Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  “Ilona, darling! It’s about damn time you arrived.”

  Ilona turned to see Margaret heading toward her. She appreciated Margaret’s brashness, the way she commanded a room. She encouraged Ilona to come out of her shell just as Ilona cautioned her to be more judicious, jokingly suggesting, “Say only every third thing that pops into your mind.” This phrase became their signature line with Margaret playfully announcing from time to time, “I’m letting thought number one pass. Oh, that was a good one. Aren’t you a little bit sad to miss it?”

  “Patrick, I see you are as dapper as ever. Now run along with the boys in the library so us ladies can enjoy a little sport of our own.”

  “Always a pleasure to see you, Margaret,” Patrick playfully retorted as he kissed Ilona on the cheek. “Don’t have too much fun without us.”

  Ilona held her grip on his hand as he turned to walk toward the library, causing Patrick to stumble.

  “I’ll not be far away, my love,” Patrick whispered in Ilona’s ear as he walked to the west side of the house.

  The confidence summoned by the champagne slowly dissipated in Patrick’s absence. The discussion turned from food to families to fashion, with Margaret throwing the occasional barb. They talked about the continued development of River Oaks and what was happening on the west side of town. Ilona’s inquiries about the river garnered a few laughs.

  “What is the difference between a bayou and a river, anyway? It’s the South’s goddamn way of reminding us how time barely moves in good ole Texas, that’s what. Even the water is a goddamn dolt!”

  Noticing the wary eyes of the new acquaintances, Margaret self-deprecatingly continued, “My family’s biggest regret is that their privilege begets an unyielding confidence that challenges the traditional definition of a well-bred woman.”

  While she was aware that Margaret unapologetically narrated for effect, Ilona knew her well enough to recognize that alcohol oiled Margaret’s speech. She took the opportunity of the pause to excuse herself to the powder room, making her way from the garden back into the house, smiling and nodding as she brushed past the guests. An embrace here, a kiss to the cheek there, her gaze darted around the rooms, looking for a head of bright red curls.

  The nocturnal version of the Miller home, seared in a crapulous haze, bore little resemblance to the gracefulness Ilona experienced at their twilight arrival. Booze permeated the air, painting a glaze over many an eye. Ilona realized most of the men, the inner circle rather, remained tucked in the library. Cigar smoke seeped from under the library doors into the other rooms of the house, giving form to the simmering energy of aggression that seemed to fill the air. Noticing that the downstairs powder room was occupied, she made her way up the curved staircase, head held high and shoulders back. Several women dotted the stairs and second floor—a trip to the other powder room serving as a guise to catch a glimpse of the Millers’ more private quarters. Perhaps Maureen was among the gossiping pockets of women.

  The tranquility of the upstairs gave Ilona a well-needed break. She released her neck and cast her face downward; her tension slowly peeling away with each deep breath. By her estimates, it must be approaching midnight, and she had yet to see the Sullivans. It then occurred to her that perhaps, just perhaps, the episode at the salon had humbled Maureen into staying away from the party. While it would be unusual for her to skip out on an opportunity to outshine other women, perhaps she also knew that it would be a dreadful mistake to make a misstep with Patrick at an event of this caliber.

  The half-moon met Ilona’s gaze as she raised her head. It looked like a coin slitting into the dark violet sky. The soft moonlight revealed a faint, feathered imprint on the window. Wondering if the bird had survived its encounter with the glass, Ilona smiled at how the mind, from moment to moment, could string one subject to the next.

  She looked in the mirror before reaching into her clutch for lipstick, stopping the touch-up midair when Margaret barreled into the powder room.

  “Good Lord in Heaven, Margaret! My heart just about stopped!” Ilona shrieked.

  She felt a sinking sensation as she looked at Margaret reflected in the mirror. Her furrowed brow, the steely look in her blue eyes; Ilona could not bear to turn around and face her directly. The mirror provided detachment.

  “Ilona, it’s … it’s …” Margaret stumbled. She was unaccustomed to seeing her friend struggle for words. Ilona’s nose began to sting, not over her assumption that it had to do with Patrick but over the heartfelt love that radiated from her friend.

  “Please, Margaret. Please. Say it,” Ilona stated with such a forthright tone that even she was somewhat surprised.

  “Maureen is in the library. Patrick is, too. They … she …”

  Ilona nodded once as she returned the lipstick to her clutch. She took a long breath and looked again at the feathered imprint before returning her gaze to her own reflection in the mirror. Her mind turned to Callista and Cadmus sleeping soundly in their beds where the same moon was casting its glow over the rose garden and through their bedroom windows. She could not control her husband’s behavior, but she could control her response, and for once, she was determined to stand up for herself. And knowing that all eyes would be on her, she reached down deep, once more, for her final trace of resolve to close this unbelievably taxing day.

  Ilona made her way down the stairs with a strong, determined gait. It was as if Margaret’s grit and impertinence moved to another energy source more like its own. The role reversal fueled Ilona’s confidence as she made her way to the west side of the house. The other ladies realized that some sort of story was unfolding, and they quickly followed, their lips pursing with eagerness at the turn of events.

  The right library door remained closed, but the left one was ajar, revealing the backs of several men turned toward the bookcases with cigar smoke snaking around their heads. Ilona walked to the entrance and placed her palm on the engraved paneling that marked the left door. As she gently pushed it open, she saw the object of the men’s attention: Maureen, along with another woman, wearing a shockingly form fitting Kelly green gown, sitting atop a table, cigars in hand. It was abundantly clear they were all quite inebriated, and fits of laughter punctuated Patrick’s regalement of one of his usual tales. Maureen was the first to notice Ilona’s arrival. With a smug smile, she hopped down from the table and made her way over to Patrick, who was turned away talking to another group of men. Although it was jarring to see them in the same room in that condition, Ilona initially wondered why the scene was such a big deal, seeing that they were in different circles.

  Maureen smiled at Ilona before running her bright red fingernails through Patrick’s hair and down his cheek as she bit her lip in a drunken grin. Ilona’s heart sank at Patrick’s response: He looked back to see who was touching him and then nodded at her with a casual smile and wink before returning to his conversation, as if Maureen’s behavior was something to which he was accustomed.

  The scene’s bold colors were striking—black jacket, green dress, and bright red hair and nails among the neutral hues of the library. It was mesmerizing, such unabashed illicitness on display. She cursed herself for flirting with the notion that Maureen had shied away from the party because of her. Patrick had not left the library since their arrival, and by the looks of it, the other occupants shared his tenure. They had been drinking for hours.

  Ilona was only there for a minute more before one of Patrick’s colleagues caught a glimpse of her as he gave his scotch a swirl. Eyes widening, she saw him cross over to Patrick, his back shielding the couple from view. When he stepped back, Ilona and Patrick’s eyes met. The room fell silent, which Ilona found impressive given their state. Maureen stood behind Ilona’s husband, drunk and smiling in victory.

  “Ilona! No, Ilona! Wait!” Patrick shouted as she turned toward the front door. She was not more than a few steps away before Gavin Sullivan stormed down the hall toward the library, his face contorted in anger and ruddy from t
he night’s revelries.

  “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch!” Gavin shouted as he violently shrugged off the other men who attempted to stop him. He made it into the library, heading straight to Patrick with a raised fist in the air. With one hand on the front doorknob, Ilona turned back to see Patrick reach his right arm out to her as he screamed her name once again. He appeared sober for a moment, the moment he realized his two worlds had collided. She turned away and stormed out the front door down the sidewalk, the muffled noises of shattered glass and fists sounding from within the Millers’ home.

  Coleman brought the car around, and to his credit, he read her face well and did not ask about her husband. As Coleman pulled away, she looked once more at the Miller home; lights streamed from every window, illuminating the block. It was a new feeling, taking control and taking decisive action. Coleman turned left onto Sunset and then left again to head home.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Coleman offered. At first, she thought his apologies stemmed from the events that had transpired at the Millers’, but with the comment, “Give me a second to head back to the main way,” she realized his comment was related to his failure to yield in the roundabout. The car drove around the Sam Houston monument, and Ilona looked out at the reflection pool and moonlight glittering on the surface of the water. It was the same light she had noticed in the Millers’ powder room, the same glow she had imagined washing the roof above her children’s heads as they slept. She thought that would make a good story, following a few beams of light to the earth, detailing each distinct ray’s focus, zeroing in on the different stories life begets, all happening concurrently.

  As the car returned to its place on the main road, it crossed her mind to ask Coleman to circle back to the Millers’. Patrick screaming her name reverberated through her mind. She had never heard him yell as he had in that moment.

  She firmly shook her head. No, she could not return to the home where he had so terribly disgraced her and their family. She felt like a fool, having doubted herself for her speculations and honestly believing but a few hours ago that they could have worked through the affair. And perhaps they could have had it remained a private matter, but how could they possibly move forward from this turn of events? A brawl at Shadyside? She closed her eyes in humiliation, but with the physical pain she felt in her heart, her tears started. She loved him.

  SHE MISSED THE WAY HE woke her up during the night, placing his hand on the small of her back before slipping it under her ivory silk gown. Her propensity for whites, for beiges, and all-buttery colors appealed to him. It was elegant, seemingly predictable, but her spontaneity never disappointed, which was a secret that only he knew.

  Ilona believed that Patrick continued to visit her right after his death. She lay in bed every day, weeping and half awake, screaming for Dear Ernestine to “let down the drapes for Christ’s sake!” With nightfall, she bathed and adorned herself in creams before slipping into a new nightgown delivered from Sakowitz Brothers, much to the puzzlement of Margaret, now a temporary fixture in the home. Well after the children were fast asleep, Ilona would lie in bed waiting for him, for his touch on her back, signaling he was ready to be with her again, as the warm tears contoured her cheeks.

  She cherished those nights when she left the windows and drapes open, with humidity rustling through the pecan tree and carrying scents of roses into their bedroom. And then he would come, Patrick’s soul was with her; she knew it without a doubt. Lulled into fantasy and sleep, she awoke the next morning with Dear Ernestine letting down the drapes, shaking out her covers, and bringing her morning tea. Twelve hours until their next encounter.

  The month after Patrick’s death followed the same pattern, broken only when she was called to the Esperson for a reading of his will. She refused to get out of bed, but Dear Ernestine urged, “Love, for the children. Please, please, let’s get ready for this day. Callie and Caddie need you!”

  Ilona had not seen the children in days. She vaguely recalled Cadmus napping next to her, absentmindedly running her hand through his hair, but it could have very well been a dream. She sat in the library sipping tea from the Doyle family china that had a dainty green vine circling the rim. Making her way to the rose garden in her robe, she slowly walked down the brick sidewalks that circled the grounds, taking intentional, careful steps. She made it to the far end of the yard and sat on the stone bench and remembered the first time he had told her he loved her, the first time she had been kissed. It was still unfathomable that he had been carrying on with Maureen, yet she cried because of the guilt she felt for having left him. She did not know whether she would ever forgive herself for causing his death. She knew he loved her, that she was the one, and she betrayed him by leaving him at Shadyside.

  She faced the north side of the home, noting the library’s bay window, where she often sat. Her eyes looked up to the second floor, where she saw Callista staring down at her from her bedroom window, with her hand pressed against the glass. She knew she had to find strength for the sake of her children, but she was at a loss on where to start.

  “ILONA, YOU ARE NOT WELL enough to do this by yourself! Please let me go with you,” Margaret pleaded when she learned that Coleman would drive Ilona downtown alone.

  Ilona dismissed her friend’s offer, optimistic that Patrick would join her on the drive as he did during the night. Shaking her head, Ilona knew she would not be alone.

  After Dear Ernestine eased her into a warm bath, she laid out an elegant black dress along with Mrs. Doyle’s pearl and diamond earrings. Looking back, Ilona knew it was Dear Ernestine’s attempt to help her feel confident and powerful, as she suspected Michael sensed an opportunity now that the cards were stacked in his favor.

  She stepped out onto 808 Travis, staring at the ornate doors and running her gaze all the way up the thirty-two floors of the skyscraper. She was alone, with not even the faintest detection of Patrick’s spirit. Breaking her concentration, the doorman to the building tipped his hat, saying, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Doyle. Please accept my heartfelt condolences on your loss.”

  Ilona offered an obligatory nod of appreciation as she entered the foyer. She corrected his instruction to the elevator operator, “No, I must stop on floor sixteen before heading to twenty-six, thank you, kindly.”

  Walking down the corridor of floor sixteen, she slowly and deliberately placed each step in the hope Patrick would catch up to her. She stopped at Suite 1615, closing her eyes as she turned to face the engraved brass business plaque: Doyle Lumber & Construction. Removing her glove, she raised her right index finger to trace the lettering, whispering, “I am so very sorry I left you that night. Please come back to me. Please, please, my love.”

  She stood there for quite some time, and a security guard stopped to offer, “Doyle Offices are temporarily closed, ma’am. May I be of assistance?”

  “No. I’m on my way to floor twenty-six. Law Offices of Lehane and MacDougall, please.”

  Ilona had been to Lehane and MacDougall on several occasions, from the writing of their wills to celebrations of business ventures, but this visit would not end with a drink atop the building.

  She could hear the laughter from Mr. Lehane’s office as she stepped from the elevator. She surmised Mr. Lehane must not be in there, and it seemed Michael was most certainly running late.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Doyle,” the receptionist warmly greeted as she rose to embrace Ilona. “Please accept my sympathies. Mr. Doyle was such a kind, jovial man. He is missed in the building.”

  There was another burst of laughter with a vehement roar, “Exactly!” followed by a series of utterings Ilona could not quite decipher. The receptionist, discomfort creeping into her face, stammered, “Please allow me to show you to the library. May I bring you a cup of tea?” She had taken several steps past the staircase and into the library before she realized that instead of following her, Ilona had turned right in the foyer and was opening the door to Mr. Lehane’s office.

 
; Mr. Lehane, along with Michael and another man, stood near the bookcase, scotch-laced tongues wagging as if they were discussing a new venture, which she was beginning to realize they were.

  “My dear, Ilona, please pardon our most vulgar indiscretion,” Mr. Lehane calmly asserted as he noticed her in the doorway, not meaning to slam his highball as hard as he did onto one of the shelves. The unknown gentlemen looked down and then out the window, uneasy at the quick turn of events. As the man placed his glass on the desk, she noticed he wore a gold ring with a malachite stone. She was not accustomed to a man wearing such garish jewelry.

  Michael, the only one who continued to hold his drink, walked over to his sister-in-law, offering a half hug, the only option one free hand allowed. His gaze focused on her ear after he kissed her cheek. It took a moment before she realized that he was staring at his mother’s diamond and pearl earring, nestled gently on her lobe.

  “May we get something for you, dear? Tea, coffee?” Mr. Lehane offered as Ilona shook her head just as Michael closed the door to the office. “Well, I suppose it is time to finalize Patrick’s estate.”

  Michael placed his scotch on the table and helped Ilona into her seat. She closed her eyes, attempting to settle her thoughts. She presumed this piece was a formality, understanding that the inheritance was for her, Callista, and Cadmus. The Doyle House would remain with the three of them with appropriate funds for Ilona and the children. Callista and Cadmus would inherit their father’s half of the business, with Cadmus stipulated to take the helm in his father’s place when he became of age.