Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  Patrick’s sincere burst of laughter quickly relieved Ilona, whose eyes had widened from embarrassment.

  “Fair question, sir. Early for Greeks. Is 9:00 too late?”

  And with that, the gentlemen shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Petrarkis conceding the most modest of grins.

  Ilona’s pleas for a clue as to where they were going garnered only his dimples, making her wonder how even his profile could be hypnotic. Although it was their first official date, they had shared countless conversations over the past three weeks, albeit punctuated with requests for meat loaf, apple pie, and Coca-Cola. This evening marked the first period alone, time for uninterrupted conversation, among other things. The Houston sun acquiesced to its inevitable descent, and shades of orange and pink chalk colored the sky. Patrick took the long way to The Heights, deliberately steering his convertible toward the M&M, declaring, “We must pay homage to the masterpiece that brought us together—where all things are possible,” with a raised fist to the air. Ilona released her hand that shielded her hair from the wind, and she, too, raised both arms to the sky.

  Ilona had been to The Heights a few times, with her parents driving their family along The Boulevard in their roadster. She studied the streetcar as it offered greetings to the Victorian homes that lined the street. The realization that she was on the edge of the city, a stone’s throw from the sprawling Texas countryside, filled her with excitement, as if she, too, were on the verge of creating something new.

  As Patrick stopped the car at an intersection, he gestured to The Doyle House, the roses he once referenced framing the picket fence and brick paths throughout the yard.

  “I prepared dinner,” he said after a lull of silence, keeping his eyes a second longer on his home before turning back to her. “Well, I had help from Dear Ernestine, and perhaps quite a bit of help.” He turned back to the house. “This is a first for me, Ilona.”

  Patrick turned at the intersection and pulled into the back driveway. She noted a light in the garage apartment, Dear Ernestine’s quarters. Ilona felt a wave of nerves; it was like meeting his mother, which she had not been anticipating. Patrick came around to open her car door, gingerly taking her hand to help her to the brick sidewalk that meandered around the grounds. They walked through the garden to the front of the house and up the pristinely polished wooden steps.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said as he opened the stained-glass door.

  Even though she had prepared herself mentally, its beauty left her in wonder—the polished wooden paneling, ornate rugs, and crystal chandeliers. All these beautiful items together in one place left her in awe. What most captured her attention, however, was the curious face peeking from what she presumed to be the kitchen. Ilona welcomed the face with a smile, instinctively taking a few steps in that direction, arms opening. Patrick, following her gaze, bellowed, “My Dear Ernestine, please come meet Ilona!”

  Dear Ernestine slowly made her way down the hall to the couple, her freshly pressed uniform certainly not resembling that of someone who had spent time in the kitchen this evening. She must have freshened up for the special guest.

  Ilona opened her arms to offer an embrace. Retreating a step, Dear Ernestine looked at her intently, seemingly unaccustomed to such displays of affection.

  “It is a most sincere pleasure to meet you, Dear Ernestine. Please forgive my presumed familiarity, but I feel I know you, considering all the lovely stories Patrick has shared,” Ilona said.

  “Pleasure’s mine, Miss, truly it is. It’s so very, very nice to meet you,” Dear Ernestine replied before returning the embrace, her hands lowering to cup Ilona’s in a final touch, her face breaking out into a smile before she returned to the kitchen.

  They made their way to the sitting room, where two gold-rimmed champagne glasses rested on a table. “You would not believe how difficult it is to procure champagne!” Patrick declared as he reached for the bottle. He popped the cork, and Ilona’s jolt brought a round of laughter from them both.

  He began the tour of the house with a toast and an introduction to his late father, Patrick Doyle, who austerely studied the couple from his ornate gold frame housed above the mantle. Patrick shared his father’s prominent role in the development of The Heights, including ownership of another home several blocks north on Harvard Street, where his brother’s family lived. His brother had taken a few pieces of furniture and art when he established his own household shortly before their mother died, but most of the heirlooms remained, waiting for the first-born son to “find a most charming and suitable young woman to marry and carry on the family name.”

  They toured the library, where Patrick highlighted the scores of books but admitted to a slight exaggeration on the number. The library faced the north garden with a sitting nook in a bay window that provided just enough room for two souls to sip tea, or as was more appropriate with the likes of Patrick, a heartier beverage, while reading, musing, and admiring.

  They only walked past the master bedroom, Patrick explaining that he still resided upstairs. He hoped, one day, to move into this room when he found a bride with whom to share it. She could not tell if his continued references to marriage were deliberate or a natural byproduct of the tour, but the potency of the notion charmed her regardless of his intent.

  “I do hope you like flounder with shrimp, thank heavens for the Gulf’s delicacies. And we have baby potatoes and Dear Ernestine’s famed green bean casserole,” he said as they made their way back downstairs after viewing the second and third floors.

  Dear Ernestine served supper before retreating to the kitchen. She returned twice, once to check on the meal and the second time to offer dessert, coffee, and her goodnight wishes. Patrick refreshed his champagne on a few occasions, noting that Ilona’s glass “must be magical—the nectar remains!” She did not plan on duplicating the imprudence of their first encounter.

  With but a few bites of raspberry trifle remaining, her mind turned to his expectations for the evening. For the past month, the idea of intimacy with Patrick had saturated her reveries both day and night. Consumed by fantasies, she was curious how his energy would manifest physically, the speculation literally leaving her in a trance.

  “Ilona! Focus work!” Her baba had shouted when, after more than one occasion, customers had turned at the sound of a plate or coffee cup shattering on the floor. Now that the time and location were prime, her mind raced with practical matters, including the fact that she had never been truly kissed. She felt nauseated thinking about the gamut of considerations she had failed to take into account.

  “Let’s take a walk in the garden,” he said as she finished the last bite. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  The cool air ushered a much-needed moment of clarity. He wrapped her ivory stole around her shoulders, leaving his arm around her as they walked along the brick sidewalks that meandered through the yard. She noticed a stone bench near the pecan tree in the far northeast corner. He did not say a word as they made their way to the seat and sat facing the house now bathed in moonlight. A light in the garage apartment snapped off where Dear Ernestine was heading to bed.

  “I love you, Ilona,” he said after several minutes of silence. Continuing to look straight ahead, he added, “And I’ve never loved anyone.” He turned to her, open palm to her cheek.

  “And I love you, Patrick.”

  She had her first real kiss that evening, under the pecan tree at the house on The Boulevard.

  ILONA TOOK SOLACE IN THE fact that no one she knew disowned their children. Greek friends and cousins teased with the claim, but it was more to grandstand, to challenge one another on who would make the most audacious move. She also reluctantly admitted to herself that no one she knew tested the waters as much as she had lately, but she managed to bury this morsel. Greeks called a good game, but in the end, their lives followed suit: They married the people they were supposed to marry, and they fulfilled the vocation set by their family.

  She arrived back at Sout
h Wayside at a respectable hour, her mama listening to the radio while her baba read the paper, both parents making their best attempt to disguise their concern.

  “You have nice time, dear?” Mama asked, returning her needlework to her lap.

  “Oh, Mama, it was a lovely time. Patrick is a gentleman,” she said clearly, making certain her baba would hear. His only offering: a grunt accompanied by a furrowed brow as he turned the page of his newspaper. Ilona gingerly walked over to kiss him on the cheek, but he remained unmoved, his eyes focused on the article, much to her disappointment. She turned to go to her bedroom, tears forming as she made eye contact with her mama, who returned the look with unspoken sympathy before glancing at her husband.

  Aside from her first kiss and declaration of her first love, that late October night gave rise to another first: She heard her parents arguing. She lay awake, watching the moonlight shine through the eyelet curtains as it created a pattern on the wall that resembled a distorted sphere of vibrating stars. She thought about how the moon bathed both The Heights and South Wayside; they were not so far away from one another as it seemed.

  “What you expect, Nikolas! You tell girls create! Dream! Ilona dream … dream different!”

  “Yes … dream! But no pull from family. Family es good!”

  The night trains approached South Wayside, whistles piercing the tension in the air, muffling their shouts. Ilona pulled the covers over her head and indulged in another first, reaching her hand down and reminiscing on her first love.

  ILONA WAS DELIGHTED THAT PATRICK enjoyed lunch at Franklin every day during the week. Her baba gave him a nod and a handshake but nothing more. And this was more than he offered his daughter, which could be described only as indifference as he watched them from his seat at the counter.

  “Give him time. Es new to us, Ilona. He no see you as woman of Patrick’s kind. He see you as young, proper Greek lady,” Mama said, zipping her daughter’s dress for a Saturday dinner date before turning to leave the room.

  “Mama?” Ilona called, both daughter and mother turning to face one another, Ilona a good foot higher than her mama in her heels.

  “My dear?”

  “Mama, I’ve fallen in love with him.”

  After a pause, her mama nodded her head in resignation, “Yes. That es new to us, too. Not love, my dear. Falling in love.” She turned back around at the sound of a knock at the front door.

  “You take your time. I go answer door,” Mama said as she left the room, giving Ilona pause to look in the mirror at her transition that was well underway.

  Tonight she would meet Patrick’s brother Michael and Michael’s wife, Sybil. And although Michael was younger, she thought of him as the elder of the two brothers, serious and brooding, as if he was the one saddled with the pressure of the Doyle legacy.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror, her unease over meeting his family tempered by her growing confidence. Her years of earnest study in books and in work, along with her life spent alone all the while surrounded by others, set her apart in school, yet these things had conditioned her as a compassionate soul. It was not that she doubted Patrick’s assessment. His criticisms of Michael were filtered through a lens of understanding and even longing for a better connection with his brother. She knew that winning over Michael would be a challenge, but she believed it was one for which she was well suited. She had the potential to bridge their relationship and forge a relationship with Sybil.

  Patrick caressed her cheek when they settled in the car.

  “I’m so glad to have you with me,” he said, turning the key in the ignition. “It has been a trying afternoon. I am hoping you can work some magic with my brother.”

  “I share that same hope,” she offered with a wink.

  “We had quite a row today. Michael insisted we need to partner with Dunn on the Rusk proposal.”

  “And you remain confident you can do it on your own?”

  “Our father would have wanted us to do it on our own. Look what he and Grandfather Doyle created, for Christ’s sake,” Patrick replied.

  Turning away from her with his eyes back on the road ahead, he took a breath and conceded, “A joint venture would help. I want to do more than provide lumber. I want to shape the skyline.”

  “But not with Dunn?” Ilona asked.

  “He can’t be trusted. He’d sell his soul for the right price, the arrogant bastard. Father would have never consorted with him.”

  “Then kindly hold firm, my love,” she replied, touching his cheek. “Let’s see what tonight will bring.”

  They were walking hand in hand in the garden when Michael and Sybil pulled into the driveway. The confidence she felt earlier withered when she saw their countenance. Even from across the grounds, Michael appeared tense, walking toward them without waiting for his wife. She was not sure if he realized the misstep on his own or if Sybil had called to him, but he stopped midstride and turned back toward her, extending his arm for her to catch up to him.

  “Sybil, so lovely to see you. It’s been too long,” Patrick greeted, offering his sister-in-law a kiss on the cheek. Ilona wondered how it could be so long when they lived but a few blocks away. Patrick shook his brother’s hand before turning to Ilona.

  “Ilona, my love, I am very pleased to introduce my sister-in-law, Sybil, and my brother, Michael.” Michael remained unmoved, eyeing her carefully before extending his hand in a formal handshake.

  Sybil’s edge seemed to stem more from fear rather than a sentiment of her own. Ilona detected a hint of enthusiasm underneath Sybil’s shell, her eyes a bit brighter in the hopes that, perhaps, a friendship was on the horizon. Sybil leaned in toward her as Ilona began to extend her hand to mirror Michael’s greeting. They both switched stances to match the other: Ilona then reached for an embrace as Sybil extended her hand.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, give one another a hug!” Patrick chuckled.

  As the women burst into giggles and embraced, Ilona noted Michael’s expressionless face staring at his wife in disapproval. Her challenge would be more difficult than she thought. She turned to Michael, who, in turn, remained still. Her hopes for an embrace dashed, she took it upon herself to offer a warm smile. She wanted him to know that he could rest his defenses. On paper, he shared Patrick’s features, albeit in a thicker frame. His eyes, however, fell flat, casting a shadow over his appearance that made the brothers appear incongruent, disparate souls united only by bloodline.

  “Well now, let’s head into the house for supper. I hear beef wellington is on the menu,” Michael said, turning to make his way into his childhood home.

  “GOOD EVENING, MR. AND MRS. Doyle,” greeted Dear Ernestine, standing at attention, as they entered the house.

  “Ernestine, it’s good to see you, and supper smells absolutely wonderful,” Michael said.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, causing Ilona to note the formality between the two, which was quite a contrast from the relationship she shared with Patrick.

  “Mr. Doyle,” she said as she turned to Patrick, “are you having drinks in the library?”

  “No, Ernestine, we will not,” Michael interrupted. “Unfortunately, we must make this an early evening. We wanted to wait to make our announcement until we were far enough along. I can now gladly report that we are expecting.”

  “What wonderful news! Congratulations!” Ilona offered to an uncomfortable-looking Sybil.

  “Sybil, dear, I am so very happy for you. My heartfelt good wishes. This is the time,” Patrick shared as he embraced her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, choking back tears. “Michael is worried about me staying out too late. He takes such good care of me, saying I need to rest.”

  “Of course you do. You are carrying the next generation of Doyles!” Patrick cheered, giving his brother a hearty handshake and slap to the shoulder.

  Ilona’s preparations of planning dinner conversation topics were for naught given that the men dominated the conversat
ion with talk of work. Patrick encouraged Michael to “tell Ilona about the people you’ve met at the M&M, so many fascinating people.” Michael took the bait and carried on with tales of his new acquaintances, as well as with the list of final items for the building and an update on their efforts to increase the number of tenants. Ilona nodded and offered murmurs of approval and amusement, but Michael never once looked her in the eye, choosing to focus on his brother and Sybil. Dear Ernestine dashed through dinner more briskly than Ilona had ever seen, causing her to wonder how much was due to Michael’s request and how much was due to her own desire for them to leave.

  “And what I’ve come to appreciate the most is becoming so well acquainted with Timothy Dunn. Innovative. A risk taker. And a hell of chunk of capital. I think he’d give you a run for your money, dear brother.” Michael said.

  “Well, what a shame that dinner is coming to an end. It certainly would have been a terrific turn in conversation,” Patrick replied, resting his fork as he finished a pecan tart.

  “Come now, Patrick. I talked to Tim earlier today, and I do want to share a few ideas we had.”

  “Let’s do that in the library over a drink.”

  Sybil looked to her husband in concern, slightly shaking her head.

  “Just one drink. Then we will head home for you to rest,” Michael replied as he made his way from the room.

  “I’m sorry we are a bit of a bore this evening. I suppose this pregnancy is riling our nerves,” Sybil said as she took a sip of tea. Her lack of eye contact signaled that, while the apology was sincere, the reasoning was not. Ilona surmised it was her way of apologizing for her husband.

  “I can imagine. And one day I hope to say I understand,” Ilona teased.

  “Oh, I have a feeling you will. You know, I couldn’t be happier with Patrick’s choice,” she confided, her eyes lighting up with a hint of what Ilona had detected in the garden.

  “Excuse me?” Ilona questioned, steadying her cup on its saucer.

  “Patrick is not bound by convention; surely you’ve seen it. He’s a maverick … a bit of a wild one. One who would remain alone rather than settle for a woman who was less than a match.”