Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  Early one morning well before dawn a few months after his father died, Cadmus crept downstairs and out the back door so he could observe the deep violet of the night. Unable to denote the differences between the leaves and the sky, he lay still under the pecan tree, intently watching, waiting for the sky’s subtle transformation to daybreak. He dozed off after several minutes only to be awakened later by a sudden gust of wind.

  The energy around him breathed a vivacious life into the tree, limbs swaying and leaves rustling, a sharp contrast from the moments before he had fallen asleep. The violet sky’s transition was well under way to a lighter hue, the color flickering behind the rapid movement of the leaves. In that moment, Cadmus overwhelmingly felt Patrick’s presence, his eyes brimming with tears at the thought that his father was near. His mind raced for a way to embrace him, to force his spirit to return to physical form so he could apologize for being a disappointment, for being delicate. As Cadmus haphazardly leapt upright with flailing arms, the connection weakened. Every subsequent attempt to catch the spirit caused further retreat, yet he continued to circle the tree with hope. The screeching sound of a train’s wheels in the distance sliced through the twilight, as if releasing the force from the wind and settling the leaves.

  Cadmus returned to his seat on the ground, resting his back against the deep ridges of the tree’s bark and catching his breath. He slowly caressed the protruding roots of the tree with his left hand, gently stroking each vein and thinking of the life force that silently willed it to live. He thought about the life force within himself that willed him to live, as well as the lasciviousness that thrust it from his father that winter night. After tracing his way along each root, Cadmus opened his palm to the sky. He told his father he loved him and then accepted his father’s apology, all of which was exchanged in silence and with unquestionable certainty.

  ILONA

  Summer 1931

  PATRICK’S KISS TO HER FOREHEAD woke Ilona from her sleep. Her eyes opened to find him seated at the edge of the bed, fully dressed for work and running two fingers through her hair and down her cheek. She had not intended their night routine to be what it had become, projections of their future life taking the form of artificial snapshots: preparing meals in the kitchen, enjoying uninterrupted time together after sex, welcoming babies. Not fully appreciating Dear Ernestine’s role beforehand, Ilona now understood that she never had to cook or clean, a fact that continued to dismay her mother and Arianna, who shook their heads in disapproval when they asked what she made her husband for supper.

  Dear Ernestine prepared a lovely meal for the couple every evening, which was followed by their walk in the garden before retreating to the library. Ilona assumed her spot in the nook with a book in hand, sneaking glances at her husband as he poured over papers at his desk. A crank of the numbers, a positioning of the straightedge and compass on a grid of the city with a furrowed brow and disheveled hair: Patrick’s mind and heart remained set on developing downtown Houston, despite the city’s economic struggles that could no longer be overlooked.

  She was not a teacher, but she had found something quite unexpected: a husband who provided her a life of sheer learning that allowed her curiosity, enthusiasm, and hope to fuel his own. She had become his muse. His wealth provided security and the ability to keep dreaming, albeit in a suspended state, and she hoped it would carry them through to more prosperous times when he could bring his dreams to fruition.

  As the evenings drew to a close, he asked her to see his work. She reviewed the nuts and bolts of proposals and commented on sketches while seated on his lap. Swirling the last of his drink, he turned off his desk lamp. They walked hand in hand to their bedroom, closing the door tightly to keep their privacy from Dear Ernestine, who would return to the house shortly after dawn to commence the morning routine.

  Ilona had not anticipated making love well over once a night, each encounter suspended between pockets of sleep, musings, and admiration of the moonlight’s projection on their bedroom walls. She had not anticipated taking long baths with her husband, washing his back and massaging his shoulders as he did for her, sharing tales about their days and hopes of what was to come as the trains wailed through the city. She had not anticipated how often she would fall asleep without her nightgown, sleeping late from a night spent shrouded in intimacy. She had not anticipated that her husband would be equally a passionate lover and her best friend.

  “I’m heading to work, my love.” he whispered, kissing her lips once as she lay half asleep in bed. “And what does your day have in store?”

  “Margaret is helping me plan my first tea. I am due for my foray into the women’s social circle.”

  “Yes, well, she is a fine resource to help,” he replied. “Just keep her away from my whiskey,” he teased as he headed out the door.

  Margaret arrived at the house at half past two, thick book in tow.

  “What’s that?” Ilona asked, gesturing to the book that had a few errant pages peeking haphazardly from the edges.

  “My family’s recipe book,” Margaret replied, grasping the handrail and making her way up the front porch stairs. “Now, please do not misunderstand me. Ernestine is a damn fine cook, but my grandmother’s lemon scones will leave the ladies speechless. And that is something that is hard to do with this bunch.”

  Margaret and Ilona entered the home to find Dear Ernestine setting out tea and biscuits in the sitting room. Ilona smiled and rested her hand on Dear Ernestine’s shoulder as a thank you. She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to a life free from domestic duties. Her time in the diner had gifted her with a humility that bonded the two women. Dear Ernestine looked to her with a wink, a gesture Ilona could not imagine her doing had Patrick married someone who had never swept floors.

  “I started working on the guest list, but I confess I found it more complicated than I thought it would be,” Ilona began. Margaret shook her head and raised her eyebrows in an I told you so manner as she placed her handbag on the hallway table before joining Ilona in the sitting room.

  “Let me have a look,” Margaret said as the ladies took their seats. “Hmmm … yes, yes, yes, of course,” she said, offering an affirmation for each name. “Interesting connection, but yes, I can see it. Not sure about this one, but okay.”

  Ilona studied her friend’s reactions, a bit nervous as if she were in class with Miss Baker reviewing an essay. Margaret seemed to approve of Ilona’s list. However, Margaret paused when she came to the end, her head jerking back.

  “Maureen S.?” she asked.

  “She’s a friend of Sybil’s. Surely you know her?”

  “Friend? Ilona, Maureen Sullivan does not know how to be a friend to any woman.”

  “Maureen Smithly? She and Sybil have been friends for years,” Ilona defended.

  “Ahh! Pardon my error. Yes, Mrs. Smithly is a fine lady,” Margaret agreed, relieved at the revelation. “And I do think it is good for Sybil to have someone in her corner, so to speak.”

  “Patrick warned me to stay away from the other Maureen,” Ilona stated.

  Margaret only stared at her, which kindled even more curiosity in Ilona, considering it came from a garrulous soul.

  “Margaret, tell me,” Ilona pleaded.

  “She just wants what she wants when she wants it,” Margaret said, the initial satisfaction with the simplicity of her response waning a moment later. “Like we all do, I suppose. But then again, it’s not at all like we all do.”

  Ilona took a sip of tea, deciding to wait out the belabored response.

  “She’s ruthless and doesn’t mind who she steps on to get her way. Let’s leave it at that. She will not be of any significance until her father dies, and then we are all in trouble.”

  “How so?”

  “Oil money. Dallas. She doesn’t have nearly as much as she wants now, but when the windfall comes, she will be in our face. Now, on to other things …” Margaret said as she reached for a biscuit.

 
“I saw Michael at The Warwick having lunch last week,” she continued, changing the subject.

  “And how was he?” Ilona asked, knowing it was a strange question given he lived only a few blocks away.

  “His usual stiff self, but he did say something rather crass,” Margaret replied, carrying it out a bit longer for effect. “His response to my expressed congratulations with respect to Katherine Grace? ‘Yes, well I suppose the race for an heir is still on.’ Who the hell says things like that after the birth of your first child nearly killed your wife? And in public at The Warwick, for Christ’s sake?!”

  “Yes, comments like that should not dare be uttered at The Warwick,” Ilona teased, her mind scanning the calendar to recall when she should expect her period, or not.

  ILONA

  Summer 1932

  ILONA’S BRIGHT SMILE AND WAVE did little to change the blank countenance of the tiny face that peered at her from the front window. While the reaction did not surprise Ilona, her niece’s passivity over her arrival was still a disappointment.

  “She’s two years old, love,” Patrick said, sensing her unease.

  “I know. But I also know I don’t see her very often. She doesn’t really know me,” Ilona replied.

  “You are making up for it today,” he said, opening his car door and coming around to help Ilona. He opened her door and held his hand out for hers.

  “Good Lord, I do not know how much longer I will fit into the car, seeing how large I am already,” Ilona said, taking a deep breath as she stepped out and steadied herself with one hand in Patrick’s and the other on the open car door.

  “Yes, well, as far as I’m concerned, you can keep on getting larger. It’s a sign of a strong, healthy baby!” Patrick declared, his eyes sparking with pride.

  Her mama answered the door with a raised index finger to her lips followed by palms together in prayer resting against her cheek to gesture sleep. Patrick and Ilona slipped into Arianna’s home, where Ilona placed her handbag on the table near the door. Arianna stepped out of her bedroom, gently closing the door and offering a formal smile to her sister as she came over to greet them.

  “From Dear Ernestine,” Patrick whispered as he handed her a pecan pie.

  “Ah! Please send her my thanks. She was kind enough to share her recipe, but I can’t seem to do it right. Mine is too goopy,” Arianna laughed. “Come, have a slice with us.”

  “I would like nothing more than to visit with three lovely,” Patrick began before noticing the little face now peeking from behind the sofa. “Pardon me. Four lovely ladies, but I need to run to the office for a spell of paperwork that cannot wait until Monday. Sweet Agatha, won’t you please give your Uncle Patrick a hug before I go?”

  A shy smile broke out over Agatha’s face as she hobbled over and sat on Patrick’s bent knee.

  “Now, let me take a look in my pocket, because I do think there might be something in there for you,” he teased, reaching into the interior breast pocket of his jacket and pulling out a new pack of crayons. Her smile opened as she gave him a hug, shuffling off to her room with her gift in hand.

  “I’ll be back in a few. Enjoy your time, ladies,” he said as he headed out the door.

  Ilona and her mama made their way to the kitchenette table while Arianna gathered utensils and plates.

  “Only a small slice for me. It’s for you to enjoy,” Ilona said.

  “Yes, I am sure she prepared one just for you … waiting on The Boulevard,” Arianna replied, much to Ilona’s resignation. She had not thought the digs would start so soon.

  “Dear Ernestine so wants to see the baby. Perhaps after the baptism, you can bring him and Agatha by the house.”

  “I am anxious for the forty days to be over, that is for certain. But I don’t know if I can muster a drive as far as The Heights,” Arianna replied. After seeing the sadness in her sister’s eyes, she attempted a recovery. “But for another pecan pie? Well, maybe that can be arranged!”

  Ilona accepted the comment as an apology, albeit a weak one. She knew Arianna continued to struggle with the differences in their lives.

  “Perhaps that would be a good time to bring the baptismal gown. I can’t believe two Petrarkis babies will wear it in the same year!” Ilona offered, attempting to bridge a connection with her sister.

  “That’s true,” Arianna replied, lifting her fork from the plate. “Have you and Patrick decided on godparents?”

  “I’m afraid we are in the same predicament as you and Aleksander. We must have Roman Catholic godparents, so we asked Michael and Sybil.”

  Her mama and Arianna nodded, their eyes remaining downcast.

  “Surely you understand, as I know you asked Aleksander’s family to serve for the baby,” Ilona replied, sensing the tension.

  “Yes, we asked his cousins,” Arianna said. “It’s just odd now that you are Catholic, seeing as you committed to serving as Agatha’s godmother when you were Orthodox.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that, Arianna. I’m sorr—”

  “Honestly, Ilona, sometimes it’s like you only think of yourself. I feel as if my daughter’s been cheated.”

  “Oh, no, Arianna! I’m so sorry! I know I have not been by often, but I’ll do better,” Ilona pleaded, looking to her mama for support.

  Her mama’s eyes remained downcast, signaling her allegiance to Arianna. Ilona paused, cleared her throat, and decided to offer an apology once more.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you both,” Ilona said. “It was never my intention.”

  “I know you sorry, Ilona,” her mama said, reaching for her hand. “You just living life … different life.”

  “I love you both very much,” Ilona said.

  Ilona looked over at Arianna, but her sister kept her eyes on her plate. She could not tell whether Arianna felt bad for the remarks or embarrassed over her open expression of envy.

  Mama collected the plates and took them to the kitchen sink, and Ilona meandered into Agatha’s room to find her niece coloring in her window seat. Ilona picked up a book of nursery rhymes and took a seat next to Agatha, a grin breaking out over her niece’s delicate face.

  “Want to go on a journey with me?” Ilona asked, opening the book to a well-loved page she was certain Agatha would recognize.

  Agatha curled up next to her, Ilona’s stomach not allowing her lap to serve as a perch. She looked into her aunt’s eyes and then at her ears, noting the sparkles that highlighted her lobes.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Ilona asked.

  Agatha nodded, her eyes widening in anticipation.

  “If I have a little girl, I want her to be just like you,” Ilona said, her finger delicately tapping the tip of her niece’s nose.

  “And her name will be Callista,” she whispered, offering a shhhhhh before continuing, “a name that means beautiful in Greek. And I do hope you two will be dear friends.”

  “LET’S GO WITH THE IVY pattern,” Ilona said to Dear Ernestine, who was entering the dining room where Ilona was studying the family’s china.

  “Mmmmm … hmmmm,” she responded, her eyes fixed on Ilona.

  “What? It’s a lovely pattern. Simple. Perfect for the occasion.”

  “Perfect for the christening of your first child?” Dear Ernestine pressed.

  Ilona returned her questioning with a stare, dumbfounded that Dear Ernestine would contradict her so boldly.

  “Look, Mrs. Doyle, please pardon me. But I know what you are thinking. You don’t want to be highfalutin with your people.”

  Ilona looked away, a wave of embarrassment sweeping across her face.

  “I get it. My sister tells me I’m highfalutin! Can you believe it? All because I tell her how to do things better thanks to what I’ve seen here at The Doyle House?”

  Ilona watched, mesmerized at the life force radiating from Dear Ernestine’s customary calm demeanor.

  “Mrs. Doyle, I love my Paty.”

  “Paty?”

  “Pat
y is like my son. I’ve been taking care of him since he was three. His daddy was a good man who worked hard for this life. You and Callista are now Paty’s people, and he’s making a beautiful family,” Dear Ernestine said, making her way from the dining room back into the hallway before calling out, “And we are using the rose china! With the gold trim! Fancy for Miss Callista Aislinn Doyle!”

  HER PARENTS WERE THE FIRST to arrive at the house after the baptism at Holy Family with Arianna, Aleksander, Agatha, and baby Christos in tow. Dear Ernestine took Agatha’s hand to escort her to the sitting room, where dolls and a tea set awaited her. Patrick poured lemonade into crystal glasses as they chatted in the library; Ilona was relieved at the ease in the room.

  “Aleksander, tell me about the plans for the new store,” Patrick said with genuine interest. “You know I love talking about making a dream a reality.”

  “Yes, we certainly have that in common!” Aleksander said, with Mr. Petrarkis nodding in agreement. “Instead of building anew, I am considering making Anthony Senior an offer to buy one of his stores, the one closer to Preston. With his son’s untimely death, it’s a struggle for him to keep up with two places.”

  Ilona’s mind turned to Anthony, the young man so eager to win her heart. At least she had been kind the night he had taken her to supper. In retrospect, it was Millie’s attack that afternoon after school that had emboldened Ilona’s confidence to create a different life for herself, even though she did not know how it would happen at the time. She remembered reaching for Anthony Junior’s hand and telling him how much she enjoyed his friendship. She had assured him that he would find a lovely girl to marry, which he had. And now that girl was a widow, a thought that made Ilona visibly shudder.

  Michael and his family’s grand entrance changed the tenor, Sybil parading Katherine in the most exquisite brocade dress, one that caused sweet Agatha’s simple frock to pale in comparison. Dear Ernestine welcomed the little girl, and Sybil took care to straighten Katherine’s dress as she ambled to the sitting room to join her Greek cousin.