Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  “This ring belonged to my mother. She passed it to me as the first son, asking me to carry on our family name and traditions. I know with all certainty that she is beaming down at us from heaven, filled with joy that she could not have asked for a more perfect match for me.”

  Ilona enjoyed her gimlet while looking at her ring, humbled by its perfection, in awe that he had chosen her to be his wife. She curled up even closer to her fiancé, the man with whom she would soon spend her life. They kissed lightly, and as he raised his glass to take a sip of whiskey, she turned, gazing out at the image of this moment beautifully framed in one of the many thousands of windows.

  SEEKING HER BABA’S PERMISSION WAS another matter—one Ilona and Patrick talked about as they lay in bed, her head on his chest while she twirled the ring around her finger. It would be difficult to leave the ring behind when she went home for the night, but she would have it soon enough. She was giddy with the notion that soon she would reside in The Doyle House with Patrick, being able to fall asleep in his arms until the morning. She was also relieved to curtail her life of living in sin, worries of pregnancy consuming her more often than she cared to acknowledge.

  “I’d like to have Patrick over for supper on Saturday,” Ilona said from the back seat of the car as they drove home from church the following day. She was thankful she could look out the window instead of meeting their eyes, although her baba did take a quick peek at her from the rearview mirror.

  Mama turned her head to look at him before craning her neck to the back seat.

  “Our home?” she asked.

  “Yes. You don’t need to worry about a thing,” Ilona continued. “I will prepare lamb and potatoes. Patrick offered to bring dessert.”

  “He’s cooking?” her baba asked, as her mama gestured for him to return his eyes to road.

  “Of course not!” Ilona chuckled. “Dear Ernestine will bake an apple upside-down cake. It’s one of his grandmother’s recipes.”

  “Dear who?” Mama asked.

  “Her name is Ernestine. She has worked for the family since he was a baby.”

  Her baba nodded in affirmation, glancing at his wife who was turned toward the window.

  Later that evening, Mama came into Ilona’s room to kiss her good night as she lay in bed reading.

  “Patrick a nice man, very handsome and has where it counts,” she said, pointing her index finger to her head. Ilona smiled without saying a word, wondering what her mama planned to say next. She rarely initiated questions regarding Patrick.

  “I glad he coming over … good to talk more since I no see him when at Lawndale.”

  “Yes, Mama, I agree. And I do believe you will like him even more, really you will.”

  “I hope so, Ilona, hope so. Now tell me, you have other plans for Saturday? Hmmm? Things no seem right. Don’t surprise your baba, now.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Mama,” Ilona replied, looking down at her book to mark the page.

  “Help me, help you, eh?”

  After a minute of biting her lip, Ilona whispered, “Patrick wants to marry me, Mama. Marry me, me. Can you believe it?”

  Cupping her daughter’s face into her palms, her mama lowered her eyes to her meet her daughter’s, their noses barely brushing. “Yes, dear. Of course I believe,” she said, closing her eyes, forehead to forehead, with her youngest daughter.

  Ilona spent the night wrapped in nostalgia, her heart weaving a chrysalis in preparation for her new life. She was on borrowed time, and as was the case when her days as a pupil had been ending, her senses began to review the blueprint of her life as a Petrarkis. Although she was ready for new experiences, she was thankful for the foundation her parents had provided. She was grounded, thoughtful, and hard working—all qualities she learned at the restaurants, qualities that helped mold her constitution, a constitution that captured the heart of a sophisticated man like Patrick.

  She took in the scent of the cast-iron gas heater, the weighty sweetness giving form to the warmth, dancing blue and orange flames, that emanated through the ornate lattice. She knew she would miss her ceiling tiles, creamy with the slightest swirl imprint that bore a faint constellation of glitter. Her room at night was tranquil, the moonlight and glow from the heater coating the room in soft pink. After the train signaled its obligatory good night, Ilona heard the door to her parents’ room open and shut, followed by footsteps heading to the kitchen. She would not have thought much of it had she not heard a muffled sob. Her baba knew.

  PATRICK, ARMED WITH HIS CUSTOMARY charm, brought an enormous bouquet of roses for her mama, who, in turn, had to cover her mouth after gasping quite loudly. She could not help but laugh at her own reaction, which helped ease the tension for everyone. Ilona had considered inviting her sister’s family but had decided against it, considering the intention behind the visit. Had they attended, Baby Agatha most certainly would have served as a conversation piece throughout the evening. Now, Ilona worried that her mama’s humorous reaction might be the only laugh of the night.

  “So, please do tell me how the restaurants are faring. Based on what I see on Franklin Street, it certainly looks like you are well on your way to a third location,” Patrick offered as they sat down at the dining table.

  “Yes, yes. My business is still good.” Her baba’s slow and clear reply stung her heart, because she knew how much effort he exerted to fold in small words that most people took for granted. She noted his hands squeezing his utensils; he needed to focus his mind. And although she surmised he was uncomfortable, Ilona was impressed at how well he held eye contact, nodding and assuming his best attempt at ease.

  After a painfully silent few seconds of glancing around the room, Patrick delved into his family story, starting with his grandfather who immigrated to Texas from Ireland with but a few coins in his pocket. He had made his way to East Texas and found work cutting timber—saving every cent possible, working harder than every other dreamer. His grandfather eventually bought into the sawmill where he worked, and before he knew it, he had bought out the other two owners. Patrick’s father, mirroring his family’s work ethic, continued in his father’s footsteps: hard working and adventurous, willing to roll the dice. He channeled his father’s East Texas riches to the bayou city, determining the Doyle family’s destiny—to provide high quality lumber for the city primed for growth after the hurricane of 1900.

  Patrick’s story gave depth to his character and supported his regalia. The car, the pocket watch, the fine-tailored suit were all results of his family’s sweat. Ilona remained skeptical to the extent of her baba’s conversion, but she knew that he felt admiration for Patrick, at least in the abstract sense. Patrick segued to the nuptials with the concept of “creating something new and beautiful in this uncharted world, bridging seemingly disparate objects together to forge a most exquisite creation.”

  Her baba’s nods stopped just short of the declaration of his thesis, prompting Patrick to realize that his final request was past due.

  “Mr. Petrarkis, I know I am not what you envisioned for Ilona. I’m Irish, I’m Catholic, and I do not have much living family to show for. What I do have, however, is a love for her that I have had for no other and a family name that will bring her great respect. I humbly ask for your permission to marry.”

  Her mama’s eyes filled with tears and remained fixed on Patrick. Her baba looked down for a moment and then over to his wife. Taking a swallow and a deep breath, he stood and faced his daughter’s suitor. Patrick rose to his feet, in kind.

  He extended his hand and, looking up to meet Patrick’s eye, replied, “Welcome to our family.”

  After supper, Ilona took Patrick for a walk through her neighborhood. The homes, although modest, were pristine, the families filled with pride over owning a home. They meandered to the park where Ilona’s brother, Cadmus, once ruled over the baseball diamond. He commanded attention yet had always been benevolent and kind, never taking for granted his natural position as head of th
e neighborhood pecking order. After hearing a litany of stories about her brother, Patrick declared that they seemed to share the same disposition, “a charming man of many talents, indeed.” Patrick then suggested that Cadmus would be a fine name for their firstborn son. Perhaps this offering would help temper her baba’s reaction to her more-than-likely decision to convert to Catholicism, although she knew that he would have a most difficult time reconciling this piece regardless of how generous Patrick was with the selection of Petrarkis family names.

  HER GOWN FROM FOLEY BROTHERS, more sophisticated and form fitting than anything else she had ever owned, boosted her self-esteem. When Patrick arrived to pick her up with the engagement ring sized, it rose substantially more. And when he pulled out another box that housed his mother’s diamond and pearl earrings, she was over-the-moon confident that she could assume the role of his wife. She knew the evening was significant. It was the first time she would attend a society event and meet many of Patrick’s friends and business acquaintances. Her nerves got the best of her for most of the day, but the family heirlooms acted like armor. She was ready.

  Throngs of people filled the lobby of the Rice Hotel, introductions launching from the moment they stepped inside. Ilona’s mind swirled, trying to remember the bevy of names. She had given thought as to how to give a good handshake, and her practice served her well. She had not anticipated, however, the number of times people would embrace her upon the first introduction, welcoming her into their world and wanting to know about this new woman who had captured the heart of the charismatic Patrick Doyle.

  Ilona turned to see a blonde woman making a beeline toward her, her striking red dress and diamonds setting her apart even from the most well-dressed guests.

  “You must be Ilona,” the woman declared with a smile, impressing Ilona with her confidence.

  “I am,” Ilona replied, uncertain of the woman’s intentions.

  “I am Margaret. My husband, Phillip, is the silver-haired one over there. Don’t let it fool you … prematurely gray. Isn’t it unfair how men look better as they age?”

  “Fair point, one I couldn’t agree with more. It’s called a longer shelf life … at least that is the term my father uses when he talks about food.”

  Margaret howled with laughter and placed her hands on Ilona’s shoulders.

  “You are exactly how I’d hoped you’d be!” Margaret said with a wink. “With Patrick’s zest for life? I knew he would eventually settle down with a sharp woman. I am very glad to meet you, Ilona. And please know you can count on me as you navigate these social circles. Don’t let the smiles around here fool you for a moment. These ladies are not always what they seem.”

  Patrick turned to the ladies after finishing his conversation. He looked at Margaret with raised brows and a grin.

  “Of course, I approve! Ilona was worth waiting for,” she exclaimed.

  Ilona entered the Crystal Ballroom thinking about her conversation with Margaret while taking joy in how the kaleidoscopic lights bounced off her ring—with light shimmering from chandeliers, candelabras, and the city peering through the windows. Even though she knew Patrick was worldly, hearing the words “eventually settle down” left her slightly disconcerted. Given his deftness from alcohol to sex, she figured he had earned his fair share of experiences. But with her doubt came her remembrance that he had chosen her to be his wife. And so she raised her hand upon request so others could admire the enormous diamond, thankful for another opportunity to study it for reassurance.

  “Patrick! So good to see you!”

  Ilona turned around to see a handsome couple heading toward them, the tall gentleman grinning widely, extending his hand even though he had a few steps to go.

  “Gavin! Always a pleasure,” Patrick replied, returning the handshake with an additional pat to Gavin’s right shoulder but not making eye contact with the woman accompanying his friend.

  “Rumor has it there is an engagement to celebrate this evening,” Gavin said, looking to Ilona with an approving smile.

  “For once, I am glad to report that a rumor about me is true. Gavin and Maureen, I am honored to introduce you to my fiancée, Ilona Petrarkis.”

  Gavin opened his arms wide, embracing Ilona in hearty congratulations. She looked over his shoulder to see his wife, Maureen, studying her with a stone face.

  “Well, my dear, you have accomplished quite a feat, taming this one,” Gavin joked, wagging his finger at Patrick.

  Ilona turned to Maureen, who promptly held out her hand for a formal handshake.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ilona said, summoning the handshake she had worked at perfecting over the week, the one she had not used often that night.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Maureen replied in a monotone voice, catching herself as her eyes darted down toward Ilona’s left hand.

  “Where are you seated? We are at table 2,” Patrick quickly said, prompting Ilona to wonder if he registered the tension.

  “Of course you are right in front; high flyers usually are. We are at table 12,” replied Gavin before turning back to Ilona. “It was a most sincere pleasure to meet you, Ilona. A handsome couple, indeed, don’t you agree, Maureen?”

  Maureen gave a weak nod as she turned to make her way to her seat, linking her arm through her husband’s.

  “That was a bit odd,” Ilona said to Patrick as they walked hand in hand to the front.

  “Ilona, steer clear of Maureen Sullivan,” he stated emphatically. “She is a troubled soul.”

  ILONA

  Spring 1931

  ILONA WOULD COME TO MARK the day of her final fitting for her wedding dress as the first time she felt unsettled over her soon-to-be life, the first time she truly tasted her new role as an outsider. Ilona knew her decision to marry Patrick would alter her life trajectory, but she took for granted a presumed level of consistency, that many parts of her life would remain the same.

  Her mama wanted to join her, as she had on the other meetings with the seamstress, but she needed to stay behind, since the café was short a server. She helped Ilona select the fabric—ivory satin and crocheted lace for the bodice. Her mama attempted to dissuade her from a short-sleeved gown, waxing unexpectedly poetic at how the tiniest of buttons along her forearm would make a lovely adornment, but she nodded in resignation when Ilona reminded her of the reception in the rose garden: Ilona wanted to enjoy the event without concern over discomfort in the Houston heat. A Roman Catholic wedding, a reception at The Doyle House that would certainly limit the number of guests, a modern-cut dress—Ilona did not fully appreciate it at the time, but each decision inched her farther away from her family.

  Arianna would have accompanied Ilona had she asked a second time, but she knew her sister disapproved over her choice in a husband. They were never particularly close, but they were always kind to one another, something Ilona had thought was enough to jumpstart an adult relationship at the right time. She surmised that her sister’s hesitation stemmed from her belief that the choice of Patrick was a statement against Arianna’s own marriage and family. Arianna had enjoyed her participation in Ilona’s secret meeting with Patrick at Buff Stadium, but she never once thought Ilona would marry him.

  Ilona made her way down Main Street, hoping she would find her baba in good spirits despite her late arrival. Ever since the afternoon that Patrick asked permission to take Ilona on a date and especially after the proposal, her baba had remained guarded with her. On good days, she saw wistfulness in his eyes, as if he were longing for the days she meandered around Lawndale barely reaching the height of the counter to the days she graced the aisles from the kitchen to the tables. Other days, however, brought a melancholy that made her wonder if he was anxious over how the next chapters would unfold and whether his nephews would turn their backs as his daughter Ilona had. Last night marked another quarrel over the upcoming union after Ilona made a comment about lighting candles in front of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus.

  “You want worship
statues? Worship the Pope! What es wrong? Where I go wrong?”

  “Baba, that’s simply not true. Catholics do not worship the Pope, and the talk about the statues is just plain silly.”

  “You no call me silly! They say Pope make no mistake. Pope always right. Crazy!”

  “Baba, Patrick and I will live in his house in The Heights … you know this! Holy Family was his parents’ church … He grew up there, and Michael’s family are members, as well. And it is only a few blocks away from the house. It makes sense, Baba.”

  “Your church? Your people?”

  “And what about Patrick’s people? My family’s life will be The Heights, Baba. My family will worship at Holy Family.”

  His eyes filled with tears as he shook his head.

  “We are praying to the same God, Baba, Catholic or Orthodox. That I do believe … I believe it with all of my heart,” Ilona declared.

  She turned the corner onto Franklin before hurrying into the diner to find her cousin, Demi, positioned at her station at the register. He was all smiles, entertaining her baba and another gentleman she had yet to meet. They had moved two counter stools to the side of the register, allowing the three men to talk while patrons paid their bills. She was unsettled to see her baba so jovial at the register, knowing his usual place was on a stool at the counter away from his daughter.

  “Ilona! Back so soon!” Demi cried, raising his hands in the air. All three men met her with smiles, but the air was different.

  “Yes, I wanted to return as soon as I could. You know how busy it is at lunchtime,” she said, walking toward the men and noticing the magazines that had displaced her candy jars at the far end of the counter.

  “Frederick, please meet my daughter, Ilona. She no be here much longer, marry and be society woman soon,” her baba said with a blend of sarcasm and pride as the man rose to shake her hand.

  “Congratulations, Miss. What a shame I will not see you more around the diner. I’ve heard many good things about you.”