But she wasn’t here. Madeline was gone, and Ekatherina was retreating further and further into her melancholy. When he casually mentioned it to Evangeline, her reaction first disappointed, and then surprised him.
“If you’re asking me to heal her, it doesn’t work that way, bro. Healers mend the physical sickness in a person. If we could fix the mind? The heart? They’d call us goddamn miracle workers.”
“I don’t know that she needs fixing, exactly,” Augustus had said, regretting opening his mouth at all. Anytime he dipped his head above the surface of life, he wished he hadn’t.
“What she needs is something to get her mind off whatever’s bothering her. Look, I know you’re going to hate this idea, because you’re you, but did you ever consider she might have enjoyed a honeymoon?”
“A honeymoon?”
“Yes, you know, it’s what newlyweds—”
“I know what a honeymoon is, Evangeline.” The thought had never once crossed his mind. In deciding that Ekatherina was a woman more comfortable with less means, he’d also, inadvertently, placed her in a box of his own making. One where he knew what she wanted, rather than asking.
“I’m sure you also know what a smile is, but I rarely see you use one.”
“I don’t waste them, is what you mean.”
“Semantics, preaches the miserable man.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“Your wife is. According to you. You have my advice… take her on a trip. Just the two of you. Forget the business for a couple of weeks. It will run fine in your absence, much as I know that pains you to admit.”
“I only hire the best,” he said, both a defense and an agreement. “But Ekatherina wasn’t raised with excess like vacations."
“Don’t you think that’s even more of a reason to give her such an incredible gift?”
Augustus would have given his wife the world, if he thought she wanted it. “Maybe,” he’d said, but the idea was planted and began to take immediate root.
Another fortuitous interaction helped the idea take shape into something actionable. He’d been having lunch with one of his investors, a real estate mogul, Jeremy Anderle. Augustus mentioned casually that he’d been toying with the idea of vacation, and Jeremy had said, “Augustus, a man of your means should be investing in properties, not renting them. Second, third, fourth homes. You wanna take a vacation? Holiday at one of your own places. Costa Rica… the Maldives.”
Real estate investments were a staple of the Deschanel fortune, and Augustus was abashed he’d never considered this as a way to grow and protect his own wealth. “I don’t think Ekatherina would enjoy the beach much. It may be a shock to her, compared to what she’s used to.”
“The cold darkness of Russia? In that case, I’ve got just the place.”
Jeremy had a packet sent over the following day, of a property off the coast of Maine, in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. The old Victorian home sat on a small island, Summer Island, with a population of under three hundred. The only way to reach the tiny crop of land was an hour by ferry from Portland mainland. The home itself was beautiful, ominous, holding court over its stretch of coastline like a novel by Daphne du Maurier come to life.
Anyone else would have sent the proposal back. A remote island in the Atlantic? But Augustus, who was still not entirely sold on the idea of a vacation, saw immediately the allure of something that felt a hell of a lot more like an escape than a retreat.
He appeared behind his wife and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll take that to the post office for you.”
“Thank you, husband.”
“Would you like me to bring anything home? I could stop by the market.”
“No. Thank you.”
Augustus slipped the envelope into his inside jacket pocket. “Ekatherina… I was thinking. Maybe it would be nice if we got away for a while.”
“Away? You want go away?”
“No, I mean… yes, in a manner of speaking. More of a vacation. Somewhere different… quiet. Cold, even.” Augustus tensed as he awaited her reaction. The pit in his stomach blossomed.
Ekatherina looked away. She leaned back in her chair and her head fell to the side. “I do not like the heat of New Orleans.”
Augustus nearly doubled over in relief. “The place I’m thinking of gets quite cold in the fall and winter. I was thinking we could leave at the start of fall, after Huck’s wedding. Gives me time to get things set up at DMG before we go…”
“Where is it?”
“Summer Island, Maine. It’s in the North Atlantic Ocean. I looked on a map, and it’s not quite as far north as where you’re from, but the weather this time of year looks to be comparable.”
Ekatherina turned in her chair and smiled at him. Not the smiles he was used to, born of her desire to please him, but a real one, from somewhere new. “I would be much pleased, husband.”
Augustus touched her cheek with one palm and pulled her mouth to his for a kiss. Brief. Wonderful.
When it was over, she was still smiling.
He’d do anything to see this smile for the rest of their lives.
Five
Just Sometimes
Elizabeth set her jaw. She was rarely this frustrated with Connor, because Connor got it, but Connor definitely wasn’t getting it now.
He was afraid. His fears of the world had always been his Achilles’ heel, though they were also what made him so open to believing when she showed him who she was, and what she could do. He’d never doubted, even from the beginning, because in the world Connor Sullivan lived in, bad things not only could but did happen, and frequently. They were predetermined. Predisposed. Perfectly terrible. Of course she could see the future! And of course everything she saw was a horror show. That made sense to him and fit with his image of the world.
Well, she hadn’t expected this to be easy. Even with someone more open-minded, it would be a hard sell.
“I’ve tried everything,” she countered with a heavy exhale. “If Tante Ophelia says there’s no way, then there’s no way. She’s the closest thing we have to an expert about peering into the future, and when we tried to prove her wrong, remember how that worked out? I need a break from this, Connor. Just sometimes. You of all people know what I go through.”
Connor looked appropriately shamed at the dig. “You know I’d do anything for you, Lizzy.”
“Except this.”
“You act like I’m a monster. I’m trying to help you!”
Elizabeth’s hands gripped her hips. The anger that was in her, always, her constant companion, rippled through from neck to feet. “Tell me, Connor, how are you helping me?”
He dropped his eyes. “By trying to be your friend.”
“Sorry you have to try to be my friend!”
“Lizzy, that’s not fair!”
Elizabeth scoffed and turned away from him, pacing the room. No, it wasn’t fair, but nothing was fair, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Nothing had ever been fair for Elizabeth Deschanel, and was it so wrong that she was looking for even transient relief to that problem?
“There has to be another way.” Connor made as if to approach her, but thought better of it and wrapped his arms across his chest instead. “I joined you in that harebrained scheme to try and change the future. I’m up for almost anything, you know that. Anyone else would have walked away, or told you that you were crazy, but not me.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
Connor’s cheeks flushed. “I’ve never thought that, Elizabeth.”
“What did I say about calling me Elizabeth, huh?”
“It gets your attention, so I’ll use it if I have to.”
“If you overuse it, it will stop having the desired effect, ever think of that, Connor?”
Connor groaned. His arms tightened across his chest. “You’re trying to change the subject. I haven’t forgotten, you know. And you’re my favorite person, so turning my words around just hurts me. If I didn’t c
are about you, I’d be the first person to hand you the heroin. If you just want a friend who agrees with everything you say, then any of the girls at my school will do.”
Elizabeth paused and watched her dearest, oldest friend. He kept his words direct to hide the genuine hurt behind them, which played out in his eyes and in the twitch of his mouth. She’d terrified him with her idea to try heroin to shut off her visions, and then made it worse by acting as if he was the villain for trying to talk her down. And he was right… any of the girls, in any of the schools she’d gone to, would have watched her in anticipation of an exciting story to spread around later. Connor loved her, and he put that above any potential thrill he might get.
This was going all wrong.
Elizabeth stepped forward. Her bare feet tangled in the shag carpet as she walked, she was so tense. With both hands, she unfolded his arms and wrapped herself in them. Connor stiffened and then relented.
“You don’t think I’m afraid, too?” she asked, releasing the words into his chest, where his heart beat so fast she thought he might have a heart attack. But that wasn’t the future she’d seen for him. In many ways, what lay ahead for Connor was worse. “I’ve never done anything bad in my life. Never partied, like Huck. Never slept around, like Maureen. I can’t remember the last time I lied to my mother, unless it was about the visions, and you see, they ruin my life in so many ways. I know they won’t go away, but if I can block them even sometimes, I can find peace. I’ve never had any interest in getting high, but if this is the only way…”
“Why does it have to be the only way?” Connor pleaded.
“Do you know of another that we haven’t tried?”
His arms ran up and down her back. His chin fell atop her head, and she felt the shuddering sigh all the way from his chest to his jaw. “People die from drugs, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth tried not to smile. She was getting through to him. Slowly. “They die from using too much. We don’t need more than a little. We’re not trying to go crazy here, just take the edge off.”
“I’m sure that’s what all drug addicts say in the beginning,” Connor muttered.
“People use drugs recreationally all the time, without having a problem,” Elizabeth defended.
“Don’t use your brother as example, for the love of God.”
Elizabeth laughed. “He’s not a bad example. He knows when to stop.”
“Before or after he got kicked off every college campus in New Orleans?”
“He would’ve been kicked out stone sober. Some would say the drugs make him more tolerable.”
Connor exhaled. His grip on her loosened. “We wouldn’t even know what to do. We’re not professional druggies. I couldn’t even tell you if you smoke heroin or snort it!”
“Most shoot it.” Elizabeth left her hands looped around his back and pulled away so she could see him. “But I know someone in the neighborhood who sells marijuana cigarettes laced with heroin. They say that’s a great way to get started.”
“Get started,” Connor scoffed. “Like we’re training for a marathon.”
It might be like that, if this works. “I meant, for people like us, who’ve never done it. They say it’s better and safer.”
“You keep saying ‘they,’ like you know them.”
Elizabeth leaned up and kissed him on the mouth. She felt his surprise. They’d kissed a few times since that first one, months back, but neither of them knew what this was anymore, and every kiss confused the matter further.
“You’re evil,” he whispered.
“You love me anyway.”
The look that passed across his face sent a hard flutter through her stomach. “I would have rules, Lizzy.”
“Name them.”
“We stay here, in your room.”
“Easy. Done.”
“I mean it. We don’t leave.”
“I know. Next?”
Connor untangled himself from Elizabeth and chewed his nails. Both hands were a mangled mess, and when he was with others, he often looked for ways to hide them, so others wouldn’t see. Now, he seemed unaware of the need. “We agree it’s one time only, until we’re sober again and can talk about it like rational adults.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Is that what we are?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Fine. Fine. Anything else?”
Connor winced at the blood prickling to the surface of his thumb. The side of his knuckle was littered with such scars. “One time. And we won’t even think about doing it again unless we both agree. Both of us. Both. Of. Us.”
“Sure, okay,” Elizabeth said, impatient, exhilarated.
“I mean it!”
“Heaven’s sake, Connor, I know you do!”
Connor turned away. He focused his gaze out the window, which she knew he did when he was afraid looking at her would weaken his resolve. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Jesus. Okay… we need to set a date. Maybe first week of summer?”
“Tonight.”
Connor spun back around, eyes popping from his head. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” she repeated firmly.
* * *
Maureen bent to water the two ficus trees flanking Mr. Blanchard’s office. The task warranted very little complexity or thought, but she tended to the plants with all the care of a concerned mother doting on a colicky infant.
She watched him through the open door. Mr. Blanchard tapped his fountain pen against the desk with increasing intensity as he shuffled through a stack of paperwork from the folder Maureen delivered earlier. The small sounds he made as he processed his thoughts were only a step below talking to himself.
When she noticed him look up, she made a quick point of leaning over the plant, bending neatly at the hips, to examine a browning leaf. He didn’t indicate that he’d seen the display, but she knew, as she knew all men never missed her important but subtle gestures.
He’d been noticing her a lot, too. Nothing about this was surprising, and he’d never said anything even bordering on inappropriate. Sure, some of the things he asked her to do were weird. Like the stuff with the pencils. Or when he had her stand high upon a ladder, for over ten minutes, so he could gauge the proper height for a painting. She watched over her shoulder to see what he was doing to measure, but he only stood and watched her. He never did hang a painting there, either.
She could handle weird, especially from a middle-aged man who’d never been married and didn’t know how to be around women.
The biddies had gone home two hours ago. They always punched their timecards at the exact moment the clock struck 5:30, not a minute later. They’d exit the building, giggling at their inside jokes that were always, always about other people. Maureen liked to wait until 5:40, when she could be sure the streetcar had swept those women back to their miserable lives. The few times she’d walked out with them, or walked out too soon, she’d deeply regretted it. In the office, Maureen could disappear into her work. She still heard them, flocked together like a gaggle of geese as they shuffled their girdled bodies around, pretending to be doing something more productive than gossiping. Outside, she had neither the shelter of the office nor the shield of her favored position with the boss to protect her from their mean-spirited targeting.
It was now past 7:30, and she’d never stayed this late. She knew better. Mr. Blanchard was a spendthrift who declared he’d never pay a cent over the thirty hours scheduled for his secretaries, and Maureen took this to heart. She never expected to be paid for the ten minutes additional she used to avoid the other women each evening—though he did pay her, and without complaint.
But tonight was different. Maureen felt a keen urge to be defiant, and to see what he did with that disobedience.
Six o’clock rolled around. Then 6:30. Then 7:00. He said nothing, and her tension mounted. What if this was a test? Would he fire her for her insolence? Did he say nothing because he was marking ticks on the sheet of grievances against her, waiting to see how far
she’d go? Besides, she’d watered the plants to the point they were probably drowning to death.
Maureen’s heart was a thumping mess, and she wondered if she shouldn’t just go home before he did fire her.
She tucked the watering can under her arm and headed in the direction of the janitor’s closet.
“Miss Deschanel.”
Mr. Blanchard’s voice stopped her. The blood in her veins hardened to ice. She turned.
“Before you head home for the night, I’d like your help.”
Her tension dissipated. He wasn’t mad. He had noticed her. He’d seen how useful she could be and wanted her help.
Maureen set the can down by a nearby desk and slowly approached the door to his office. He beckoned her in.
“Yes, Mr. Blanchard?”
“This blueprint on my desk is for a new bank my client wants to build in Carrollton.”
Maureen leaned forward to marvel at the detailed rendering with the appropriate level of enthusiasm. “He’ll love it. It’s incredible.”
“She. Mrs. Kerensky is a petite woman, who has, in the past, complained about the width of my blueprints, as she struggles to hold them.”
This seemed a most curious thing to complain about, but Maureen nodded.
“Due to this, I tried to work within smaller boundaries, and I suspect you’re about her size.”
Maureen couldn’t guess where this was going. “Tell me how I can help.”
Mr. Blanchard stood. He turned the blueprint around, so it faced Maureen, and then spread it wide across the surface of the desk. He pulled the corners taught with paperweights.
He came around behind her. “Lean forward. Like this.” He demoed the request by spreading his hands so they reached each corner. “Go ahead.”
Maureen’s pulse soared. There were many ways to solve problems, she knew, and this was a particularly strange way to solve this one. Was there not a measurement tool he could use? A more technical way?
Nineteen Seventy-Four Page 5