“Starting to,” Patrick said, his eyes swiftly turning away from her and to his coffee cup. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she said, placing her hands on his arms, attempting to get him to raise his eyes to hers to see whether his apologies extended beyond his delay in arriving home.
“I am late to a morning meeting. I’ll be home for supper tonight. I promise,” he said, placing the cup on the dining table.
He planted a heavy kiss on her forehead before heading out the back door, her concerns over the previous night exponentially increasing with his abrupt departure.
Ilona thought back to the day she had met Patrick, his spirit drawing her in like a magnet. The spirit that made him a successful businessman also made him appealing to women—appealing to Maureen.
Thankful for the Holy Family Women’s Group luncheon she was hosting later that afternoon, she retreated to the library to review her agenda item on bazaar booths, which included her report on the profits from the doll booth she chaired last month. Based on the participation, it looked like she scored a winner of an idea.
She headed to the garden with a basket and a pair of sheers to cut fresh roses for the table, saying her morning prayers for her husband and their family and counting down the hours until he would come home.
Patrick arrived home in time for supper, his eyes bright and fully recovered from the previous night.
“Cadmus Doyle! Now pay close attention, son!” Patrick commanded in a playful tone while Ilona and the children waited in excited anticipation.
Callista squealed with delight when Patrick handed her a bouquet of pink carnations with baby’s breath after presenting Ilona with her own enormous bouquet of irises.
“Ladies love flowers, Cadmus. You should always find ways to surprise the ladies in your life!”
Cadmus smiled and nodded, taking in the scene. Patrick knelt beside his son and asked, “Guess which hand?”
Cadmus studied his father’s left side and then his right; both of his father’s arms were tucked behind his back. He tapped the left one, to which Patrick cheered, “Correct, indeed!” before handing him a bag of brightly colored licorice.
While elated over Patrick’s mood, Ilona knew his zeal was rather exceptional, even for him. She accepted his actions as an apology, noting the remorse in his eyes as she looked up and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.
ILONA
Winter 1941
THE EXCITEMENT OVER THE INVITATION to William Miller’s party at his Shadyside home was tempered by Ilona’s realization that the Sullivans would undoubtedly be in attendance. She found an exquisite gown at Sakowitz Brothers, a traditional cut that was attentively tailored, one that accentuated her figure in such a way that she no longer resembled a mother of two children. She had never seen sequins that tiny, and the way they were delicately layered over every inch of the material reminded her of moonlight cast on the ocean. For once, she knew she looked beautiful, and she knew it would be an enchanted evening, one in which her presence would declare that she was, indeed, Mrs. Patrick Doyle. The diamond bracelet Patrick surprised her with at Christmas, the one he claimed “would even blow my mother away,” would be a fitting accessory. Its extravagance, an indulgence from the predicted profits with Gavin, along with his unusually wistful tone as he made the comment, gave her room for pause. The bracelet came with an additional price.
Thoughts of Maureen continued to haunt her, and Ilona cursed herself for her inability to address the matter with Patrick, her incapacitation stemming from fear of knowing more; turning thoughts into words made abstractions a reality. Silence was a preferred option, for with it came an ignorance that left her with the hope that her marriage was immune from an affair.
Ilona weighed the balance of evidence, taking solace that there was no smoking gun pointing to an indiscretion. Patrick demurred from her most recent intimate advances, but he assured her it was due to stress from work, as every waking hour at work was spent on the proposal. He had no energy for anything else.
She recalled Michael’s visit earlier in the week. He had stopped to deliver papers that Patrick needed to review before the next morning. She stood in the hallway, eavesdropping on their conversation in the library, wondering what Michael meant by his comment, “Enjoying the supplemental benefit from working with the Sullivans, aren’t you?” Given his tone and Patrick’s response to “fuck off,” Ilona knew it was a jab, but she convinced herself there was still no proof. She began to will the proposal to fail, although losing the bid for the new building would be Patrick’s first real failure as a businessman.
More and more late nights spent at work and at business dinners left her paranoid. She was filled with questions, wondering if he was with Maureen. The week prior, he had arrived home in the early hours of the morning, the latest he had ever come home. Her fears as to his whereabouts were put at ease a few days later when she ran into William Miller at Kaplan’s, when William thanked her for lending her husband to their planning meeting at his home. Despite the significant consumption of scotch and cigars, the night was a “roaring success thanks in no small part to Patrick’s ingenious ideas.” Patrick was where he said he was, and she felt guilty for having doubted him.
The conversation with William Miller fed her hope, and she headed to the hair salon the day of the party on a high that her fears were unfounded. She eagerly entered the salon with eyes searching for Vivian. She had a few ideas in mind, and she even brought the dress to show how the neckline generously swept a tad below her shoulder, a bold fashion choice given her normal wardrobe selections.
As she scanned the salon, her gaze caught on the back of a red head, with curls flowing down as the stylist gave the do a final spray. Ilona heard Maureen say Patrick’s name followed by a few disjointed fragments about something being unfair and about them falling in love with one another, cackling loudly with a remark about marriage. For a moment, Ilona was unable to move, unable to hear the salon receptionist beckoning her to the check-in. And she had always thought the idea of paralysis in the face of adversity was hyperbole.
With the third calling of, “Mrs. Doyle?” she gathered her resolve. Summoning every morsel of courage, she took thoughtful, intentional steps toward Maureen. She was Mrs. Doyle, wife of Patrick and mother of Callista and Cadmus. Maureen met Ilona’s eyes in the mirror, prompting her to cut off her thread of conversation mid sentence. The stylist looked up to see the reason for the pause. Her eyes widened and then darted back toward Maureen’s curls, as she nervously nibbled her lower lip while applying more layers of hair spray.
“Good afternoon, Maureen,” Ilona stated, her natural dulcet tone marking yet another contrast between Ilona and her loud-mouthed rival. Ilona was moments from another comment, although she did not quite yet know what it would be. Maureen, however, did not give the conversation a chance to continue, as she abruptly waved the aerosol from her face while feigning a coughing fit. She waved goodbye to her stylist and Ilona before heading out the door, the stylist offering an awkward smile to Ilona, confirming her complicity.
Oddly enough, a sense of empowerment overtook her, a welcome surprise to befriend her sorrow. The events further supported that her fear was a reality, and yet she found solace that she possessed power over Maureen, something she had not realized. Patrick often told her he was the lucky one, to have found someone as enchanting as her, a woman both beautiful and intelligent. He sometimes offered these compliments in a jovial, self-deprecating manner in the company of friends, but he also asserted his love, eyes closed and with unquestionable solemnity, on countless occasions. It crossed her mind that his transgressions may have been the impetus for his affirmations, and although he was a charmer, she did not doubt Patrick’s sincerity when he professed these feelings. They shared a rare intimacy—at least they had at one time. The best answer she could hope for was that he had succumbed to Maureen’s wiles while drunk, nothing more.
Vivian approached her from behind with a half embrace, t
he intensity of her expression and squeeze of her arm indicating that she knew what transpired. Ilona nonchalantly put the dress away, understanding the importance of establishing a sense of normalcy. The customer’s stares darting from underneath hair dryers and curlers returned to their normal gaze—to cups of tea and then to their own reflections in the mirror, their eyes serving as a humble reminder that they, too, were not immune from suffering, odors of ammonia and burnt hair revealing the vulnerability ladies attempt to hide with perfectly coiffed hair and couture. Now it was Ilona’s turn to create the façade, as she sat in the salon chair and willed herself to remain composed, with her head held high and her shoulders back.
ILONA RETURNED HOME FROM THE salon to find Dear Ernestine preparing supper for the children, the aromas of pot roast and potatoes welcoming her at the door. She stood still in the hallway and wondered how she had gotten to where she was, an ordinary Greek girl as the lady of The Doyle House. She looked at the Persian rug resting below her feet and the teacups from Ireland on display in the sitting room. She knew she needed to start getting dressed; the late afternoon sun was shining through the stained-glass octagon, fragments of light oscillating on the wooden floor.
She took a few steps toward the library, the sanctuary she and Patrick had once shared. Her grandmother’s antique doll “from the old country,” stood upright in the bookcase, beckoning her forward as she entered the room. Ilona ran her hand along the spines, books of poetry and art slowly filling up the bookcases, each additional tome gradually displacing another Doyle family porcelain figurine to the sitting room. The north library window faced the garden, and she smiled as she saw the rosebushes gently swaying in the breeze. The Doyles may have planted the rosebushes, but it was Ilona who had nurtured them to be as luscious and bountiful as they became in 1941. She wished she could take a stroll around the garden, but even her heartbreak was not enough to shake her vanity. The weather would certainly ruin her hair, and she was not about to arrive at Shadyside looking a fright. She sat on the sofa, recalling the nights she and Patrick had spent there when they dated, with Patrick’s hands caressing her body and Dear Ernestine ensconced in her garage apartment.
Clunky steps down the stairs broke her reverie; then a pause was soon followed by “Mommy! You’re home!” Callista barreled down the remaining stairs, swinging along the bannister to catapult herself into the library. “Your hair is gorgeous! Isn’t it time for you to get ready? Can I help you? Can I pick out your jewelry?”
Ilona knelt and embraced her daughter for a second or two longer to blink back the tears. She opened her eyes only to meet those of Cadmus, who was kneeling on the third to the last step and peering at her through the railings. Cadmus was a gentle one, “a keen observer,” she always told him. She was exposed.
The kitchen door swung open, sounding throughout the house. Patrick kissed her hand when he entered the library before heading to the liquor cabinet for a whiskey. Ilona knew the moment was ill timed for a confrontation, but the event at the salon signaled to her that she could no longer look the other way and hope for the best. She would do so on Sunday, fully knowing that Saturday would be spent nursing tonight’s indulgences. If history was any indicator, the day after the hangover was best suited for discussion. The major aches having subsided, Patrick would assume more humility, more vulnerability. This was her best chance for resolution.
ILONA APPRECIATED HER EVENING COUNTENANCE, her face numbed after a hearty cry. It provided a shield to face whatever else might follow, and whatever would follow at the party would be weak in comparison to what she had planned for Sunday. She felt foolish, the way she entered the salon with the gown in tow, beaming about the night ahead, her tendency for reticence and reflectivity cast aside. She suffered a stinging reminder that she could not get away with acting boldly, with overt confidence. It did not suit Ilona as it did some women—as it did Maureen.
As Coleman shut the car door and made his way around to the driver’s side, Patrick reached over to caress her hand. Although the scent of whiskey filled the air, she did not doubt his sincerity when he whispered, “You are a beautiful one, my dearest Ilona.” The back of his fingers stroked her right cheek, and he told her, again, how much he loved her. He felt guilty. Blinking to mask her tears, she turned to look out the window as the car headed south down The Boulevard.
Patrick was the only person she knew who liked to regale drivers with tales rather than enjoy the comfort and luxury of a peaceful ride. “Can you believe they had the audacity to protest our rates? After everything they pulled along the way?”
Coleman smiled, chuckling and shaking his head, “Man, oh, man … hmmm … hmm … hmmm.”
“I know! Unbelievable.” Patrick smiled and said, “There is a lot of opportunity in Houston, Coleman, lots of opportunity, and with opportunity comes people who will take advantage and rob you blind.”
Her heart began to race as the car neared Shadyside. Maureen’s arched eyebrows flashed through her mind—the right brow lifting upward in an exaggerated gesture, sending the message that yes, she has had Patrick.
Ilona found it frustrating that even her own fantasies taunted her. She could not lose her stoic countenance; her earlier cry had cost her too much. She fixated on the address of the corner house at the intersection, 219. She noted the curves of the 2 and the 9, proportioned nicely between the simplicity of the 1, anything to distract herself from the welling emotions that threatened to break through the pristine package she had diligently worked to assemble.
As the car made its final turn onto Longfellow, the illuminated windows of the Miller’s Georgian-style house came into view, a view that was in stark contrast to the cozy familiarity of their own Victorian home in The Heights.
Coleman drove the car into queue with the others, the sound of seashells cracking as the tires rolled along the driveway next to the newly planted trees. Ilona watched the ladies being escorted from their cars and elegantly strolling the long sidewalk leading to the front door. Patrick squeezed her hand, distracting her from the societal parade, and as she met his eyes, she remembered the day she met him in the arcade of the M&M. She had known then that he was not like any other man she had ever met. His eyes sparkled, illuminated from the sun that glinted from his gold-rimmed eyeglasses. The smile in his eyes that evening let her know that he wanted so much to be the man he was not, the man he knew he could never fully be.
In that moment, she saw his purity, his soul, his zest for life that was all too suddenly clouded by the covetous desire that settles over so many men. She asked herself if she could reconcile the two, knowing she had a remarkable man haunted by other desires. Her thoughts turned to Callista. Is this what she would want for her daughter? And Cadmus. Would he be a faithful husband? She struggled to picture him married, but then, he was only five.
Warm air enveloped her as she stepped from the car. The February breeze did not offer much of a respite, and the Houstonians remained on the lookout for winter. Patrick patted his tousled hair and wrapped his arm around her as they made their way to the entrance. Their grounds paled in comparison to the Millers’, as the sidewalk was flanked by over an acre of perfectly manicured grass. It looked as if the Millers had draped green carpet over their yard.
From the corner of her eye, she saw their car pull away. She briefly entertained the thought of beckoning Coleman back to take them home. She questioned why she had to wear a brave face and conceal the truth. She longed to wrap her arms around Patrick and take them back to the times they had been at ease, enjoying cocktails in the lounge of the M&M, fully enraptured with plans for their up-and-coming cosmopolitan life. Sunday, she reminded herself. She would engage in an honest conversation with Patrick on Sunday.
The front door gave way to the sound of “One Dozen Roses,” the jazz quartet’s station in the back gardens not interfering with the beautiful music making its way through the home. Ilona was taken aback by the scores of people in the house sipping champagne and engaged in livel
y conversation. She knew the party would be the biggest event of the season, but the sheer beauty of the people, the flowers, and the candlelight took her by surprise. She accepted a glass of champagne from the butler, taking in a sizeable sip to soothe her nerves.
She cast glances around the room, looking for signs of Maureen. After scanning the house for a minute, Ilona remembered to still her mind. She wanted to exude confidence, which would be difficult to do with nervous glances. After closing her eyes for a few seconds, she reacquainted herself with the room, facing forward in the receiving line.
“Patrick! We are thrilled you and Ilona could join us this evening,” Mr. Miller greeted. Mrs. Miller embraced Ilona with an extra squeeze, echoing her husband’s sentiments. They were only a few years older than the Doyles, but their opulence graced them with an aura of wisdom and sophistication.
The champagne began to warm Ilona’s insides as they made their way into the east room. She looked down at her glass, which, to her surprise, was nearly empty. Patrick swooped another two glasses from a server, offering Ilona a wink of approval. She could not help but giggle as her chin began to tingle, and droplets of champagne fell from her lips onto her chest. Ilona could count on one hand how many times she had been drunk, and those times were all with Patrick. She once heard that Maureen enjoyed a good scotch. Perhaps loosening up a bit more was something Ilona could work toward.
For an average girl, she had transitioned very easily into her role as matriarch of The Doyle House. Her reticence and tendency for introspection suggested a regal appearance that at times masked her insecurities. Patrick certainly had his faults, but there were areas where Ilona could improve, as well. She could strengthen her sense of self, become more assertive in her feelings and opinions.
Smiling, Patrick brushed the drops of champagne off her chest. Ilona wrapped her free arm around his waist, pulling him closer. She wanted to be at his side tonight, not as a fixture but as a confident, engaging participant. She wanted him to remember how wonderful she was, how wonderful she could be, to look at her as an active choice rather than as a shackle. She looked at his lips with a sultry smile, the champagne affording her confidence. Patrick reciprocated her mood and locked his gaze with hers. They still had it. It could be rebuilt. Sunday.
Drops of Cerulean: A Novel Page 11