Drops of Cerulean: A Novel

by Dawn Adams Cole

  Mr. Lehane placed a leather-bound folder in front of Ilona before disseminating copies to the others seated at the table. She wondered about the man with the ring, but she did not have the energy to ask. She closed her eyes for a few moments to still her mind only to rejoin the group with Mr. Lehane staring intently at her. He opened his leather-bound folder and began the reading of the will.

  Her eyes followed the text while her mind and heart searched for Patrick’s spirit. Surely he would not leave her now. She longed for nightfall, to be curled in her bed waiting for his visit.

  “I hereby do bequeath to Callista Aislinn Doyle and Cadmus Aleksander Doyle …”

  Hearing the sterile reading of her children’s full names reminded her that there should have been one more name read, the middle child she miscarried. Early in the pregnancy, she had not favored an announcement, but Patrick, with his usual zest, had beamed with pride that he would soon become a father again.

  “Please, darling, please, let us tell Michael and Sybil. My legacy, our legacy!” After much hesitation, she acquiesced, allowing Patrick to share the news with his brother’s family at Easter brunch at The Doyle House. He offered a most beautiful toast to Ilona and his unborn child, weaving in Michael’s family and Callista, “to the next generation of Doyles!” Consumed by his own joy, Patrick failed to note the feigned felicitations of his brother, wary for his own children’s interests, especially considering his infant twin sons.

  Not more than a week later, Ilona had awoken to a scarlet-stained bed, her stomach warm and cramping from the passing of a soul. She had feared, perhaps, that God was punishing her for having been intimate before her marriage. On more than one occasion before they wed, she stayed up all night, praying for her period and waves of cramps, lest she be rejected even further by her family with a child out of wedlock. Three. There should have been three. Her mind wondered if Patrick had now met their baby, the soul of a boy or girl.

  “Patrick’s last will and testament is very clear, Ilona. Michael, however, wishes to offer a counter proposal in the settlement of his late brother’s estate.”

  Ilona’s eyes widened, suddenly turning her head to Michael, who then looked to Mr. Lehane nervously, as if needing reassurance. Mr. Lehane must have given him just what he needed in that look, for when he returned his gaze to Ilona, his eyes had resolve.

  “I want to buy your share of the business.”

  “It is not mine to sell, Michael. It belongs to the children.”

  “The children? No, Ilona. It is yours until they are of age. You are welcome to sell it if you see fit, as stipulated in the will.”

  “Michael, what … what is ‘fit’ at this point?” she stumbled, struggling to piece together her words, “Patrick … he … um … Patrick …”

  “Is dead,” Michael finished, coldly.

  Ilona felt the air become still, noting that her brother-in-law was now on the brink of being unhinged, with anger seeping through his eyes. How had she missed this before? He rose from the table and walked to the window, looking out west over the city.

  “I have been very patient with my brother over the years, Ilona, very patient. As a good son, I accepted my role as the younger one, not the first prize as my one and only brother was and continued to be for his entire life.”

  “Patrick loved you so, Michael, so very, very much! You must know that, you must have felt that!”

  He placed his right hand over his eyes, ostensibly to wipe tears. A minute passed, and her heart started to settle, daring to hope it was evidence that he was regaining his constitution.

  “Patrick loved me as much as Patrick was capable of loving. He was a selfish man, Ilona, selfish enough to risk his family name, his business, his wife, and his children to romp around with a whore.”

  Maureen floated through her mind many times over the past month, but the lion’s share of her energies was spent in disbelief and sheer grief over Patrick’s gruesome death. The body, too battered for an open casket, from Gavin’s blows and then the horrific crash, left her mind spinning with the physical anguish that consumed Patrick’s final moments. This was the one time she prayed the drink had done what it was intended to do—that it had numbed the agony Patrick’s soul faced during its final exit. Hearing the most emboldened reference to Maureen was, in some ways, the first scratch on the surface of Ilona’s anger, although her grief never quite made it to that stage.

  “Michael, we don’t know …” Ilona attempted to counter, placing her right palm on the cold surface of the table to steady the room.

  “Yes, we do know! Honestly, Ilona, I do not know if your devotion is commendable or laughable. Of course, that is one of the reasons, perhaps the reason, he was so endeared to you, heralding him like the Only Son of God the Almighty. Even Maureen called him on his bullshit!”

  “Michael,” Mr. Lehane warned, eyebrows raised. He looked to the gentleman with the ring, who then brought Ilona a glass of water. She did not realize until she took a sip that beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip.

  “Let’s return to matters of the estate. Ilona, Michael is prepared to offer you a cash buyout of Callista and Cadmus’ share of the business. Given that you and the children are, indeed, family and will no doubt continue to suffer through this terrible loss, he offers this additional amount to the fair share with the stipulation that neither you nor the children will ever attempt to regain control of the business and will never speak a word that it was Michael who initiated the offer,” Mr. Lehane stated as he placed the offer in front of her.

  Ilona looked up from the document to see Mr. Lehane and the other gentleman staring at her, waiting for her reaction. Michael had turned back to the window.

  “Where is this money coming from, Michael? You are offering a sizeable amount,” Ilona asked.

  He nodded and turned to her smugly, “Yes, Ilona. You will be even wealthier, and the children will be well taken care of for the rest of their lives should you be a good steward of the funds.”

  “I do not care about the money, not for me at least. I want to know how you are coming by this money. And why the secrecy?” she demanded.

  “Both questions are none of your concern. I have the money, and it is legal, as evidenced by the blessings of Lehane and MacDougall,” Michael replied with a firm nod from Mr. Lehane.

  “I need time. I don’t understand, Michael. I need to think about Callista and Cadmus, their future, and what Patrick wanted for them.”

  “Ilona, be realistic. Do you really see your children successfully assuming the reins of a construction company?”

  “Michael, they are children! How can you say that? How do you know whether your children will want to do it either?”

  “Want is different from can’t. And my children want to do it, because they are different from Callista and Cadmus, and you know it. The business is in their blood, Irish blood; the boys are already strong and determined.”

  “Cadmus is only five years old, Michael!”

  “Cadmus is a faggot, Ilona. You can already tell he is not like the other boys his age, and the men in the lumberyard know it, as well. The Doyle gene skipped a generation with him … he doesn’t even look like one of us and most certainly does not sound like one of us with that ridiculous name!

  “And your daughter, quite lovely, will no doubt marry well given the Doyle pedigree and wealth, her saving grace given what you have to offer her.”

  Ilona sat up from her chair, barely managing the words to excuse herself. The receptionist must have overheard the exchange, because she was standing at the door when Ilona burst through into the foyer. Instinctively, she wrapped an arm around Ilona, asking if she wanted to go upstairs for fresh air.

  Ilona made it up to the cupola alone. Her hand resting on a north-facing column, she looked out at the city, her face paralyzed with shock. The M&M Building, once so ambitious and proud, stood in a feigned show of strength. It made sense that she met Patrick there. It was the place where energies mani
fested to bring her what she wanted. Now its life mirrored hers and Patrick’s again, its slow demise leaving Ilona crestfallen, her early memories of downtown and of her life dreams anchored to its creation. To have witnessed the tenants lose hope in its potential filled her with a maternal sorrow, as if someone were hurting one of her children.

  A part of her understood Michael’s feelings of inadequacy. Patrick was a rarity, a man who had been able to harness a spirit that won over even the most reluctant of souls. There had been no point in challenging Patrick; he was someone with whom to align and hope that your energies would coalesce and take you to where you wanted to go. She knew Michael was envious; she did not realize the depths of his resentment. He was thirsty to command the ship and wanted to secure a prominent position for his sons.

  She circled the cupola, her mind vacillating between the city she knew and the city Houston was becoming, between Patrick’s will and Michael’s offer, and between who Cadmus was expected to be and who he truly was. She absorbed all views of the city, taking mental panoramic snapshots of the landscape, doing her best to imprint it to memory. New construction was taking place at a rapid pace, the Mellie Esperson Building adjacent to that of the Niels nearing completion. Her Houston was changing, and this time Patrick would not witness the evolution.

  The irony of her location at this moment did not escape her. Mellie Esperson was a Houston legend, who channeled grief over her husband’s unexpected death by assuming his role in business, including erecting the very building in his honor that heralded the cupola upon which Ilona now stood. Mellie continued her husband’s legacy in a way that was uncommon for women. And here she was, Ilona Doyle, a lost soul, still filled with hope that her unfaithful, deceased husband would join her at any moment.

  Mrs. Esperson was a pillar of strength, a woman who carved her own way, continuing to achieve notable goals in the face of grief and uncertainty. What had Ilona accomplished? She had chosen to marry a man whose scandalous death would forever link them to his mistress. Materially, she was well adorned in her diamonds and pearls, but she had fallen short of her life’s dream.

  Michael’s words echoed, piercing her thoughts: selfish, whore, faggot, ridiculous. She closed her eyes and took a seat. Hearing her son’s presumed sexuality verbalized in such a manner jolted her. She knew Cadmus was different, preferring to draw and tell stories. He desperately wanted to read and had been making good progress, having already learned his letters and written words far in advance of other children his age. Being an intellect was not what singled him out particularly, rather it was his apathy, almost distaste, for playing games. If not alone at recess walking the playground’s edge, he was partial to chatting with the girls under a tree. He watched boys roughhousing as an observer, as if he was studying another species. Ilona, curious to draw her own conclusions, had taken many a walk around Harvard Elementary during recess to see for herself.

  She thought back to how she would prod him to join Patrick on his visits to the lumberyard. Michael’s sons clamored to go, running and jumping on stacks of freshly cut wood, fictionalizing games of war with each stack serving as a blockade. Cadmus countered that the lumberyard was dirty and humid, and he preferred jaunts to the Esperson instead. His expressive face studied the ornate designs while his mind constructed stories as he made his way through the lobby to the engraved elevator doors.

  Michael was correct about Callista. She would be more than fine, regardless of her actual stake in the company. And while Ilona took vehement exception to his profane description of her son, she painfully conceded to herself that she could not envision Cadmus happily leading the company. He was an outsider; they all were now that Patrick was dead, and perhaps they had always been, with Patrick’s magnetism sanitizing the disdain Michael had felt for his brother’s family over the past ten years. If Cadmus were to succeed, he would need to want it with every fiber of his being. Michael and his sons would do everything in their power to exclude him. She could not bear to see Cadmus in that position; instead, her maternal instinct welled up to protect and nurture him to be who he wanted to be. She did not want family expectations to shackle him as they almost did her.

  Nearing a full revolution of the cupola, she found herself facing The Heights. She looked out, imagining Callista and Cadmus in The Doyle House with Dear Ernestine, anxiously awaiting her return. They would enjoy lemon-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and asparagus with almonds on the family china. She would enter the home, holding her head high, focusing her energies on raising her two children.

  ILONA DID NOT FREQUENT MANY places right after Patrick’s death, her outings centering on the children’s school, where she would meet them for walks home. Other than that, she had only ventured out a handful of times with Dear Ernestine next to her. Her first outing on her own was to the post office, an attempted trip that fell short after she noticed the number of stares she garnered while waiting in line to buy stamps for the scores of thank-you notes she needed to write for flowers, favors, and other tangible condolences that, although well intended, made not one dent in assuaging her grief.

  Some ladies sharply turned away when they saw her, perhaps fearful that tragedy was contagious, their families made vulnerable if they got too close. Others held fast to their stares, endeavoring to express a sympathetic smile and nod, which made her wonder how much of their pity stemmed from sympathy over Patrick’s infidelity more than over his death. While everyone politely expressed their condolences, remarks on his love for her were glaringly absent, as if they did not dare express a presumed sentiment given his demise.

  They could not say he was a good man; they could not say he was a loving husband. And even though the events spoke for themselves, Ilona knew the truth. Her husband was a beautifully flawed man who had loved her, even though it may not have been enough to counter what haunted him—fears of inadequacy and of not being able to live up to the standards of success set by his father and grandfather.

  The line at the post office that day was as long as the temperature was hot. Ilona abruptly left, figuring it best to exit before fainting from the heat, which would be yet another subject of fodder for the Doyle name. In her haste to search her handbag for her keys, she literally ran into Sybil in front of her car. The two women shared an instinctive fondness for one another, despite Michael’s attempts to maintain the most formal of family ties. Ilona did not necessarily assume that Michael had been so blatant as to forbid his wife from forming a strong relationship with her sister-in-law, but she speculated that Sybil was afraid of him, knowing his stance and his resentment when it came to Patrick’s family.

  “Ilona, I … I’ve been thinking about you. I should have called,” Sybil said in a rueful tone. She had not spoken to Ilona in over a month, right before the estate settlement. Ilona surmised that Sybil was not privy to her husband’s handling of Doyle Lumber & Construction, probably thinking that they had done her a favor by taking the weight of the children’s interests off her shoulders.

  “It’s okay, really, it is. I spend most days in bed, so I probably would not have been available anyway,” Ilona replied, attempting a graceful transition.

  “Well, I know Michael is planning on calling soon about Easter.”

  Easter brunch at The Doyle House. She closed her eyes as memories flooded through her mind, echoes of laughter swirling around images of the children hunting for colored eggs. It was Patrick who woke up early to orchestrate the event, his dimples revealing the sheer delight he took in the choreography of the early dawn hours, nestling eggs throughout the grounds and tucking variety store delights he had bought himself in the vines and branches. No one would have believed it was he who made the event as spectacular as it was, and his desire for anonymity left Ilona even more endeared, albeit with an ounce of guilt. The ladies, and even the gentlemen, lavished praise on her as the hostess, and her temptation to tell the truth was tempered by Patrick’s wink as he raised his glass in a toast to his wife and their family.

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bsp; “I haven’t given it much thought,” Ilona replied, shock over Patrick’s death chilling her face.

  “Oh, my goodness, of course, not! Please do not fret one bit. We figured it best to have it at our home. It will make things easier on you, and it also will be nice to have it at our place at least once before we move.”

  “Move?”

  “To River Oaks. We are moving at the end of the year. I thought you knew?”

  Ilona shook her head, not quite grasping how she would have known.

  They were moving to the newer upscale neighborhood, a beautiful family of five with a husband who was alive. She wondered how they could make such a purchase so soon after the sizeable amount she received from the buyout. The Doyles must be wealthier than she originally thought.

  Hours later, the doorbell woke Ilona from her nap. Dear Ernestine knocked on her door a minute or two later to inform her that Michael was there to see her. Ilona’s mind played back the earlier events with Sybil, and it left her wondering what prompted his visit. She had not seen him since that day at the Esperson.

  She entered the sitting room to see him staring at the oil painting of his father. He had not heard her approach despite the sound of the heels down the hallway, his gaze fixated on the former patriarch.

  “Good afternoon, Michael,” Ilona greeted him.

  “Good afternoon? My dear, it’s early evening,” he replied before turning around to face her.

  She offered neither word nor expression, placidly matching his stare. She might have said it was because she was toughened, but she knew, however, that it was really because she was newly awake. It was the countenance that mattered, and he would not know the truth.

  “Mind if I take that painting with me to River Oaks? I think it will serve my family quite well in appreciating their Heights roots.”

  “Why in the hell are you here, Michael?”

  “Now, now, Ilona. Easter is around the corner. Sybil tells me she mentioned it to you today. I came here to extend an invitation to you and my niece and nephew.”