+++
Of all the times, Rose.
It was what he said.
Not with his words exactly…but his eyes held the sentiment. It was he way he paused before fully opening the double doors. It was starting to rain and a very unpleasant chill blew my thin floral printed dress against my boots and through my oversized jacket.
Behind me, Celestia was probably regretting ever moment of the last 24 hours. Wishing we had never begun the sojourn from there to here. The corner of her sea green eyes turned to watch the taxi cab putter down the very long drive and out the very tall gates. She had a very tight grip on the rolling suitcase that was still charging her phone.
Celestia followed me into the warmth of the foyer. I set down my suitcase and gave the old place a very careful once over. It was quiet. As it should be. Celestia followed my gaze, taking in the expansive marble floors, curved double staircase and expansive windows. To the right was an immaculate hall with a sealed away drawing room, the left side was completely open leaving the kitchen and solarium slightly visible, a half wall divided the rest of the space but that part was hardly ever my concern. Celestia ever so slightly cleared her throat and bought her gaze back to me.
“Yes. Well then”, I begin gesturing to my father, “Celestia… this is my family.”
There. It was good to have that nice and done.
Celestia’s eyes shifted to me before raising a trembling pale hand to my father, he politely took it and something resembling a handshake took place. There.
“Hello”, he says, “Call me Fierro. Pleased to meet you. I don’t know if Rose has told you…but now is not a good time for us.”
I hadn’t told her. I just barely knew myself.
“I-I’m sorry”, Celestia said and she sounded afraid? “I should go—“
“No. It’s simply we may require a lot of Rose’s time. Please make yourself at home.”
I tentatively put a hand on her shoulder and Celestia relaxed, a soft glow was returning to her fair skin. Her pale blonde hair had been windswept around her hair and she artfully slipped off a ribbon tied around her wrist to put up her hair. My father disappears around a corner and I take both of Celestia’s hands in mine and pull her into the foyer.
“It’s something, isn’t It.”, I tell her softly giving her a very practical spin, “This old place? Chateaux Mercier.”
“You were not lying, Rose”, Celestia’s eyes are bright as she takes in the detail. She always sees the details. It’s what I liked most about her . . . and what I most worried about, “This house is amazing I feel so out of place. It feels like it’s from another century”
“That’s because it is”, I explain, “At least parts of –“
“I’ve tried not to leave her alone”, my father comes back around the corner. A tawny winter coat and gray hat in hand. Celestia lets her hands slide from mine, “But perhaps now that you are here Rose, you can… be a bit companionable.”
“What do you mean---she’s here?” I said finally realizing what my Father was saying.
“She does live here, Rose.”
“Since when—“
“This is her home too”, he said as if that should be the end of it. Which it most likely was.
“What about—“
“Rose”, he said and that really was that, “I’ll be back soon. Be kind at the least.”
“Yes, sir”, I said whispered. He kissed my forehead and whispered something I didn’t catch. He takes an umbrella off the rack before disappearing into the light rainfall. I watch him descend the stairs and disappear into the garish detached garage.
“Rose”, Celestia’s voice carries in the open space. I turn sharply because even though I know its Celestia’s voice… one can never be sure about voices.
“Let’s go to the guest rooms”, I decide.
We race up the stair and she follows me up to the western side of the house. We open and shut every door on the hall until we find a guest room in livable condition. It had been a very long time since the old place had a proper guest.
“Rose”, Celestia said throwing herself on the rose printed shabby chic comforter, “I know you said I couldn’t ask questions but—“
“You promised”, I said.
“It’s just—“
“Please”, I said quietly taking a seat next to her, no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep my voice even, “You said you wanted to meet my family and the condition was no questions.”
She hesitates for a moment. Which means I’ve let something show. I’m usually oh so very good at not letting anything show. It’s one of those odd moments when I don’t realize how much time has passed when we’ve just been studying each other in that way art students do.
“The house is beautiful”, she finally says and sits up to unpacking her sketchbooks, then her clothes, “I’m going to call my Mom, let her know I got in alright.”
“I…tell her I said hello”, I say. That is what one said?
I manage a type of smile, a small one and then I leave the room. I wander to the other wing of the house, stopping at the door at the very end of the hall. The door opens and I peer inside.
It’s empty.
There are two boxes on the floor next to a neatly made bed that is scattered with picture, more printed pictures that I’d ever seen in one place. Antiquated classical music fills the room, the music is loud and a bit cloying so I make it stop.
Fine then. A search is on.
I quietly head down the stairs and pull open the doors to the drawing room. Rochester, my father’s oversized St. Bernard, leaps from his place in Mother’s lap to pounce on me. I bat him away but he jumps on me and makes me stumble. Satisfied I’m not a threat, he settles back down on all fours, circles me then saunters back to Mother and jumps into her lap. Her dark eyes are rimmed an uncomfortable red, her long black hair in a messy ponytail and her oversized bangs are in complete disarray.
“Rose”, she says getting up to give me a stiff hug. Rochester growls slightly and keeps at her
feet.
“Mother--”, I start but she falters at the word and begins to cry and tremble just slightly. I let her cry on me as if I’m some sort of handkerchief. I don’t know how long we stand like that, but eventually she pulls away when Rochester starts barking. Mother gets down on the floor to comfort him. I notice all the photo albums—more than what really seems appropriate-- on the floor. Mother picks up one of the photo albums and begin to flip through, silent tears run down her eyes which is somehow worse than the sobs.
I carefully back out and close the doors.
+++
“There was a death in the family”, I say cutting another petite strawberry in half.
“That’s terrible”, Celestia said moving the strawberries to the wooden cutting board she insisted could double as a serving tray. She settled them next to the crackers and brie we’d found in the fridge. I’d offered to make Celestia a pot of tea, but she opted for one of the cans of Diet Coke that had expired last year.
“Rose”, Celestia said giving the tray a bit too much attention, “It’s funny your father doesn’t have an accent.”
“When did I say that was my father?” I said picking at the green stems on the last petite strawberry.
“Well…you didn’t.” she said thinking carefully, “But I mean…oh, come on Rose. We aren’t at school. You don’t have to be so secretive. It’s just--”
“No questions. “I said pointing a threating strawberry at her, “And I told you I’m just as American as you are.”
“Please, when we were at home you were baffled by prescription drug commercials, can’t tell a foot from a yard and tried to tip at Wendy’s.”
“Honestly”, I said because…honestly.
“Seriously, Rose”, she said hopping on to the counter next to me, “Just, let me in. Why are you being so coy? Is it because your family is wealthy? I mean he is a bit young but--”
“Please”, I said taking the last petite strawberry for myself, despite its red color it was unpleasantly tart, “They are my family. It’s all there is to it.”
Celestia slides off the counter and picks up the makeshift tray. I take the teapot and wine into the drawing room with her following. Upon entering the drawing room, Rochester decidedly does not get up to inspect her.
“You must be Celestia”, Mother says offering a very poised smile.
“Yes, ma’am”, she says looking quickly between Mother and I.
“Please, call me Clara. So…where are you from?” Mother asks pouring wine into one of the many glasses on the side table.
“Overland Park.”
“Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore”, she says summoning all the effort in the world to laugh at her own joke, “it must be hard going to school so far from home.”
“It was, but I love Australia”, Celestia continues, “and I had some friends from Sydney I’d met online, so I was prepared. And meeting Rose made a big difference. This is my first time in Europe though.”
“Europe can be overwhelming”, she says, “Spain and Greece are a must when you are still in school, especially for artist. Maybe it’s because I live here, but France is entirely overrated. Oh, and Italy…”Her watery eyes fell to the photo albums again which had been closed and stacked in a corner, “Italy is my first love. Beautiful country. Beautiful people…family and love…”
Mother trails off and Rochester places his head in her lap, probably secretly vying for a piece of cheese or a cracker.She finishes her wine and stands up, “I’m going upstairs to rest. Please make yourself at home.”
Rochester follows her out the room bounding up the stairs ahead of her.
+++
Before, there had always seemed to be so much to do on a rainy day. Now it felt oddly claustrophobic. Celestia and I spent part of the afternoon in the renovated library in the basement skimming through the titles, there was some time spent on completing our summer portfolios but it would have been far more successful if we could have ventured out to the greenhouse--but the rain had been insistent and the weather was gray and overcast.
Celestia thought it was odd there was currently only one very small television in the house, while I’d thought it was odd every room in her family’s house had a television. We’d finished a double feature of Sabrina Fair and Roman Holiday when Papa returned with bags from that quiet bistro in town next to the antique shop.
Mother quickly did away with the bags and assembled plates of Coq au vin and Salade Nicoise as if she’d made them herself. Then came my father’s quite solitary prayer (which suddenly struck me as oddly unnecessary). Dinner was a quiet affair. Not so stealthy looks were traded between Mother, My father and I--though Celestia seemed very much unaware.
The frozen cups of chocolate mousse that had been dug out of the freezer were still thawing after dinner. Mother made cappuccinos but she and my Father had done very little but to stare at them.
“I should call my mom again”, Celestia finally says. Like I said she had an eye for detail.
“Go ahead”, Mother stands up, and “Take your time. We’ll call you once desert is thawed…or I might be able to dig up some ice cream.”
“Thank you”, Celestia says politely. She pads up the stairs. Rochester happily bounding after her as if it were a game. I’d wished I'd had the same sense to follow.
“Rose”, I jumped when the sound of my name was paired with a very cold had on mine. Mother took her hand back and looked at my father, “Rose…I don’t think I should go to the funeral. I know this is a lot of to ask of you but I’d like you to go for me. I know you had plans to show Celestia around but if you like Celestia can go to, we’ll pay for her ticket…or if she wants to go visit her parents we can arrange that too.”
“You don’t really want me to go”, I said, “You just want—“
“Rose”, she snapped. Then softened her voice, “Please, Rose. I do want you to go. I just want you to go to represent me. That’s all. Just hug my sisters for me and leave. That’s all.”
“But—“
“Rose, she is my mother. I’m not asking you. ”, she had snapped at me then softly, “I loved her Rose, I love my mother…loved…fuck.”
She opened her mouth to say more but couldn’t, she was trying not to cry and for the first time Mother seemed to be aware of my father holding her hand. I looked at the remains on the table and picked up a folded paper napkin and held it out to her. She took it and dabbed it at the corner of her eyes, even though they weren’t wet.
“There is a charter flight leaving tomorrow”, my father continues for her, “You are going to be on it Rose.”
“Yes, sir”, I managed. Had I ever really had a choice?
“Oh, and take these upstairs”, Mother said still going on about the frost bitten dessert cups, “and, um you can stay with Celestia, we don’t mind . . .” she said though it sounded like more of a question.
“I rather like my bedroom, thank you”, I said and continuing upstairs before another word could be uttered.
+++
I could hear Rochester barking outside.
I peered out of Celestia’s guestroom window to see him running circles around my father and Mother. Mother had her arm folded around herself and was taking long slow steps. His hands were held thoughtfully behind him their steps seamlessly in sync. Whatever they were discussing I couldn’t tell. It could have been the charity, the house or something that was best to be forgotten.
I turned back into Celestia’s room, having given her the moment to absorb the information about our trip coming to an abrupt end before it started. About the family funeral and how I would make this up to her.
“But”, I add, “We can come back during the fall break and still visit the Louvre and take a proper tour around Paris.”
“Rose”, she quietly implores, which was the best way to describe it, “You don’t have to make anything up to me. This is family we are talking about. Don’t worry about me. And I’ll come with you to the funeral if you’d like.”
“I think I would like you to come”, I said
“You really don’t even have to ask”, she says. Her kisses were sweet like sugar and meaningful in a way. They were like punctuation, really. Making a statement or giving the best kind of emphasis.
I knew it was the way of things to believe your present was all there was ever going to be, that there was never going to be another person to make you feel the way you did just now. But was is possible that this intense moment of realizing I didn’t have to be alone again could be . . . love? But at nineteen it was surely silly and reckless to think such a thing.
It was simply a first love and therefore destined to end. It was first, not only. There was a quite big difference between first and only. Certainly there was.
+++
The flight had been quiet unadventurous.
Mother hadn’t seen us off, she’d found herself at her piano and hadn’t stopped playing all morning. She couldn’t be torn away to say good-bye. Not on this day.
On the way to the airport Papa stopped by my favorite café nestled on a picturesque street just outside of Versailles, so I was at least able to show Celestia that. She insisted on paying for coffees and my orange tea, we split one of every croissant in the case. We sat for a bit and---without prompting—explained how we met in Professor Lindell’s Portrait study, where we had been paired and how the long laborious task of painting a portrait in a quiet studio could lead to life-changing conversations and …relationships. I hated the portrait though and it had promptly disappeared from Lindell’s classroom after grading. My father not once let it slip that he’d heard it the tale from me before.
When we arrived at the airport two attendants came for our bags. Celestia started inside but I lingered just a bit by the car.
“You are being very brave, Rose”, my father tells me for the hundredth time.
“Honestly”, I said, he made it seem as if I was heading out war.
“Family is difficult, especially for people like us who have never truly been a part of one. Add tragedy on top of that and anyone would be frightened.”
I nodded understanding some parts of it, more than I should and less than I wanted—but not all of it.
“Well then…I should go.”
But before I could turn away he did hug me. It was all to much.
“I love you, Rose”
I sighed realizing he wouldn’t release me so easily.
“I…I love you to, Papa. May I go now?”
“Yes.”, He turned back to the car and produced an elegantly pure white flower box. I could already smell the strong fragrance, “Your mother choose them.”
I nodded and took the box under my arm
+++
The flight attendants fretted over us, mistaking us for the socialite daughters of some influential head of this or that. We arrived at a private gate at Rochester International Airport and changed in the bathrooms.
I had a black velvet short sleeve dress, lace tights and ankle boots in my closet. Celestia had borrowed a black Chanel top from Mother last night, Mother insisted she keep it. I gathered it was a thank you and an apology.
I’d kept the white box of long stemmed roses my father had given on my lap the entire trip, I kept them close by as we changed and dabbed on the black lipstick Celestia and I shared between us. I felt like everyone was staring at us as we walked through the busy airport and into a car.
The drive was quiet and uneventful. We were a bit late, and as previously promised via an exchange on WhatsApp, my cousin left the trunk to his Mercedes open for us to stow our bags. Celestia put her arms around mine and we walked into the church.
My Aunt Claudia spotted me first, he eyes were cloaked by a pair of cat-eyed shades and a large swopping black hat with a veil. She took off her shades, thought for a moment, and then motioned me to come forward.
Celestia took a seat in the back pew and made sure I had the white box settled in my grasp, she hugged me before setting me off down the aisle. I sat between my aunts, taking cautionary glances at the cousins who’d change in the 7 years since I’d last seen them. Only Clarence on the end felt like a familiar presence, his pretty blonde companion sitting solemnly next to him.
I sat taking it all in. Committing every word to memory. The altar, the music, the guest…two of whom I recognized as having broken my mother’s heart. It was only when the whole unpleasant affair was over that I even remembered I was holding the white flower box.
“It was lovely of you to come”, My Aunt Clarice said, “I know this type of thing is hard on Clara…it’s just we miss her. She’s become so estranged.”
“She is trying very hard to get back to you.” That was all I wanted to say on the matter., though I knew there would be more questions to come. Questions I was not to answer. I made quick good-byes before guiding Celestia out of the church.
There.
That was that then.
Almost
“Can we make a stop?” I ask as we retrieved our bags from Clarence’s car. I noted the Notre Dame decal and fraternity license plate.
“Whatever you want, Rose”, Celestia says taking my hand again.
I had a car take us to where the DeLune Academy of Music once stood, the school now a Rochester campus of the American Arts Institute. A path less than a ¼ mile from the school lead to the DeLune Family Residence where for the first three years of my life I’d called home.
The drive was empty, but there was a moving truck outside and a Sotheby’s sign laying in the yard waiting to be put up. The driver eyed the “NO TRESPASSING” sign in the yard but I implored him to continue up the drive. When he pulled up to the front I stepped out the car.
“I’ll just be a minute”, I say to Celestia and to some degree the driver.
I picked up the white flower box and took it with me to the front door. I’m sure it was locked but I quickly did away with that and slowly opened the door.
Memories pricked at me. Some that were not at all pleasant, that felt more like nightmares and dread. I remembered watching my cousins play out in the sunshine from the bay window in the dayroom. I had to hide in the curtains so. . . Martin wouldn’t find me. I remember being told I was too bad or too sick to be allowed downstairs when company was over. I remember almost drowning in the bathtub.
I went upstairs to find my mother’s bedroom just as I remembered it. It was still lived in from all the long month she spent in America, until she stopped five years ago.
I went back downstairs and found an empty vase in the kitchen. I opened the white flower box and arranged the dusty pink and white roses into the vase, they were a soft marble. So unnatural.
“Those are beautiful!” A voice calls.
I turned expecting to see a well to do Sotheby’s auctioneer but the woman distractedly fastening a pearl earring in was Claire Romano DeLune, my grandmother. I didn’t know what to call her, I’d never called her anything before.
“Okay”, she said testing her earring was in tight, “That’s good. Now I just need to---ah.”
She mumbled something in Italian and then flipped a light switch that turned off the decorative lanterns attached to the guest house, “That would have driven me crazy.” She said and then hurried past me to inspect the electric fireplace.
“Mother couldn’t make it”, I start, “So I came.”
“It really is good to see you, Rosalie. I really do wish you would visit more often…you look just like your mother. Sometimes you two look more like sisters, I swear it.”
“It’ just—“, I began.
“I know it hard for you to be in this house, Rose. I know I let my husband treat you terribly in this house, you might not remember. He broke this family. It wasn’t’ his fault, he just didn’t know how to cope. But, it’s been years…we can put that ugliness behind us can’t we?”
She moves swiftly past me again and opens the cabinets giving them an onceover, then does the same to her wine cabinet.
“I forgive you”, I say and mean it, “Mother does to. She always says she wishes she could be a mother like you. I sort of wish I could be a daughter like her.”
“Clara was my baby. We were lucky”, she says shaking out her Hermès scar and gently laying it over her hair and tying it under her chin, “Me and my girls. My daughters are my world. The only things I have to show for my life. Not ideal but…it is what it is. Not all families are the same, but you’ll understand your mother the older you get.”
She peered into the mirror and scrutinized the scarf, “It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” she slipped it off and gave it to me, “I think you can make better use of it.”
She now had on a stylishly cut jacket that matched her peach colored attire, she slipped a bright blue bag around her arm and slipped her shades back on.
“We really should have chats more often”, Claire Romano DeLune continues, and “How is school. What are you studying?”
“Fashion design, Fine Art and Art History.”, I said, “I’m Undecided.”
“That’s lovely. I’m so proud of you.”
“Grandmother”, I ask ltentatively because I was curious, “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, dear”, she says looking at her watch.
“Where?” I ask watching her very carefully
“I really am running late. Let’s see…hmm... I think that’s everything.”
“Grandmother”, I begin again, “where are you going?”
“Oh, well I’m going….I’m….” she turned and looked over the house studying the expansive rooms and hundreds of framed phots on the wall, “I’m going…I just know there is someplace I need to be. I’ll sort out the details when I get there.”
“If I may”, I cut in, “I think once you get there you might understand my mother a little better, maybe even my father.”
“Oh, that I perfectly understand”, she says heading for the door. She stops and turns, “Thank you for the roses.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Good-bye, Rose”, she says casually embarking over the threshold
“Bye”, I manage but I doubt she can hear me.
+++
It’s dark outside and we smell like fast food when we pull into Uncle Emile’s house. He had a whole day planned for us before Celestia catches her flight to Kansas before school starts in three days. While she is showering I make a video call.
It’s nearly 4am in Versailles, the first face I see is Rochester as he sniffs at the webcam on Mother’s SmartTV. He backs away and takes his place on the pillow separating my parents. Thought it was late neither of them was dressed for bed and Mother fumbles with a remote to quiet the show playing on the SmartTV. Mother’s eyes were bright red and when she attempts to speak her voice breaks and she starts sobbing. My father forces himself to wake from where he was sleeping on top of her hideous ruffled comforter.
“Did you take the roses?”, My father asks handing my mother a handkerchief.
“Yes”, I continued, “I did my best. I think I did well.”
“You did”, my mother finally says, “Thank you, Rose. You’re so grown-up. How was Celestia?”
“Good”, I said watching my mother fold the handkerchief. My father had fallen slightly out of frame having fallen back asleep, “I’m really glad she was there.”
I blurted out. I hadn’t expected it. It sort of game out. Saying this to my mother was unexplored ground a far as I was concerned
“That’s good, right?” she said charting uncertain waters with me.
“Is it? I just think I’d be okay if she was always there, and I was always there for her. But that is quiet silly. First and only and all.”
“What do you mean?
“First and only…love”, I said , “What if your first love isn’t your only love. Or your only love isn’t your first or if—“
“I—slow down”, she said, “none of that matters right matter. Just do what feels right. What makes you happy? What you are ready for.”
I had the very decided feeling that she was wrong. That telling me wanting Celestia to be my first and only love did matter. How I had grown up knowing my father had lost the first woman he loved and my mother had to say good-bye to her first love as well—and how I only recently began to wonder how I truly fit into that.
“I think I’m ready for a lot”, I said, “Is that silly?”
“That’s good. I just hope she’s ready to handle you…us.”
“Honestly.”
My mother rolled her eyes, she was the only adult I knew who rolled her eyes at a child.
And perhaps I did become too preoccupied with first and only, when possible only the last person you loved really matter.
“Good-night, Rose”, she said cuddling with Rochester.
“Good-night, Mom.”
+++
AUTHOR'S NOTE
So, I wrote this novella like two years ago. Yes, I know Fierro is always lurking in the background but that’s just how I imagine he likes to live after all that harrowing things I put him through. I remember there was some mentions in the comment sections that thought it was worth noting that Fierro was sleeping in Pretty Little Things, but a huge part of his characters is that he is an insomniac—what with the whole existential crisis thing—so combine that with learning how to take care of a grieving Clara…it makes him tired.
You: Okay LiLe, then why were they in bed together ?
LiLe: In my head they
were watching Pride and The Prejudice together and are unable to see the irony.
You: And what about Emile?
Lile: I’m trying to do a thing…give me like two years.
Also, yes Rose in an Atheist