead, she called for the children to get ready to go to their place. And soon, Imma carrying Deborah and holding the hand of a toddling Elliott, the pair of them walked the children outside and, door closed, Shiloh finally broke down.
For moment, he allowed himself tears, and then, snurfling up his runny nose and wiping his eyes, he began dialing Steven’s office.
Nine, ten, eleven rings later, he finally hung up, dialed Peter and Lily’s, and prayed Steven’s youngest brother would be able to come over and help him out.
Because, on his own, Shiloh had a feeling that the man wouldn’t listen to him if his life depended on it. And he had no idea how true that might become, if he tumbled back into gambling addiction, for loved ones were too much of one’s life to lose and not sense the loss.
Shiloh certainly hoped Steven would be strong enough, and smart enough, to never find out the hard way. And, as Peter answered, he prayed that Shannen and the children wouldn’t go through the unnecessary pain of it, either.
Not again.
Not anymore.
This would be it; Shiloh would have his say and be done with it, and then, it would be up to the rest of the family, and to God.
The burden of knowing was too great; the burden of doing nothing was even greater; the burden of watching his loved ones in so much pain was the greatest of all.
Sixteen
Paris, France… July 2, 1707
“Souhaitez-vous obtenir en ici, s'il vous plaît, je vous ai demandé, jeune femme? Je n'ai pas été faire une suggestion,” Roisin Beausoleil called to her daughter as she tried her best to avoid stepping on Duffy’s tail. “Clarice? Come here,” she called again.
She made her way back toward the pot of stew she had going, shooed the scruffy, but clean, dog out of the way, and listened as her daughter grumbled under her breath and followed her into the kitchen area.
“N'avez-vous pas m'entendre, que je voulais en venir, Mama,” she heard Clarice say as she made her way through the door with a basket of pastries in hand. “I had to finish up next door, and then retrieve these from Papa, who got them in payment from the cook for something or another that he’s done.”
Roisin stirred the stew and set her wooden spoon aside, out of Duffy’s reach, and groaned. “Since when did cook pay your Papa anything? And since when did he work for the cook, instead of the royal family?”
“N'ai-je pas censé faire en tant que papa m'a demandé, ainsi? Suis-je de ne procéder comme vous le demandez,” her daughter asked as she set the basket down on the table between them. “You always told me that if Papa needed something, I was to-”
“Aye, I did,” Roisin admitted, interrupting her daughter as she pulled out one of the heavy wooden chairs and looked over the baked goods as she sat down. “What have we here?”
She rummaged a while before finding an especially-tasty looking chocolate croissant and smiled. Pulling it from the basket, she returned her attention to her daughter.
“I need you to watch the stew while I go round to talk with Babette,” she said quickly before taking a tiny bite of the croissant.
Clarice, plump face pouting, glared at her a moment, sighed, looked through the pastries and found something of interest to her, and finally looked back at Roisin, nodding. “Alright,” she said. “I don’t want to, but I will.”
“There’s a girl,” she told her daughter, standing up once more. “I don’t believe I’ll be gone long, so no frets about that,” she continued. “Just a wee visit to ask her something, and I’ll be back.”
“D’you have to do this right now,” her daughter asked before taking a bite of the croissant she’d chosen. A smudge of some sort of berry at the corner of the girl’s mouth made Roisin smile, in spite of herself, and her daughter’s bad attitude.
She took another bite of her own croissant before answering, trying to figure out the best way to proceed.
If she gave in, then her daughter would learn she could get what she wanted, and if she didn’t, her daughter might assume that her own needs and wishes were of no consequence.
“Mama?”
Roisin smiled, pointed out the smudge as gently as she knew how, and then stood, croissant in hand.
“I understand you’re disappointed, I do, but this is one of those times it’s important to help out here. I don’t require a lot of ye here at home; an hour or two a day, and it hurts you none, and the rest of the time you’re off about other things,” she told the girl, who pouted even more as she wiped the corners of her mouth with a forefinger, then licked off the berry she’d found.
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 97