by K Larsen
“What exactly do you want from your mother?” Jezebel asked as she floated across the room and turned the fan in the window up a notch. Annabelle welcomed the steady breeze.
“A mom is supposed to know everything about her kids. Dentist appointments, crushes, best friends, favorite foods, secret fears and hopes and dreams. Right? My mom knows none of that. But you Jez, you do. You’re more motherly to me than she’s even tried to be in the last eight years.”
Jezebel’s eyes popped open wide and studied Annabelle as she returned to her chair. “That is quite the compliment, sweet beet.”
Annabelle shrugged before she slumped into her seat. “It’s true though. Somehow in like four months you’ve done more to . . .”
She wasn’t sure what exactly. “Heal me? Guide me? I don’t know, but it’s leaps and bounds more than my own parents have accomplished in the last eight years.”
“I like you kid, it’s too bad our time is running out. It’ll be difficult for me when you’re gone,” Jezebel said. She turned her face away, admiring the flowers on the windowsill.
“Me too,” Annabelle answered, fidgeting; she didn’t know what else to do with herself in the moment. She hadn’t even considered Jezebel’s point before. This would all end and she’d have what, who? Struggling to grasp the thought, she shoved them down to the pit of her belly and changed the subject. “Tell me about Dr. B.”
Jezebel regarded her for a moment before she nodded her head. Wisps of her hair bobbed in the breeze as she did so. “Paris, nineteen ninety-four,” Jezebel started.
Chapter 30
Celeste
Paris 1994
Celeste entered Dr. B’s study and let out a sonic boom of a scream. Her arms fell like dead weight to her sides and her knees buckled. Dr. B was slumped at an awkward position in his chair behind his desk. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, but his head hung listlessly to the right. The phone receiver hovered just above the floor. The obnoxious tell-tale beep-beep-beep gave away its off-the-hook status. His skin, pale gray. Eyes open. An unopened envelope stuck beneath the wheel of his desk chair. When she was finally able to, she stood up, walked on shell-shocked feet toward the phone and depressed the release button before picking up the receiver. The dial tone reminded her of her goal. She dialed the police.
The house was eerily quiet. The weekday staff always had Saturdays off at Dr. B’s insistence. He made it clear he could fend for himself one day of the week. That never stopped Tilda, the head chef, from making sure there were ample re-heatable meals stocked in the fridge in her absence.
Within the hour the house was swarming with paramedics, police officers, and crime scene technicians. The eerie quiet replaced with loud static radio bleeps, tape being ripped and gum snapping. As she watched everyone take statements and collect evidence, she closed her eyes and tears poured down her face. How could this be?
~***~
His light scent wafted around her, igniting her senses. Unlike the heavy masculine cologne her husband wore, Matteo smelled of filterless cigarettes and summer breezes. A gentle hand on her shoulder roused her from her thoughts. It was comforting in the moment, familiar and safe. She inhaled hard and met Matteo’s eyes. Grief pummeled her.
“He was fine on Friday,” she choked out through her tears. Matteo swept her into a tight embrace, his own tears soaking her blouse at the shoulder. “What’s going to happen? The estate? All the employees?” Celeste asked, her voice muted in Matteo’s chest.
“I don’t know fiore mio. We should call Bourassa.” Celeste nodded into his chest. Of course they would have to let Dr. B’s attorney know. She pulled away from Matteo and looked into his red-rimmed eyes. What a pair they must look like right now.
“We should do that sooner than later,” Matteo stated. His voice quivered, breaking at the last word just slightly.
“Do you think he was in pain? Panicked? Oh, God, Teo—his phone call to you, do you think he knew he was dying?” she cried out, unsure if she truly wanted to know the answer.
Matteo smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ear. She leaned into his palm as fresh tears presented themselves. He nodded and shrugged. Of course he knew no more than she did. His thumb swept back and forth over the apple of her cheek. Celeste swiped the falling tears away and looked around. She needed a purpose. Right now. She ticked off a mental check list call the house staff, Dr. B’s lawyer Taylor Bourassa, and Gabriel, and start putting together an obituary and funeral arrangements. With a heavy heart she took a deep breath determined to do something. First up, find the doctor’s address book. Weak and lightheaded, she stumbled. Matteo steadied her.
“Sit. I’ll grab his contact book and we can do this together,” he offered. Celeste planted her rear in the chair nearest the phone, thankful for Matteo.
~***~
Celeste watched as Gabriel’s stomach rose and fell, the occasional snore sounding through the silence. She couldn’t sleep. His skin had such a beautiful glow to it. It almost shimmered in the moonlight. She looked away, to the window, and wondered what Monday would bring.
Gabriel had left work immediately and driven all the way out to the estate to be with Celeste, knowing how much her employer’s death would affect her. He and Matteo had taken over the difficult tasks of phoning people to deliver the bad news. She had tried but failed miserably to do so herself, her sobs and hiccups and sniffles preventing her from forming coherent words.
She looked to Gabriel again, envious that he could sleep so soundly right now. She wanted nothing more than respite from her aching heart and sorrow-filled thoughts. The world had lost an amazing man today and the loss cut her deeply. Dr. B’s message on Matteo’s answering machine replayed on an endless loop in her thoughts. His death didn’t sit right with her. Something seemed wrong with the whole thing. She couldn’t find anything alarming of course. He was old. But his message held such an air of importance to it. She needed to figure it out. She needed closure.
Chapter 31
Annabelle
“Hanging so high for your return, But the stillness is a burn”
~ Infinity, The XX
She couldn’t sleep. Annabelle curled her legs to her chest and reached for the framed photograph that sat on the corner of her nightstand. She stared at it longingly in the moonlight. Finally she sat up in bed; in the darkness with nothing but the moon casting silver beams on her wall, stood and stretched her body, and started pacing her room. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Her gut clenched as heat—so hot it felt cold—spread throughout her chest. She treaded silently into her bathroom and rummaged around the medicine cabinet until she found what she was looking for. Popping the little white pill that had provided her with relief from panic in the past, she ground it between her teeth before she headed back to her bed.
To say that Annabelle was dog-tired was an understatement. She and sleep were at odds. She walked into the kitchen, still in her pajamas, and glanced around. Two envelopes rested on the countertop. Her brow furrowed and she fought a wave of nausea. Her mother’s graceful cursive was plain as day on each envelope. Gavin was scrawled on one; the other read Annabelle. She picked hers up and noted that for something so small it seemed to weigh so much.
Belle,
You’re much too young, even still, to understand the delicate workings of life and intimate relationships.
There are things you don’t know. Things you will never know about your father and me. Things a child shouldn’t know about their parents.
I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You will never grasp how much I love you and your brother.
I’ve tried and tried for years.
I’m tired Belle, so tired. And I’m so sorry for leaving you. But I have to.
I can’t cope. I can’t grieve here. I can’t move forward and I need to. I need to so badly.
I was naive to think we could walk away and have it all.
I should have known better. I should have realized. I didn’t though and now—now,
I have to do what’s best for me.
Sometimes we’re too far gone to fix what’s broken.
I love you,
Mom
What. The. Hell.
Annabelle read the letter again and still had the same reaction. Her mother was lost. The more her mind churned over the contents, the more her stomach twisted with confusion and doubt. Gone. Abandoning her and her father. It felt as though someone had punched her in the gut. She struggled to catch a breath. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Why now? What would this solve? Annabelle’s questions wouldn’t likely ever be answered and that made her stomach ache even more.
She stomped from the kitchen, anger and hurt boiling within, to her father’s office. Flinging the letter at him she crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned against the door jam. Her father ran his hands through his hair and looked straight up, his usual position of deep reflection. Something he did when deep in thought. She was beginning to hate that habit.
“Belle,” he started. Annabelle looked at him, exhaled slowly, and sent him a pleading look, but she didn’t speak; she was afraid to shatter the silence. “Your mother . . ..” His voice faltered, and Annabelle suddenly realized that her father was just as hurt as she was. “She just needs time,” he said firmly with a succinct nod of his head.
“You didn’t even open your letter!” She didn’t care if she shouted. She didn’t care if he couldn’t face it just yet.
“I don’t need to.” He cast his eyes downward.
Annabelle didn’t agree, but if her father needed to hold out hope, who was she to tell him differently? Irritated and angry and confused Annabelle bolted. She took nothing but what was already on her and just ran—out of her house and down her street. Neighbors shot funny looks at her as she ran, tears streaming down her face, in no particular direction. By the time she stopped to catch her breath and take in her surroundings, she was a good three miles from home and only two streets over from Mark’s apartment. She’d not been able to see it yet, but he’d showed her pictures and knew the address. Grounding and punishment be damned-she strode purposefully to his building and rang his bell.
~***~
Mark expertly sliced through the skin of a ripe avocado. “You’re sure everything’s alright?” he asked, popping a chunk of avocado into his mouth. Cutting an avocado seemed so trivial. She’d shown up in pajamas, tear stained and refused to really dive into what was wrong. She was doing to Mark what her parents did to each other, and it made her skin crawl.
“No. No, it’s not,” she answered finally. Mark was to her in three decisive strides. He pulled her to his chest and rested his chin on top of her head. “Tell me,” he said.
Annabelle didn’t hesitate. She explained her fairytale childhood right up until her brother died. Then she explained a Grimm’s Brothers-sounding tale about the years since then. She realized he didn’t judge or comment or criticize as she spun her story. He simply listened. It was truly the only thing she needed right in the moment and she felt a warm feeling bloom in her chest.
“Annabelle, I’m so sorry. Things sound pretty messed up.”
“Yeah,” she answered solemnly. She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes attempting to relieve the building pressure.
“Should I bring you home? Your dad is probably worried sick by now.”
“No, Mark. Not tonight.” She rested her palm against his face gently. “Tonight I’m staying here. Tomorrow I’ll go home.”
She needed him. Annabelle needed whatever he could offer her until she left for school. He distracted her from life—which was more than she could ask for. Mark left her for less than a minute while he ran back to his room. He returned holding up a clean pair of his boxer shorts and one of his t-shirts. Annabelle grinned.
~***~
Annabelle entered Jezebel’s suite with a heavy heart. Her father was still in some state of blissful denial but she knew better; her mother wouldn’t be coming home—ever. She sunk into her chair and kicked off her shoes. Tucking her feet up into the chair with her, she took slow, purposeful breaths to calm herself. She didn’t want to lose it, again, now.
“How goes it?” Jezebel asked as she made her way to her chair.
“It sucks,” she answered.
“Doesn’t it always?” Jezebel quipped.
“This time it really sucks,” she grumbled.
“Care to share?”
“My mom . . . left.” Her voice broke on the last word.
“Left where?”
Anger, red-hot, rushed through her. “Jez—I’m not in the mood. She left, left me, left my dad . . . left the family. She’s gone.”
Jezebel stilled. Then, “Oh, dear, that does suck.”
Annabelle bristled. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What would you like me to say? I’m so sorry? Would that be comforting? Was it such a shock really? She seemed so miserable.”
“She was, but . . .”
“But what, kiddo?”
“But she just gave up. I’m . . . I’m angry. She took the coward’s way out.”
“Ahh, there we have it.”
“Have what?” Annabelle fumed.
“The root of the issue. You’re angry.” Jezebel nodded. “You’re disappointed in her, but the act itself isn’t surprising to you. You felt it coming.”
“Yeah. I guess. She was a shadow that sulked around mostly. If she just talked, if any of us had just talked . . .”
“You can’t live your life with maybes . . . maybe if you talked things would be different, maybe they wouldn’t. You will never know the answer to those questions so it’s best to just take it for what it is and move on,” Jezebel said while giving her a pointed look.
“I hate you sometimes, you must know that, right?”
Jezebel laughed at her statement. “I suspect love and hate are so similar that it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes, yes.”
“That’s not exactly what I was saying.”
“Oh, but my dear, it was. You hate me because I make you face the ugly truths in your world, yet you love me for the very same reason. Even the darkness of night brings the promise of daybreak. You’re a good girl. You’ll find your way.”
“I stayed at Mark’s the other night. My dad was furious when I came home the next day but you know what? I didn’t really care. They’ve forced these rules and punishments on me and for what? I told him I’m done with my grounding. I respect what their goal was so I still won’t go out, but I will have people over and I get my phone and laptop back.”
“Taking a stand! I like it.” Jezebel cheered.
“Yeah, well, my dad didn’t.”
“Par for the course, don’t you think?”
Annabelle shrugged. It probably was, but what was he going to do about it? “I need to know what Dr. B’s lawyer had to say.”
“Right on.” Jezebel grinned accepting her obvious topic change. “Paris, nineteen ninety-four.”
Chapter 32
Celeste
Paris 1994
Taylor Bourassa was a short and squat man. He was balding at the top of his head and he attempted to hide that fact with a hideous comb-over. “The last person to see Dr. Basle alive was one Monique Watson,” Taylor said.
Celeste stilled. She most certainly did not hear him right.
“That’s impossible,” she breathed. “How would they even know each other? That’s . . . I would have known.” Celeste looked to Matteo who looked equally lost. Matteo stood and snatched the police report from Taylor’s hand. His eyes scanned the report, widened and slid up to hers.
“It’s true. Tilda said that before she left Friday night she let Monique Watson in to visit with Leo.” He handed the report to Celeste. She carefully read the words stated on the page but none of it made any sense to her. Surely Dr. B would have told her if he was friends with her husband’s assistant. He would know. He would have told her. Celeste’s stomach burned.
“Why would she visit him?” she
murmured more to herself than anyone else.
“Perhaps we can address that after we go through Leo’s will. I’m glad both of you could make it today as he spoke very highly of you two and left you both a great deal.”
Matteo and Celeste’s heads snapped up in unison. “What?” Celeste asked.
“Of course he left certain things to different staff members with whom I will schedule meetings over the next week, but you two were the primary benefactors. As you may be aware, Leo Basle Germain had no living relatives.” Celeste’s brow scrunched up. Germain? She looked again to Matteo but he appeared as confused as she did—again. “Basle wasn’t his last name?” Matteo asked, stupefied.
“No. Dr. Germain changed his last name, legally, to his middle name, Basle, in 1967. I’ve represented him since 1965. I assure you there are probably a great many things you do not know about our late friend, but in an effort to quickly and succinctly execute his estate, I’d appreciate it if you held all questions until the end.” Taylor paused before pressing on, leaving no room for argument.
Matteo’s hand reached out and clasped hers. She squeezed back and refocused her attention to Taylor.
“What I am at liberty to tell you isn’t much,” Taylor said. “But he came to France for a consulting job with a team of other scientists and doctors. He was married and had a grown daughter, also married. He also had a granddaughter that he raved about.” Taylor’s face lit up as he recalled the memory. “That little girl just adored him and vice versa. In 1967, his wife, daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter were found dead after a nasty virus from something they ate, or so they speculated.”
Celeste broke into a round of fresh tears. Poor Dr. B.
“He was devastated, of course, and due to the nature of his work and his personal family tragedy, he opted to change his name and remove himself from the public eye. Which he did with flare.” Taylor drew a deep breath. “Celeste, Leo’s wishes state very clearly that you are to inherit half of the estate.” Taylor looked to Matteo. “And you Matteo, the other half.”