“Now where is my beautiful goddaughter, Callie?” Michael bellowed down the hall, which Ilona surmised was to hold court with her family.
Callista—Ilona and Patrick loved the duality. Callista was a strong Greek name, but one that easily beget the nickname Callie, which was Irish for “from the forest.” It was a name that served both of their heritages, a symbol of the new life they continued to forge together.
“Callista is sleeping, Michael. Worn out, no doubt, from her debut,” Patrick said, pouring his brother a glass of lemonade. “And Sybil, how are you feeling, my dear?”
“Tired,” her comment and subsequent healthy plop onto the sofa garnering a hearty round of laughter from the room.
“Yes, you bringing new life into world! Exciting!” Mrs. Petrarkis cheered.
Ilona smiled, offering thanks as her eyes rested on each guest. The room was not free of tension, but a fabric of commonality bared its threads as the conversation unfolded.
“It is exciting,” Sybil whispered with a grin. “I need to focus more on the excitement rather than the fear that something will go wrong.”
Patrick walked over and handed her a glass of lemonade.
“On that note, let’s offer a toast. To the next generation—may we continue to welcome more children into the fold!”
CADMUS
Winter 2014
CADMUS LOVED TEXAS THUNDERSTORMS, ESPECIALLY the ones that came during the day, with the sky cloaked in charcoal and navy hues as if it were midnight. The nurse positioned his wheelchair to face the window, not that she would notice his excitement growing at the great storm that was upon them.
He thought back to his childhood ritual, remembering how he had cocooned in the third-floor garret window with a blanket, curled in amazement as he watched The Boulevard trees start with a shimmy before giving way to full-fledged fanatical sways, overcome by the spirit of the storm—the spirit that was alive the night he came into the world. He often recalled the story of his birth that was shared so many times that he had all but convinced himself he remembered it firsthand.
When the rain started on December 6, 1935, Ilona was not alarmed, knowing well that Texas storms often made a grand entrance only to leave a short while later. His mother counted her blessings: It was a Friday, and his father would be home for the weekend.
“A week overdue—as if you were having second thoughts!” she said with a laugh, shaking her head with each and every rendition.
The tapping turned to pelting, and Ilona rose from her bed after the clock struck one in the morning. She paced the house with her hands over her belly, feeling a maternal instinct to protect her baby from the storm. Patrick had left his desk light on in the library, and she remembered seeing plans on his desk, his ideas fluctuating between having a proposal ready for an investor in need of a construction company and having himself as an investor, with others joining him, to build on their own.
It left Cadmus crestfallen when he thought of how life turned out for his family. His father continued dreaming despite the Great Depression, excited that his second baby would help continue the legacy. It was a time of unbridled enthusiasm and hope, yet the decline was soon to come. And it came even sooner for his Grandfather Petrarkis when floodwaters devastated the Franklin Street Diner. It was not until the start of World War II that the economy picked up its fast pace again—the year his father lost his life.
At dawn on Saturday morning, the rain continued its torrent, and Patrick received word that downtown was flooded, the bayou running well over into the streets. It was impossible to make it to St. Joseph’s Maternity Hospital should the baby decide it was time.
His mother often shared how scared she had been to deliver at home, even knowing that Dear Ernestine had delivered many babies in her family. Ilona knew a stay at the maternity hospital was a luxury that eluded many women, but that was the only experience she knew, the nuns taking such good care of her with Callista.
As he watched the rain form rivulets on the window, Cadmus imagined his mother in labor, beads of sweat along her temples, mirroring the drops that pelted her bedroom window late that Saturday night. He could hear her wails as the crown of his head seared her body, as if purifying his soul’s return to earth. His father had not been present during Callista’s birth, the nuns seeing to it that he was comfortably settled in the father’s waiting area, far from the reality of childbirth. But with Cadmus’ birth, he held Ilona’s hand as they felt the new life traverse worlds, her body tearing with the release. Dear Ernestine told Patrick to stay with Ilona, but he shook his head as if in a trance, moving to the foot of the bed to witness the birth of his son.
Ilona always concluded the story with watery eyes, recalling it was the only time she ever saw her husband cry. He scooped up his son from her chest where Dear Ernestine laid him to sever the umbilical cord. Cadmus shrieked as Patrick studied him in wonder, and Ilona committed their profiles to memory.
Cadmus cherished the story, knowing that no one or nothing, not even the fact that he was a disappointment, could take away the moment he and his father shared the night he was born.
ILONA
Summer 1936
ILONA’S FINGERS GRACED HER BABY’S cheek, gentle at first, hoping that a soft touch would be all Cadmus would need to awake. She pressed her fingers to his supple lips, cueing him to continue nursing, his mouth instinctively returning to her breast. Despite his propensity to doze while feeding, he had an easier time nursing than Callista. The struggle to get her daughter to nurse had left Ilona feeling deficient as a mother and sadness over a missed opportunity to bond.
The rocking chair creaked lightly, the only other sound in the room coming from the wooden blocks Callista attempted to stack as she sat on the rug in the library. Ilona knew it was an idyllic moment, and closing her eyes in a prayer of thanks, she committed it to memory, as the scent of apple pie wafted from the oven. She ended her prayer at the ringing of the phone, knowing Dear Ernestine would be there soon to relay a message.
“Mr. Doyle won’t be home for supper. Something’s come up.”
“Thank you, Dear Ernestine,” Ilona replied, her spirits dashed that he would miss another meal with the family.
Ilona knew the weight Patrick faced at the office, his efforts to advance Doyle Lumber & Construction’s position consuming his time both physically and emotionally. The Great Flood of 1935, as that fateful weekend had come to be known, had ravaged downtown. Patrick’s dreams for significant development had been put on hold again, just as they had after the Flood of 1929. And while he continued to garner a meager income, the lion’s share of the money pouring in from the past seven years was from reconstructing what had been, not from stunning projects of what could be. The M&M, the last accomplishment up to his standards, was fading quickly, with more and more tenants vacating the building as the Depression continued.
She looked out the window, rocking Cadmus and weighing options on how she could help. They were well-to-do, but now that she was part of the other world, she knew firsthand the gradations of the rich. It would take Patrick’s charisma, with a heavy dose of his family’s pedigree, to charm the right investors to place him at the helm of a major construction project. This fact was something her well-intentioned family did not understand as they recommended Patrick’s services to other Greek families needing to construct their businesses. And he never, not once, told them no, even going so far as to invite many families turned clients to The Boulevard home for drinks to talk about how they envisioned the floor plans. It spread his resources thin, but he could not look away once he looked someone’s dream in the eye.
Ilona motioned for Dear Ernestine to put Cadmus down for a nap, his lips breaking into the slightest smile, belly full and diaper in need of changing. Buttoning her blouse, she returned to her bedroom to rest. Cadmus was nearing eight months old, but she still had yet to recover fully from his birth.
She hoped Patrick would not be too late or too drunk when he arrived ho
me later that summer night. She missed him, missed the passion, and she was ready to resume where they had left off months before Cadmus’ birth. While they had been together many times in the past few months, she had yet to fully abandon herself as she had before her pregnancy. She lay in bed, looking out the window to the garden, knowing she was ready for Patrick. Ilona also knew the renewed physical connection would help her husband. It made them stronger, as if their physical energies coalesced, each one giving rise to the other. They made a powerful team.
Later that night after supper, Ilona drew a warm rose-scented bath before slipping on a new ivory silk nightgown. Her heart quivered when she heard the back door open, prompting her to walk to the bedroom door, ready to greet him when he entered the hallway. He stopped the moment he saw her, a knowing smile breaking over their faces after a moment’s stare. He walked over to her and took her hand, escorting her into the bedroom and closing the door behind them.
ILONA
Autumn 1939
“OF COURSE, I’D LOVE TO dine at the Empire Room on Saturday,” Ilona offered in response to Patrick’s suggestion.
“Then what’s with the baffling look on your face?” he asked as they watched Callista and Cadmus, both with heads bent over a rosebush, looking for bugs.
“Because it’s with Gavin and Maureen. You’ve never wanted us to socialize with them before now.”
Patrick, lips pursed and unable to speak, kept his stare on the children. Ilona’s concern grew as the seconds elapsed, knowing her husband was rarely at a loss for words.
“I need Gavin’s help. I need more capital to place a competitive bid.”
“Are you changing your mind on a partnership?” Ilona asked.
“Not a merger, not a partnership,” he retorted, breaking his stare to look at his wife. “A joint venture, but one that will strengthen our legacy. I don’t want to build shopping centers, at least not just yet. We could do those projects with ease, but a new downtown building … Well, that is a different story altogether.”
Ilona reached for his hand. She understood, and she loved him for it. His passions, like hers, remained in the city, in downtown. Houston’s expansion tempted neither of them; their desire rested in playing an intimate role in the changing skyline. The M&M, now so fallen from grace with a smattering of occupants, no longer held clout. Building something substantial would strengthen the Doyle name.
Callista screamed as a ladybug landed on her shoulder. She galloped in circles to prompt it to fly away, much to Cadmus’ delight.
“Ladybugs are our friends,” Ilona soothed, walking over to the children. “Did you know they help our garden?”
“How?” Callista cried, her neck tilted as far from her outstretched left arm as possible.
“They eat other bugs that hurt our plants,” Ilona explained as she gently tapped the ladybug to flight.
“Ewww!” Callista shrieked, running back to the porch with Cadmus trotting behind her.
As she turned back toward Patrick, who was still seated at the bench, Ilona saw his face downcast, staring at the brick sidewalk. She could not help but wonder if he was vexed over the proposal or over something to do with the mysterious Maureen.
“It will be a great venture,” she replied, looking down at him and grabbing his hand for a squeeze. She winked and turned back toward the house.
“Where are you going?” Patrick called.
“To make an appointment at the salon for Saturday afternoon. I can’t grace the Empire Room without help from Vivian,” Ilona replied.
She had only seen Maureen a handful of times since the day she had first met her at the Crystal Ballroom shortly after their engagement, the last time being in the lobby of the Esperson. Ilona had entered the building to find Patrick talking with Maureen and her husband, Gavin. “You remember Gavin Sullivan, Darling, of Sullivan Glass? The Doyles and Sullivans are building this city!” Patrick reminded her. And although Patrick and Gavin did all the talking, she could not help but notice how Maureen’s gaze rested on Patrick’s lips every time her gaze shifted his way in the exchange between the two gentlemen.
Ilona’s attempts to engage Maureen in side chat were futile. Maureen neglected to offer Ilona even a cursory glance, not even a speck of acknowledgment that could offer a bridge for conversation. The only acknowledgment came at the end of the exchange. Maureen could no longer avoid Ilona’s eyes when Gavin suggested that his wife invite Ilona to the upcoming tea she planned to host for the Irish Women’s Group. The women’s eyes locked, Ilona noting Maureen’s overly arched eyebrows and her nostrils taking in more air than normal.
“Of course, I’ll call you next week,” Maureen coolly replied with a forced smile.
“Well, it’s all set! The Irish Women’s Group will welcome its first non-Irish member!” Gavin declared.
Maureen and Ilona held one another’s gaze for a second longer, confirming Ilona’s suspicions that she had a rival. On the occasions when Ilona saw Maureen, all made up and naturally red hair dyed an even more vibrant shade with loose curls cascading down her shoulders, Maureen looked as if she were out on a night on the town rather than visiting an office building. She was a beautiful woman, quite striking from a distance. Yet when she got closer to her, Ilona could see that Maureen was trying very hard, assuming a false confidence with the layers of makeup and heavy fragrance.
Aside from the Milby blondes, Ilona had a remarkable ability to connect with everyone, from elderly Czech diners to high society friends to the men in the lumberyard. Maureen, however, remained elusive, reminding Ilona of her high school days from so long ago.
Maureen never called about the tea, which brought Ilona relief. Maureen seemed a little too interested in Patrick.
“TELL ME MORE ABOUT MAUREEN Sullivan.”
Ilona’s question was met with silence, prompting her to wonder whether Margaret had heard her from across the aisle. She walked over to see her friend studying crystal champagne flutes with narrowed eyes.
“Do you think the blue is tacky?” Margaret asked, with her head cocked to the side.
“No, not at all. It’s a light hue. Delicate.”
“I’ll take twelve,” Margaret said, looking over at the saleslady. “I’ll also need them gift wrapped. Wedding gift.”
The saleslady smiled before heading to the stockroom, Margaret’s eyes remaining fixed on the crystal display.
“Margaret, tell me more about …” Ilona attempted again.
“I heard you the first time,” she snapped.
“We had dinner with Gavin and Maureen last Saturday night at the Empire Room.”
Margaret turned to face Ilona, an uncharacteristically serious look on her face.
“Why?”
“Patrick and Gavin are pooling their resources together for a new venture.”
The saleslady returned for Margaret’s signature before taking the flutes to the gift-wrapping station.
“Margaret?” Ilona said, growing impatient with her friend’s reticence.
“Before he met you, Patrick was involved with Maureen.”
“You mean they dated?”
“No, I certainly wouldn’t call it that.”
Ilona felt sickened, thinking of how experienced Patrick had been when they were first together.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? We talked about her when I planned that tea,” Ilona questioned, puzzled over the omission.
“Ilona, it was a long time ago. There was no reason to share something like that seeing that you had just married.”
“She still has feelings for him. It is written all over her face.”
“I am sure she does. But those feelings were never returned.”
“Well, he had something,” Ilona replied.
“All men do, my dear. Don’t confuse that with love.”
“Does Gavin know?”
“I imagine not, considering the venture. You know, Gavin only came to Houston after his cousin started Sullivan Glass. He was not aroun
d here at the time. And I do believe that Maureen threw herself at Gavin in the hopes of making Patrick jealous of the new man in town. She got herself so damned wrapped up with Gavin, fawning all over him at events. I don’t think she ever thought she’d marry him, but what else could she do when she found herself in a delicate condition. Supposedly, she miscarried after they married.”
“It makes me feel sorry for Gavin,” Ilona murmured, struggling to absorb the details. “And still no children?”
“Well, either she can’t have them or doesn’t want them, and I do think it could very well be the latter. She has not been faithful to her husband.”
“Then she would cheat with mine if given the opportunity.”
“Ilona, I’ve known Patrick for a very, very long time. Yes, he once lived a colorful life, but now …” Margaret said, reaching for her hand, “he loves you.”
“They are joining forces for a new building,” Ilona offered. “It’s Patrick’s dream.”
“Hmmm … and the money from Gavin’s end is Maureen’s money. Her father died several months ago. Gavin has more than a few dollars of his own, but it’s not enough to pool together with Patrick on a project of this scale.”
“And Patrick knows it’s her money?” Ilona asked, her naïveté brought to life at hearing her words aloud.
“It’s not about her. It’s about finding a way to his dream,” Margaret replied. “That said, you just need to know that she will find a way to make it about herself. Be careful, Ilona.”
That night, Patrick did not arrive home until half past one in the morning, with the sour stench of alcohol on his breath. He slept late, waking once to ask Ilona to bring him aspirin. When she heard the running water from the bath later in the morning, she asked Dear Ernestine to take the children for a walk along The Boulevard, her stomach aflutter over how to best approach the subject of Maureen.
“Feeling better?” Ilona asked as Patrick entered the dining room, and she poured him a cup of coffee.
Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Page 10