Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  “Well, he’s not quite settled down,” Ilona replied, humbled that she did not have a ring on her finger yet.

  “No, but he will. And you are his match. Michael doesn’t tell me much, but even he knows his brother has found his wife.”

  Ilona greeted her new friend with a warm smile.

  “Here’s to sisterhood,” Sybil said, raising her teacup in a toast.

  DEAR ERNESTINE CARRIED THE SILVER teapot to refresh her cup for the last time before heading to bed, leaving the library with a gentle sway, moving in rhythm to Duke Ellington’s voice on the radio. The sound of the back door locking served as the cue for Patrick to make his way closer, coming up behind her as her eyes scanned the bookcase.

  Ilona placed her cup on the table with his first kiss to her neck. Placing her arms over his as he wrapped them around her waist, she could feel his warmth pulsing through her body. She did not know how much longer she could wait, figuring that even a proposal still meant months longer before an actual wedding date.

  A knock in the kitchen interrupted their kissing, Patrick pulled away sharply to call out, “Dear Ernestine? Do you need something?” As he left the room, he tried to appear casual. Ilona straightened her dress before wiping her chin for smudged lipstick.

  “I guess some things just go bump in the night,” he said as they made their way to the sofa, Ilona nestling under his arm.

  “I’m sorry for my brother’s behavior,” Patrick said after a few minutes of silence.

  “It’s not your fault, love. No need to apologize,” Ilona replied. “Perhaps having his own child will allow him to open up more to me. It’s just him and me, after all.”

  “Children do have a way of working magic.”

  “Yes, they do. And I believe even I am ready for some of that magic,” Patrick replied, kissing her neck. “I want to be with you, Ilona. Do you want to be with me?”

  “You know I do, Patrick,” she replied, running her fingers through the hair on the back of his head.

  “Dear Ernestine is staying with her sister next weekend. The house will be empty,” he said, pausing to look her in the eyes.

  Ilona sat paralyzed, dumbstruck on how to respond, her desire to marry Patrick, coupled with her intense physical longing, playing tug of war with her guilt and fears of fornication and pregnancy.

  “I promise we will always be together, Ilona, but you know it will take some more time.”

  “Yes, Patrick. Yes,” she answered, passionately returning his kiss and wondering why it would take more time.

  “Next Saturday, then? I’ll take care of everything,” he said with kisses to her neck. She was too embarrassed to ask what “everything” meant, but she figured she had a week to figure it out.

  “THANK YOU FOR THE RIDE, Uncle Demetrius,” Ilona said as the car came to a stop in front of the Niels Esperson Building the following week.

  “You are quite welcome,” he returned with a smile.

  “We’ve come a long way from that day at the M&M, Patrick and I.”

  “That true! Don’t tell your baba … I like him. Look good together.”

  Ilona kissed her uncle on the cheek before opening the car door. She waved goodbye from the sidewalk before heading into the building to Patrick’s office, wondering if he would still say that if he knew what the following night would entail at The Doyle House.

  She looked up to the top of the Niels Esperson, the cupola barely in sight. The newness of the M&M that captured her heart paled in comparison with the building a few blocks south. As the white-gloved attendant pressed the button for floor 16, Ilona straightened her gloves and rubbed a stray mark from her handbag as the elevator made its way to the top. She loved the idea of meeting Patrick at his office, marveling at how this regal building could be but a few blocks from the diner. She nodded to the attendant as she left the elevator, making her way down the long corridor to Patrick’s office.

  “You could have married for love! Why in the hell do you care who I marry?” Patrick’s shouts carried down the hall.

  “Goddamn you! I found a way to do both! Love and family!”

  “Love? Yours is not the same as mine, and you know it,” Patrick smugly replied.

  “You’re right about that one, Patrick. I married a well-bred Irish woman. You are marrying into a poor family who lives in a kitchen!”

  Ilona stood in front of the closed office door, uncertain what to do, staring at her amorphous reflection in the Doyle Lumber & Construction brass placard on the wall.

  “And she will soon wear mother’s ring, Michael.”

  Ilona tiptoed back toward the elevator, the excitement over the impending proposal tempered by humiliation over Michael’s remarks. She knew her parents needed time to accept their relationship, and perhaps they never would. She did not realize that Patrick felt it on his end. She had assumed that his parents’ deaths absolved him from family expectations. Perhaps Michael would have felt different had he been the first born, married in The Doyle House with his Irish wife and child on the way. With a more prominent place in the family, it would be easier to excuse a younger brother’s unorthodox choices. But Patrick was the patriarch, both in lineage and reputation. It was clear to everyone that Patrick and Ilona were both taking a risk that others were afraid to take, and Patrick’s charisma would quite possibly carry it off.

  She walked around the area in front of the elevators, waiting for one of them to exit or for enough time to pass before she approached again. Patrick knew to expect her, as they had supper reservations at the Rice Hotel. Her mind drifted to the following night, the night she would give herself to Patrick. Knowing he loved her, knowing the proposal was imminent, made it all the easier to take the risk.

  The forceful sound of an office door opening shifted her attention down the hall. Her eyes met Michael’s, and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of his humanity, of the little boy vying to be as good as his older brother. He met her sympathetic smile with acrimony, but she held her gaze steady as they walked toward one another down the hallway.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  “Ilona.”

  “Good to see you,” she said, stopping to chat.

  “Likewise,” he replied, continuing to the elevator without looking back.

  He stood in front of the elevator, his agitation palpable with each punch of the down button. She watched him until the elevator doors opened, hoping he would look toward her but once. He entered the elevator without a glance, the silence at the closing of the doors like a slap to the face.

  She took the last few steps to the office door. Her soon-to-be-husband on the other side, she could not help but smile as she gave it a few knocks before opening the door, the vulnerability she had overheard endearing him to her even more.

  Patrick stood looking out the window behind his desk, a smile of relief breaking out across his face when their eyes met.

  “Come here. I want you to see the view,” he said, opening his arms and making his way around the desk to take her into a full embrace.

  Holding her hand, he led her to the other side of his desk. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, and they stood in silence, taking in the 180-degree view of the east side of the city.

  “It’s an exciting time to be in Houston,” he said in a low voice. “The city is changing; times are changing.”

  “Changing for the better. It’s good to try new things,” she replied, giving his arms a squeeze.

  CADMUS

  Autumn 2014

  JANINE REMINDED HIM OF DEAR Ernestine, which made for a nice consolation after he decided to spend most of the time in his room. Not overly saccharine in her speech, she radiated calm, an authenticity that put him at ease. He did not doubt that the other attendants meant well with their ebullient approach, but he found it demeaning. When Janine spoke to him, her words and tone evoked the belief that he remained a beautiful person still capable of many beautiful things.

  “I picked this up for you today, Dr. Doyle,
” she said, handing him a copy of Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist. “A friend of mine just finished it and loved it. I hope you don’t mind a second-hand copy.”

  “Thank you, Dear Ern … I’m sorry. Thank you, Janine,” he said as he caressed the textured cover of the book. “It is very kind of you to think of me.”

  “You are quite welcome, sir. May I prepare another cup of tea for you before I leave?”

  “No, thank you. Have a nice evening, and please send my congratulations to your daughter on her mathematics exam. I’m glad to hear she scored so well.”

  With the final click of the door, Cadmus took in a long, deep breath. Another exhausting night of recollection lay ahead, his nocturnal routine assuming its customary form. His gaze rested on the photograph of Robert that graced his nightstand, a candid shot snapped at his fiftieth birthday celebration, a lively night marked with a handful of dear friends and flowing cocktails at The Doyle House. And although the night invoked a most lovely memory of a life well lived, a life that had found its way despite the odds rolled against it, his next thought was always that Ilona’s life had ended when she was that age.

  Cadmus turned back to the book in his lap, longing for the prose to douse the haunting guilt that consumed his nights. He made it a few sentences down the page before losing his place. He returned to the first few sentences and then read them again and yet again. It took him nearly ten minutes to read one paragraph. Closing the book in frustration, he turned off his lamp, regretting not asking Clementine to bring him a bottle of whiskey to help him sleep. Perhaps it was not too late for him to become his father’s son.

  That night, the train cried at 2:19 a.m., waking Cadmus from his sleep. His eyes opened to the sight of his hands gripping his pillow, blue veins bulging. Moments before, it had been 1963 in The Doyle House—his arms were outstretched, and he was clawing for his mother, who lay on the ground next to the staircase, her body strewn in irises.

  “Mom!” he cried, pushing himself up in bed, struggling in the sheets to race to her side. He burst into tears at the realization that it was but a dream. She had been within arm’s reach.

  His guilt ebbed and flowed over the years, never fully abating but maintaining a steady undercurrent throughout his life. Coupled with the dementia consuming his mind, it was logical that his emotions ran high. Attempting to grab hold of these facts intellectually, with what mind he had left, he also knew something else for a fact: Ilona was near. Clementine told him that agitation was normal; his body was responding to his deteriorating mind. And regardless of her logical assessment, he countered her at every turn: His mother was looking for him, truly she was. He believed his agitation meant she was close.

  He lay awake, thinking of the sudden deaths endured by those close to him. Cadmus believed it was his destiny to die a slow death, alone. The universe vaporized almost everyone he had ever truly loved, whisking them to the heavens. His transition, however, assumed the form of a slow decay, and he knew he was in store for a gradual metamorphosis, one soaked in remorse. He not only bore the stigma of homosexuality, but he also betrayed one of the only people who had loved him unconditionally. And regardless of what the doctors said, he knew he had ushered her death. Thinking of his mother’s smile, warm tears flowed from his eyes as he looked out the window into the night sky, his paper-skinned hands wiping his cheeks.

  “Mom, I’m here,” Cadmus called out, falling into slumber and dreaming of her in a yellow dress holding a bouquet of irises.

  CADMUS PULLED A CHAIR UP to the small table near the dining hall’s entrance, straining his head to peer into the lobby. Josephine’s attempts to persuade him to a normal seat had fallen flat, with Cadmus insisting he had to sit at the table that housed the pitchers of water and juice at the entrance, because he was on the lookout for Ilona. She planned to join him for breakfast that morning, and he did not want to miss her.

  Josephine nodded her head in understanding, motioning for another member of the wait staff to relocate the pitchers. Smiling confidently as she surveyed the room, Josephine noted a full house of residents savoring their breakfast. She excused herself for a moment to speak with the front desk before returning to arrange the place setting at his new table, laying fresh linen and flowers while humming a pleasant tune.

  “And please don’t forget to set one for my mother. She’ll be here any minute,” Cadmus beamed with excitement.

  Josephine smiled sympathetically and arranged Ilona’s place at the small table, while Cadmus fidgeted with his cuticles and began to rock back and forth as the morning unfolded.

  She refilled his coffee many times, nodding at his remarks.

  “I don’t know what’s taking her so long! I hope she is okay!”

  He angrily pushed away a bowl of oatmeal and fruit, shouting at the waiter, “Can’t you see she is not here yet? I need to wait for her!”

  Thankful that the room was beginning to thin out, Josephine removed the dishes and moved to the side to monitor his agitation level from a short distance, while nodding and offering “good day” as the residents sauntered out to enjoy the morning. The nurse and an attendant arrived when the last guest left, aiming for as much discretion and dignity as the situation would allow.

  “Dr. Doyle, it’s time to return to your room,” the nurse soothed.

  “I can’t! She’s supposed to meet me!” he yelled.

  “When Mrs. Doyle arrives, we will escort her to your room. There is no need for you to wait here,” she kindly replied with conviction, extending her hand to him for balance.

  “I don’t understand. I thought she’d come. There’s so much to say,” he wept, his hands covering his eyes as the attendant inched forward with a wheelchair. “So very, very much to say.”

  Cadmus’ weeping turned to wails as they wheeled him to the service elevator. The attendant shrouded him in a blanket and looked above as if making a personal plea to spare her from the fate of a long life and a maddening mind.

  ILONA

  Winter 1930

  “SO WHAT DOES MY LOVELY lady plan to wear to the Port of Houston Dinner? With only a few weeks remaining, surely you have something picked out?” Patrick asked as they strolled through the M&M arcade, holding hands and making their way to the private lounge. Today marked two months from the day they had met. She was not certain if Patrick knew this detail when he suggested stopping at the M&M in route to his home, but she could not think of a better way to mark the occasion, even if only to herself. She was hesitant to mention the significance of the date out of fear it might be taken as pressure to marry.

  “Yes, I found something quite nice, but I want to surprise you,” Ilona coyly replied, thinking of the dress she had found at Foley Brothers just this past week. Her baba had balked at the price, refusing to pay the full amount. After much cajoling, her sister Arianna had agreed to lend her the difference, even though she, too, expressed disapproval of Ilona’s relationship with Patrick and of such extravagance. It would take Ilona a good while to fulfill the debt, but she knew it was worth it. When she got the dress home, panic set in when she thought about the other gowns she would need to purchase should their courtship continue.

  One dress at a time, Ilona, she thought as she held the dress up to herself in the mirror, admiring it with a turn of her head, held high in a glamorous pose. She had never been to the Crystal Ballroom at the Rice Hotel for a formal society event with Patrick.

  “And jewelry, have you thought about jewelry? You know these society women, always hankering to display a disgustingly gaudy show of gems despite the times,” Patrick asked.

  “Well, I cannot compete in that arena, but I am borrowing a lovely pair of costume earrings from my aunt. And while they are, indeed, faux, I do find them very beautiful and fitting for the occasion,” she replied, her tone a bit forcefully upbeat. She took her seat in the red leather booth, the very one they sat in when she tasted her first gimlet. Looking out the window, she thought about how much she had changed over the past tw
o months. She was now a woman of the city, who drank cocktails and enjoyed an intimate relationship with a man. There were words for women who did things like that, but her recent life experience prompted her to question those names. Just as in her readings, there was always another layer to the story.

  Sitting in the posh lounge with the moneyed people of the city no longer gave her nearly the unease it once had, but his comments about the jewelry rattled her more than she cared to admit. She looked over at a woman in a fine navy dress with perfectly coiffed hair and painted lips. Surely she owned a decent set of jewelry. She could not understand why he would suggest such a thread of conversation, knowing full well the modest stock from which she came.

  “I trust they will be lovely. I was thinking, perhaps, that this bauble might make a nice accompaniment to your ensemble.”

  She turned back from the window to see a black velvet box resting on the table. Her heart rapidly picking up its beat, she watched him rise from his seat and place one knee to the ground, the lady in the navy dress offering an endearing smile as she nudged the gentleman accompanying her to admire the impending proposal.

  “I know I must ask your father’s permission, but before I do so, I thought it fitting I ask you first. We are in more modern times, are we not? We need not share this trivial detail of today,” he said as he opened the box to reveal a ring set with an enormous oval diamond resting between smaller diamonds on each side.

  “I have never thought much about marrying. I knew I would, but only as the fulfillment of an expectation. I never thought I would want to marry. Until I met you. Your spirit, your intelligence—you are the most beautiful soul I know. I am a better person with you by my side. Will you marry me, Ilona?”

  Eyes filled with tears, she whispered, “Yes. Oh, my love, yes … yes … yes.” The tears now formed a steady stream down her cheeks.