Drops of Cerulean: A Novel
Page 4
Ilona propped her back against the wall, seated on the floor in front of the toilet. She had never seen the room from this vantage point. Looking up, she noted the etchings on the ceiling fixture that took a back seat to the light from the sconces that graced the sides of the mirror. Simple and pretty, yet a far cry from the fixtures she had seen yesterday in the lounge.
Her eyes welled with tears at the thought of Lawndale. Patrick knew her name and the general vicinity of the Franklin Street Diner, but would he try to contact her? She confided her hopes, even reciting lines from Keats during their time together, but she failed to give him her number. Did he even ask? She could not remember. She covered her face with her hands, feeling her cheeks flush equally from her condition as from a wave of embarrassment. The drink certainly had a way of lasting, slowly dispensing bits of memories that one must slowly weave together, revealing both merriment and follies.
Good Lord in Heaven, why did I recite that poem? I’m such a fool, an afternoon distraction. She envisioned Patrick at the lounge again today, meeting over drinks about the next project, another, worldlier woman in tow, who could hold her liquor and who was not escorted by an uncle.
Gripping the side of the bathtub, she pressed herself to her feet. Her hair was a fright, bobby pins dangling from the ends. She brushed out her thick, silky hair. The updo, albeit short-lived, gave her a lovely wave, a small token for which she was thankful. She reapplied the red lipstick. It offered a nice contrast, brightening her face. It was also a more modest upgrade to her appearance. There was no reason to shock the diners with a novice attempt at modernity, even more so considering her day was to be spent with the likes of Mrs. Jilufka and friends.
ILONA KNEW HER BABA WAS prone to exaggeration with his common affections:
My daughters, loveliest girls!
Our food, best in city!
Your grandfather, best working honest man all time!
One instance that he proved to be correct, however, was in her reception from the Lawndale patrons:
Ilona! My child, you are a woman now!
City work agrees with you, pretty girl!
Trade places with me for just one day! You take my shift at Nabisco!
With the early morning hours came a lift of her spirits, and she felt the seedlings of confidence as she strolled between the register and the counter, refilling cups of coffee and listening to updates from the patrons about relatives and friends, people she knew only through the stories of others, but this detail not making her interest insincere. She realized she was wiser and more compassionate than she thought, a solemn observer into the windows of so many lives. The diner only had a fraction of the windows of the M&M, but that did not make the stories they housed any less significant.
She cleared counters, thinking of how Patrick shared the death of his parents, from his father’s sudden heart attack to the cancer that claimed his mother’s life the previous year. Tragedy served as an odd elixir for his spirit, a call to relish each day with fervor. He hoped his father was proud of the transition from Doyle Lumber into Doyle Lumber & Construction, a necessary move as the lumber business dwindled. He followed his heart with the transition, drawing on his thirst to develop Houston, to be part of the inevitable expansion. While her heart was with the M&M, his rested a few blocks away at the Niels Esperson Building, home to the general offices. Doyle Lumber & Construction kept a temporary office at the M&M pending the resolution of the final construction items, especially after the flood from the previous year. His brother, Michael, spent his time finalizing the project while Patrick returned to the main office, eager for the next venture. Her heart grew heavy with the revelation that his office was farther away than she originally thought.
Ilona’s confidence from the morning began to dissipate along with the lunch crowd. She was left at the register alone with her thoughts, which continued to drift back to the day before at the M&M. It was Friday afternoon, and she would not return downtown until Monday. Hopes dwindling, she did not favor the odds of crossing his path three days later—three days for his interest to wane, three days for another soul to charm him.
She took solace in the inclination that memory often bears a fair-weathered quality when one wants it the most, convincing herself that he was probably not as handsome as her memory painted. During her sophomore year, she pined after a junior, admiring the handsome upperclassman as she passed him in the hall. Her meekness had only afforded her a peek at him from the corner of her eye, and she had never managed a healthy observation until that following summer when his family popped into the café for lunch. Her heart pounding, she eagerly approached their table with menus in hand. He smiled at her, saying, “You go to Milby, right?” As she nodded, she was able to get a closer look at her crush and at the yellowed buckteeth she did not know he had. She also noticed a heck of a cowlick from likely a week of not washing his hair. Her infatuation evaporated in an instant. Returning to the counter, she wondered how she could have ever thought otherwise. Perhaps Patrick was the same, and she added another layer of convincing by remembering the power of the gin—it most certainly could color anything lovely.
With a healthy sigh, she pulled out her book. At least she had more time to read at Lawndale, especially at this hour. She tucked herself into the far corner of the cashier’s booth: Nose in book, her baba’s voice echoed in her mind.
The bells on the door jingled, but Ilona kept her head down, frantically reading the last lines of the chapter. Tucked so far into the corner and not readily visible, she took advantage of the opportunity to read for a few seconds more. She sensed a figure staring toward the counter, standing several feet in front of the register, which people often did when deciding where to sit. As she finished the last line and lifted her eyes to offer a greeting, she released the grip on her book. It was Patrick. Her book fell to the floor, the heavy thud prompting him to turn around to face her.
He stared her gin-soaked memory in the face and won. He was even more handsome than she remembered. Breaking into the same smile that he wore the day before, he made his way to her at the register.
“You are not an easy lady to find, Miss Ilona.”
“I didn’t know you were looking,” she replied, silently patting herself on the back for the quick, witty reply, confidence replenishing her spirits.
“How could I not? You left me so abruptly yesterday, with not even a chance to get your number or give apologies.”
“Apologies?”
“The first apology to your Uncle Demetrius, for failing to make a … um … how shall I say it … a less-than-stellar first impression. I hope he will enjoy these as much as I do,” Patrick offered as he took two cigars from his interior left breast pocket, wrapped in rich brown paper with a heavy seal.
“And the second apology, the more important one, is to you. For not taking you on a proper date, which I hope to remedy in the very near future.”
Mirroring his smile, she replied, “Yes, I am sure that can be arranged.”
“Good,” he said, nodding and biting his lower lip. “Now, what do you recommend for lunch? I’m starved. Driving all over East Houston looking for an enchanting woman has left me famished.”
She walked him to the counter and recommended the patty melt, a very good remedy after a night of revelry. His hearty laugh led her to wonder what it was about her that he liked. She wanted to make sure she continued doing it. The thinning crowd at Lawndale made it possible to talk, and it made Ilona thankful for her work assignment. Had she been at Franklin, they would not have had this time.
“How were things at the M&M today?” She asked as she made her way to the other side of the counter.
“Good question, but one to which I do not have the answer. I worked in the main office this morning. Needed to give Michael his space.”
“How much longer will the other office remain open?”
“Not much longer, I am sad to say, and Michael prefers to wrap things up on his own. It’s been good fo
r him.”
Her countenance bore her question.
“Michael means well, and he is smart as hell.”
“But?” she asked.
“He’s not comfortable in his skin. He’s an excellent manager, though. His time alone at the M&M has allowed him to meet people on his own, which is a good thing.”
The bell at the kitchen window sounded, signaling that his lunch was ready. From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod and offer a “good afternoon” to the two elderly ladies at the far end of the counter. She tried to contain her grin when she saw the looks on their faces, whispering to one another as they sneaked glances his way. People who looked like Patrick did not often grace her end of town.
As he enjoyed his lunch, she continued to share her love of literature, figuring a way to reference yesterday’s poetry recitation as legitimate rather than as a result of drunkenness. Placing his hand over hers, he shared that her ability to connect literature and life was incredibly alluring, commenting how so many women put on superficial airs to woo men. He agreed with her assessment that her reticent soul served her well, poising her for rich reflection, but with a coy smile, he added, “Yes, indeed, you would make a wonderful teacher, but wouldn’t that interfere with your role as a wife and mother, societal obligations considering?”
Mrs. Jilufka arrived midafternoon for her coffee and pastry, her stride taking on an extra pep when she saw Ilona behind the counter.
“Pretty girl! Back for a visit,” she quivered as she made her way to the counter. Ilona pardoned herself from Patrick to offer a hug, her tall, thin frame a contrast to her elderly friend’s wide girth.
“It’s so good to see you! I’ve missed you. Please tell me, how is your nephew?” Ilona greeted her warmly.
She walked Mrs. Jilufka to her usual seat at the far end of the counter as her friend rattled a quick report, offering herself as a cane to steady the elderly woman’s gait, all the while knowing she had the attention of Mr. Doyle. Noting his steady gaze, Mrs. Jilufka looked to her and whispered, “Now, he is a handsome devil.”
“Well, please allow me to introduce you,” Ilona replied boldly, much to her friend’s surprise. “Mrs. Jilufka, please meet Patrick Doyle.”
Patrick rose to greet her, cupping Mrs. Jilufka’s right hand with both of his. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jilufka.” She peered up at him through her black, horned-rimmed glasses, squinting her eyes to get a good look at his face.
“And it is nice to meet you, too,” she replied. “My, my, you are a handsome fella.”
THEIR FIRST SEMIOFFICIAL DATE WAS made to resemble happenstance, because a date with an older, Irish gentleman would not have been welcomed by the Petrarkis household. The Houston Fall Festival was set to begin over the weekend at Buff Stadium with a production of The Last Days of Pompeii. Ilona confided to her sister, Arianna, who excitedly agreed to join her, this opportunity allowing her to live vicariously as she was still acclimating to her role as a mother.
Part of their time that night was spent watching the show, but their energies were mostly spent gauging one another—glancing from the corners of their eyes at each other, acting in cue with the ooohs and ahhhs, and slipping whispered comments when they could think of something as quick and clever as the setting would allow. It was two hours of everything and nothing, two hours of relishing in the deceptively simple offerings of life—the starlit sky, the mélange of a diversifying Houston, and the seemingly casual brush of hands. When the elaborate fireworks display marked the end of the show, they eagerly stood in ovation with Patrick looking down into her eyes, placing a moment’s kiss to her lips when Arianna looked away.
Ilona knew this was the man she hoped to marry: Patrick Doyle, heir to Doyle Lumber and founder of Doyle Lumber & Construction, the son of a pioneer who transported timber from East Texas to Houston, the man who helped build the M&M and who would continue to shape the Houston skyline.
To the delight of her baba, Patrick began frequenting the Franklin Diner. Not knowing Patrick was there to see Ilona, he was thrilled that someone of Patrick’s ilk would dine at his restaurant. Patrick’s suit and pocket watch reflected his prominence, but the confidence and enthusiasm he carried truly set him apart from others. It did not take long for her baba to introduce himself to his new regular. Patrick and Ilona, sneaking glances and knowing smiles, enjoyed the sport of the pursuit. They became more and more brazen with one another when Patrick dined: winking, once-overs, and her slipping handwritten lines of poetry into his palm when she was dispensing change at the register. In hindsight, a fly on the wall would have noticed that her chignon grew higher and tighter, and her lipstick darker, with each visit. Uncle Demetrius remained guarded with the new patron, but he did offer a hearty handshake with a murmur of thanks for the cigars when his brother was not looking.
One day after many consecutive weekdays of visits, her baba noticed Patrick’s absence. Commenting that he “hope everything okay with Mr. Doyle,” Ilona offered a prayer for Dear Ernestine as she refilled the candy jar next to the register. Patrick was taking his former nanny, now housekeeper, to the doctor for a persistent cough. The Doyle House held but two souls in 1930: Patrick and Dear Ernestine, forever coined by his term of endearment.
The following day, Patrick returned in good spirits, sharing with Ilona that all was well with his Dear Ernestine, except for the doctor chastising him for not bringing her in sooner. Patrick’s stories cultivated in Ilona a fondness for his family. She longed to meet Dear Ernestine, and her heart grew partial to Michael and his struggles, knowing that most anyone paled in comparison to Patrick.
Patrick often told Ilona how she was different from other women he knew. He admired her earnest approach to life and how she knew who she was, which she found puzzling since she pondered the question frequently. She often heard her mama say, “He is who he is. God love him. She is who she is. God love her.” She never regarded it as a positive statement, but now she surmised that the more she was herself, the more she attracted him. She realized that she had never truly been herself with anyone; she had always done what she was expected to do.
He provided her fair warning that he would ask her father permission to take her on an official date. This was one occasion that challenged her calm demeanor.
“Not yet! Please, give it more time!”
“It’s time. He will approve either now or never. Aren’t you ready to be with me?”
She did not know if his reference was an official date or something more, but she was overdue for either. Making her baba privy to their intentions, however, would lead to a change one way or another, and the uncertainty gave her pause.
Patrick waited for the lunch crowd to thin, all the while appealing to his audience that they should remain optimistic despite the economic forecast.
“Oil. Port of Houston. The spirit of this city can’t be beat!” Ilona heard him declare as she looked out the window at the M&M, nibbling her lip and feeling her stomach full of knots.
Baba circled the diner, checking in with each table, before retiring to his usual spot at the counter at the end of the lunch hour. Patrick strategically selected his seat, knowing her baba would eventually sit next to him.
“Lunch good?” he asked, holding out one hand to shake while the other patted Patrick’s shoulder.
“Of course, delicious as usual! I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“And Rusk project … good?”
“Still in the proposal stage, but yes, it is progressing as well as it can at this point,” Patrick replied.
Her baba nodded, taking a sip of coffee and enjoying his small part in the exchange over downtown construction.
“I do have another proposal in mind, if you would be kind enough to oblige.”
He turned to Patrick, picking up on his playful tone and curious about what he would say next.
“May I have your blessing to take Ilona on a date?”
He stared at Patrick, coffee cup suspended mi
dair. Turning toward the register, he saw his daughter quickly look back into her book. Noting her made-up appearance—new earrings and a more fitted dress—his face flushed with the realization of his ignorance. Their flirtation had been right in front of him the entire time.
“She grown woman. She decide herself,” her baba said, standing after a long minute. He turned one last time to Patrick and held out his hand. “I wish you good afternoon, Mr. Doyle,” he said before heading back to the kitchen.
PATRICK ARRIVED AT HER HOME off South Wayside with a bouquet of white roses in hand. Her baba, usually jovial and assured at the diner, offered nothing other than a nod and handshake when Patrick entered their home. The Franklin Street Diner, new and gleaming, might offer some degree of speculation at how the family lived. A restaurant owner would not have a fancy house, but there was room to advance from where they currently resided. Their humble roots confirmed; the façade lifted. Ilona knew this reality. This, and the fact that Ilona’s suitor was not Greek, left her baba troubled. It would have been much easier had he not known the gentleman, but she knew he liked Patrick. She knew he admired Patrick’s spirit and success, but she also knew he had never imagined him as his daughter’s suitor.
Her nerves settled when she saw the way Patrick’s face lit up as she made her way down the hall. He smiled and nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels. It made her wonder if he was nervous, too. They had waited for weeks to be alone, and then she realized that being unavailable might very well have added to her allure.
“Thank you, Mr. Petrarkis, for entrusting your daughter to me this evening. I promise to have her home at an early hour.”
“Early for Irish or early for Greek, hmm?”