She set the letter on the old wooden desk and dialed.
The house phone rang and rang, so she pressed the receiver a few times and then tried Sullivan & Associates. One of the secretaries answered and said that Rory and his family were still at Charity Hospital, and gave her the number.
Colleen turned the envelope over in her hand. Post-marked two weeks ago, and Clancy had been born two weeks before that.
Her heart did flips in her chest as she dialed the hospital and asked to be transferred to the room of Mrs. Rory Sullivan.
The desk nurse explained that Mrs. Sullivan was resting, but she’d see if Mr. Sullivan was available to come out and talk.
Rory was on the other end five minutes later. His sleepy voice answered, “This is Mr. Sullivan.”
“Rory?”
Pause. Followed by a strange sound. “Colleen?”
“I… got your birth announcement. Congratulations. Clancy is a beautiful boy.”
The soft sound of static appeared. Hand across stubble. “Thank you, he really is. He was ready to go home the day after… but his mama…”
Colleen swallowed. Her throat was dry. She didn’t know how to ask the question, so she said, “And Carolina…”
Her answer from the other end came by way of soft sobs.
“Rory, she’s not…”
“She’s sleeping. She’s always sleeping, and three doctors have seen her now. They all say she’ll get better, that it will just take time, but every time I go in, I have this fear… I check her pulse…” His words dissolved back into his grief.
“Do you want…” me to lay hands on her? she almost finished. Colleen chewed her thumbnail. She’d never been certain just how much Rory knew about her. Never had she ever said anything outright, though there’d been hints… she’d even healed him once, when he was sleeping. He’d gashed himself on his car, and she waited until he was soundly in dreamland before laying her hands on him. The next morning, he’d puzzled over the dramatic change in his injury, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Like he knew, but didn’t want her to know he knew.
She’d be home soon for Charles’ wedding, but she could amend her ticket and be home sooner…
“It’s my fault,” Rory cried. “I kept insisting we had to have three, four children. You know Carolina… she said yes, of course, anything you want, dear. I couldn’t even wait for the first one before I was making plans for the others, and I ignored how her skin had grown sallow… how she’d lost weight, instead of gaining. I’m a goddamn fool, Colleen.”
“That’s simply not true,” Colleen insisted. “Maybe you missed signs, but how can we see the changes in those we see every day until it’s too late?” She thought of Madeline. Of Maureen. Of Evangeline. “She was pregnant before you ever knew you’d want a family together. Before you were married.”
“And she lost that child, Colleen. That’s my fault, too. I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. I think a part of me was hoping she’d get pregnant, and we could start a family.”
Were you less than careful with me, too?
“It takes two to make a child, Rory. And there was no way you could’ve foreseen she’d struggle to bring this one into the world, even if she did lose the first one. This is not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
“It won’t matter whose fault this is if I lose her, Colleen.” Rory pulled the phone away as he cried.
Colleen played with the phone cord, her mind spinning. If she could only see Carolina, she’d know how serious this was. She’d know if she could fix this for him, because… because…
Rory loved Carolina. He really, truly loved her. Colleen could hear this in his voice, and in the words he chose to keep for himself. She wasn’t a replacement for Colleen, not anymore. Colleen was the first, but Carolina was the last.
Colleen put her hand over the phone and sighed. The sound was born of relief, and a small pinprick of grief.
“I’ll be home soon, Rory. I’d like to come see her, if that’s okay?”
Rory blew his nose. He sniffled as he returned his mouth to the phone. “You’d do that? You’d come back, and… and lay hands on her? As you did for me?”
He knew. He’d always known.
“I think I can help her.”
“Colleen.” He breathed the sound out with his grief. “I’d owe you my life, if you could save hers.”
Colleen didn’t know where the tears came from, or who they were for. She glanced out the window, at the green hills of Arthur’s Seat, covered in the light fog of a Scotland spring. Her future was here, but her past would always call to her. It hung by several gossamer threads, and she could break this one, as she’d broken others, by giving Rory this gift. A gift that, for her, would provide closure and a sense of peace as she embraced the world looking forward, instead of back.
“I’ll call the airline today.”
Four
The Cold Darkness of Russia
Charles exited the Playboy Club on Iberville just after midnight. It was early, but he’d started the day far too early as well, signing the paperwork for his prenuptial agreement down at Sullivan & Associates. There were few things more depressing, in his estimation, than signing your freedom away, so he’d started his pub crawl around ten, and now, fourteen hours later, he needed his own bed more than he needed cocaine and mollies.
He should have ordered a car to take him back to Ophélie. Not that he couldn’t handle his Trans Am fully loaded, but he wasn’t in the mood for more work. His hands were too tired to roll the gears, and as he paid the bartender in cash, he realized his brain wasn’t working so well, either.
Charles fumbled with his keys and cursed as he dropped them into the gutter with God-knows-what-else. The French Quarter gutters were a game of guesswork and prayer. His head spun as he reached for them, and he fell back as another set of hands came upon them and pulled them out.
He blinked the stars away and stumbled back two steps. “Darwin. The fuck you doing here?”
Darwin Hendrickson made no point in returning the keys. He crossed his arms, pushing the keys into the fold. His lips curled in disgust as two women emerged from the doors of the club, stumbling drunk. “Aren’t you getting a little old for this scene, Charles?”
“Only you could be too old for fun,” Charles slurred. He reached for his keys, but Darwin twisted his body sideways. “Give me my keys, nimrod.”
“You’re in no condition to drive,” Darwin said. “Not that I care about what happens to you, but my sister does.”
Charles laughed.
“Fine, we both know that’s a lie.” Darwin’s smile was grotesque. “But your marriage is important to the family, so let’s not get you killed just yet.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“I’ll drive to Café du Monde. We can talk over coffee.”
“You lay your hands on my car, I’ll rip them off.”
Darwin’s lips drew a tight line. “We’ll take mine, then.”
Charles gripped the lamppost for support. “You can do whatever the fuck you want. I’m going home.”
“You won’t get far as… drunk, high, or whatever you are.”
“You severely underestimate my talents.”
“Actually, I don’t. That’s why I’m here.” He pulled a large manila folder from the back of his pants and waved it in the air between them. “You’ll want to be sitting for this.”
“Give me my fucking keys already.”
“I’ll give you your keys once you hear what I have to say. And we’re not doing that here, amongst the riffraff. I can drive myself, and you can walk there, which might help sober you up, or you can get in my car and we can get this over with.”
Charles didn’t trust Darwin not to drive them right into the river, but he was too drunk to reason with someone who possessed their full faculties, and there was even a small part of him that was desperately curious.
What was in the envelope? What ridiculous shit was Darwin about to propose? What
ever it was, he’d enjoy turning him down. He’d absolutely revel in seeing the sniveling shit lowered to begging.
Charles crossed his arms and nodded in the direction of the river. “Why not? The night’s still young, and I haven’t been sufficiently entertained yet.”
* * *
Charles sobered up on the short drive. This was a shame, for having his wits would only make any conversation with Darwin that much more painful.
Darwin ordered them both a café au lait. Charles let him do it, even though he didn’t drink coffee, and enjoyed the way Darwin watched him in anticipation as the drink sat untouched under the breeze of the overhead fans working the humid air around the open diner.
“Would you like beignets instead?” Darwin asked, as if he was a gracious host, eager to please.
“The only white powder I want anywhere near my face starts with the letter C and ends with go fuck yourself, Darwin.”
Darwin gave a terse smile. “Very well. I had hoped you would’ve taken my admonitions at your brother’s nuptials to heed.”
“I thought I told you to use words from this century.”
“Which one was confusing to you, Charles?”
“Not confused. Annoyed.”
“I share that sentiment,” Darwin said with a frown. He opened the envelope and slid a stack of photos across the table. “I thought we were on the same page about preserving the reputations of both you and my sister leading up to the wedding.”
Charles glanced at one photo and realized he had no need to look at any of the others. He knew what they were. And he knew, then, finally, what Darwin’s game had been all along.
“These will be great additions to my photo albums,” Charles quipped.
“Those aren’t the originals. I still have those.”
“Why would you keep dozens of photos of me fucking women who aren’t your sister, Darwin? You into that sort of thing?”
“Your repeated use of my name in conversation is rather unnerving, I must say.”
“So is your choice of subjects for your photography hobby,” Charles challenged. “Everyone has their kinks, I guess.”
“I didn’t take these. I hired someone, assuming you’d go against our promise,” Darwin said with a smug twitch of his lower lip.
“Promise? I never promised anything.”
“You seemed clear on the risk of compromising your reputation at this crucial period in the engagement.”
Charles leaned forward. He enjoyed the slight recoil of his host. “And yet, the only risk here is from you. The only one coming forward with blackmail, is you.”
“Blackmail!” Darwin declared, clutching his chest with mock offense. “I would never, especially not to a man who will be my family in such short order.”
“And yet you aren’t here to buy me coffee and donuts.”
“I’m here because you are a danger to yourself, and to your family!”
“None of the tabloids have approached me with this bullshit. I haven’t seen this on the news. Not a single other person has said a word about it.”
“The point is, it very well could be on the news, because you’ve shown no discretion whatsoever!”
Charles tapped the table, grinning. “Cut the shit. You don’t care about your sister, her reputation, or her happiness. These pictures have value to you. Don’t they?”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Charles jumped to his feet. “Great! Then you’ll see that these are destroyed, and we can all go on our merry way.”
Darwin rose across from him. “Don’t you understand that I’ve done you a great favor here? I’m saving you from yourself!”
Charles smiled. “You think you’re too much of a gentleman to call this blackmail, so what should we call it? Extortion?”
“I’ve helped you, and you can help me now. It seems fair,” Darwin replied, with an overly exaggerated attempt at sounding reasonable.
“And if I don’t help you, you’ll… what, exactly?”
“I wouldn’t do anything, though imagine if these fell into the wrong hands? Files are lost every day. The local gossip rags would have a field day.”
“I see.”
“But that doesn’t have to happen. Your reputation need see no blights as a result of your foolish liaisons. Let the world believe you’ve matured with taking a bride, and no one has to be the wiser.”
“How much and why?”
“I was hoping we could discuss this like—”
“How much and why, Darwin?”
Darwin sighed. He straightened his tie with a look to see if anyone was listening. The only three other couples in the café were caught up in their own discussions. “We need two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to make good on an investment, or we have to file next week. You may not think this is your problem, but your wife’s name is attached to this business, and solvency will harm the name your family enjoys so effortlessly.”
“Does this come naturally to you?”
“What?”
“Being a total piece of shit.”
Darwin blinked, seemingly deciding whether this was a serious question.
Charles reached for his wallet, then stopped. No. This worm would pay. “I’ll have the firm draw up a check tomorrow. But let’s be clear, Darwin. This is the last check I will ever write you. I couldn’t care less what happens to your father’s silly little textile business, or to you or your sister. I can call this wedding off and be better for it. You need me, and for someone who thinks they know so much, you really don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’m capable of. What I’ve done. And what I will do if you ever come to me asking for money again.”
* * *
Augustus leaned against the doorway, watching his wife craft a letter at the roll top desk in the corner of the dining room. It was a decorative piece, not meant for serious work. He assumed it had been used at one point in the family’s history, since according to the Sullivans it was an original piece from a bygone era, but in today’s world of excess it was no more than a lovely prop. He’d encouraged Ekatherina to use the one in the office he’d set up for her. But she was drawn to this tiny desk, forgotten by time, relegated to the corner like a set piece one is aware of but rarely acknowledges.
Except Ekatherina, who sought her comfort and happiness in the familiarity and modesty of home.
It was in these subtle, but important, choices that Augustus found peace in his decision to make Ekatherina his bride. He knew what his family thought. Not just Evangeline, either. He saw it in the eyes of all of them, even his mother, who seemed as if she couldn’t decide whether to be happy for him or desperately afraid.
If Ekatherina wanted Augustus’ money, she could have had it far sooner. The others didn’t see her hesitation had been for this very reason… this fear that all her hard work would be nothing in the shadow of the man who had everything. Even more than she desired to have her family here, she wanted it to be the result of her own hard work. She wanted to look her family in the eye, as they stepped off the plane, knowing she’d brought them here, just as she promised the day she left.
But money wasn’t her problem. She’d saved every last penny after her meager expenses were paid, and she had more than enough.
“Who’re you writing to?” he asked.
Ekatherina jumped in her seat. She turned her head over her shoulder with a sad smile. “My sister. Anasofiya. Mammochka’s last letter has me worried.”
“Is your sister unwell?” Augustus wondered if this was the right word. Anasofiya had been unwell since before Ekatherina left the Soviet Union. But he knew nothing of the illness ailing her, or the severity. He didn’t know how to ask if what made his wife’s sister sick would eventually take her life, or merely inconvenience it.
Ekatherina nodded. “She cannot get appointment with doctor for months. She cannot leave bed. I tell Mammochka we bring them here soon, that they be patient and all will be well.”
Augustus intern
alized a heavy sigh. He’d been working up the courage to tell her that his letters to the embassy had gone unanswered. His calls had been lost in a sea of bureaucracy, and when he did finally reach someone, he was told that due to increased tensions between the countries, all requests for new VISAs were on hold. For how long, no one knew. In the past, they said, the holds had sometimes been days, and sometimes months. The harried office worker further explained that there were job cuts now impacting intake, and the rumor around the office was that the delays would become indefinite. “I’m sorry to tell you, you’re in for a hell of a wait.”
He had half a mind to fly to New York and persuade them in the way only Augustus Deschanel could. But the pall this would leave over his marriage… this deliberate tainting of something he wished to keep pure… kept him at bay. The Deschanels might see this as his value, but he wanted to start anew with his wife and new family.
Meanwhile, Ekatherina’s loneliness and despondency grew more worrisome by the day. She still put in her long hours at the office, and her work hadn’t suffered. But she spent her weekends resting or writing letters home, or sometimes on the porch swing, staring blankly into the distance. Although they shared a bed, it was mainly ceremonial, as they’d made love only once, the night of their wedding. Augustus was afraid to proposition her, though a part of him knew very well that’s what a husband should do, but she gave no indication she would want such a thing in any case. The pit growing in his stomach was born of his fear she didn’t want him, and the knowledge that he did want her. Desperately. More than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything in his whole life. He’d puzzled for months over what drew him to the shy young woman revolutionizing his finance team, but perhaps Charles was right for once: Love wasn’t supposed to make sense.
If Madeline were here, she would know what to do. She was an expert on the matters of despair, and would have advice for how he should help his new wife through whatever she was experiencing. She would know the right things to say and coach him away from making grievous errors that would harm her psyche further.
Nineteen Seventy-Four Page 4