“Oh…no”.
I dash over to my phone as fast as I can, but by the time I get there my phone smacks onto the smooth cement. I hold my breath and turn it over. The screen is completely smashed. I try to turn it on and off.
blank screen.
“Oh no.”
I don’t even know how to begin to get it fixed. Or how I can afford it.
“Je peux le prendre.” A woman approaches me from the side. I’d seen her reading by one of the larger fountains when I came into the gardens, “Je fais ça tout le temps.”
She smiles as she approaches. Her thick shoulder length dark hair flows perfectly with each cautious step. She doesn’t look like a typical tourist. She’s dressed for the season in a green floral dress with nude heels. She takes off her oversized cat-eye sunglasses to reveal a full face of dewy makeup and dark pink lipstick.
“Etes-vous d'accord ?”, she says. It sounds like a question. She takes a step back and grips her New Yorker tote bag with both hands. The sight of the familiar tote bag is comforting.
I clear my throat. I’d practiced for this, “...um. Bonjour. Je…taime —“
“Wait. Are you American”, she exclaims in perfect English. I let out a sigh of relief. So far my attempts at speaking French haven't gone so well.
“Is it that obvious ?”
“I just have an eye for it. I’m American too”, she relaxes her stance, “Also…”
She gestures around the Mirror Garden. So far it has been my favorite sight on my self-led tour through The Palace of Versailles. It looked like something out of a fairytale. Charity would love it. I’d wanted to take a picture and gotten too creative by propping my phone up. I also wanted to have something slightly interesting to post on Facebook. So much for that.
The woman looks down at my shattered phone.
“I can take the pictures and send it to you. I travel alone all the time. I know how hard it is to get photos. You can delete it off my phone when I’m done—“
“It’s okay…really.”
“The lighting is perfect. It is never this empty.” She sets down her iced coffee in anticipation.
“Okay.” I might never get to come back here. I should have something to show for it.
“My name is Clara by the way.”
“I’m Sofia.”
She smiles and for the next 10 minutes puts serious effort into taking a series of pictures. Her phone is much nicer than mine and she lets me e-mail them to myself, then deletes them off her phone. I can’t help but to notice the last series of pictures on her phone. They are selfies of her drinking Champagne with a rooftop party going on behind her.
“Done”, I say once I’ve deleted the photos, “Thank you.”
“No problem”, she fixes her eyes on my cross, “That’s lovely.”
It was white gold Celtic cross with swirling accents and my birthstone in the center, “Thank you. One of the ladies at my church makes them. I can send you a link.”
“I’d love that. So…what church is that ?”
“Lighthouse Church and Fellowship. It’s small—“
“Wait. There is one in Rochester, right ? Off McGuire Parkway. ”
“Small world. Yes. I go to the one in Queens and we have a congregation in Albany.”
“There is a great bakery in Queens you should check out. It’s called Son of a Batch.”
“I will.”
“Are you enjoying the palace?” She asks.
“I am. I like the gardens more than the palace to be honest.”
“Me too. The palace is popular but there are a ton of other great spots in Versailles. I can send you a list.”
“Thank you. Um…Do you know if there is a place where I can get my phone fixed ?”
She thinks on it, “There is a shop in the Galleria. It’s not far. I could walk with you if that’s okay.”
I’d already made the mistake of letting her assume I was traveling alone.
“I’m just going to wait here. I have friends waiting for me.”
She sips what seems to be an iced Americano knowingly, “Sofia, I know what it’s like to travel alone in a foreign country. I can’t imagine doing it without a phone. I would feel so bad if I abandoned you. Here. You can hold my license and-”
She fishes for her wallet and in the process removes a slim MacBook and French romance novel. She eventually pulls out an international and New York State license. They both seem up-to-date and legitimate. She’s a little older than I would have thought.
“I’m really not traveling alone. My son is visiting his father. I’m giving them some space.” I don’t tell her that they are 40 miles away in Saint-Cloud.
She’d subtly started walking and I follow her. There is a lightness to her steps even though she is wearing heels.
“Are you from Queens ?” She asks.
“I was born in Colorado but I…well …I’ve been a lot of places." I choose my words carefully so I don’t give too much away.
“Military brat ?”
“Foster care”, I realize that might make me sound vulnerable so I lie a little, “My last foster family is my real family. My foster mom lives overseas. ”
Hopefully she took that to mean somewhere close by and not China.
She nods, “So...you’re an orphan ?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Sorry. Hey, tell me about your son’s father. An American girl having an affair with a French man. Very iconic.”
I’m flattered she found my life so interesting from the outside.
“He is actually English. He works for a big global entertainment company and gets moved around a lot. We didn’t really have a relationship but he reached out and said he wants one with his son. He's just turned 3. We agreed to three weeks this summer. I promised him I’d stay close by for the first few days. I also wanted to do one touristy thing before leaving.”
I look down at my broken phone hoping Elijah didn’t need me right now. I’d never forgive myself. I follow Clara to a quieter part of town with more cars and a handful of modern buildings. I was never going to get used to how beautifully the old and new world blended together in France.
“Sounds like your son has a great mom.” Clara decides.
I’m taken back. I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me.
“Thank you.”, I accept the compliment, “It’s been a process. I also have a new daughter. She’s actually my niece but I’m adopting her.”
I was probably telling Clara too much but I wanted to make sure Charity was just as included as Eli. Clara tosses her coffee into a bin.
“That’s sweet. Are you a stay-at-home mom ?”
I almost want to laugh. Having grown up in a wealthy foster family I can already tell that Clara comes from money. They are always a little more carefree and not so concerned with consequences. She also smelled expensive. Like flowers. Roses.
“I wish. I’m a nurse.”
Clara stops and considers me, “That’s such a hard job. Nurses are really special. Truly.”
“I had special nurses in my life. That’s what made me want to do it. It’s fulfilling being there when someone needs help the most.”
For a moment Clara seems at a loss for words. There is a familiar reverence in her expression. I gather she spends a lot of time in a hospital.
Clara looks at her watch, “Do you work with children ?”
“No but I’ve done a few rotations. Pediatrics is really hard to handle when you have kids at home.”
She nods in understanding, “And you’re doing it all alone ?”
“… It’s complicated .”
“Right. Sorry to pry.”
We head inside of a small glass enclosed shopping center. There are about 7 or 8 stores. Nothing like the massive New Jersey shopping centers I sifted through to find clothes for Eli and Charity. Clara leads me to a computer repair shop. She and the clerk begin conversing in French. The man behind the counter has his eyes on her and her slipping cleavage the whole time. They have an upbeat back and forth. Then it seems a deal is struck.
“20 Euros,”Clara says to me, “It’s a pretty good deal. He says it will be done in three hours.”
+++
When we step outside the store Clara self-consciously pulls at her dress’ neckline. I take a seat on the bench outside the store. I could people watch for the next three hours.. I also see a French Burger King that looks worth exploring.
This was just a small hiccup.
My trip would be back on track in 3 hours.
“Wild thought”, Clara says sitting next to me., “I’m on my way to a work meeting and I want you to come with me.”
“I—what ?”
She slides a business card out of a floral folio.
“I’m the Director of Development of Le Fleur Marche Foundation. We support charities and programs for children with critical or chronic illnesses. “
“I don't think I’ve heard of that one.”
“We’re relatively small. Most of our foundation comes from investments I’ve made– but we really need to develop a large network of donors. We’re having a small fundraising event tomorrow and I would love for you to come.”
“What kind of event?”
“Okay. So, I took this online course about non-profits and signature events. LFM is hosting what will hopefully be our Annual Midsummer Garden Party and Silent Auction. The goal is to raise one million dollars.”
“That sounds amazing. I don’t want to get in your way. You must be so busy.”
“Nothing me and three virtual assistants couldn’t handle. I’ve been so focused on courting donors and event planning….that I forgot what this was really about.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way I explain it is– LFM’s goal is to make sure socioeconomic status never gets in the way of quality care for chronically ill American children and their families. Studies show that families experience better mental and physical health when money isn’t a stressor. People here don’t always get that.
I mean some of the best children’s hospitals in America are in the most expensive cities. Most families can’t just pick up and move for specialized treatment. With our help they can get assistance with moving, housing, food cost, job searching and support for siblings.”
“That’s amazing. People spend thousands of dollars sometimes just to see specialists at my hospital. I’ve seen whole families camped out in the waiting room because they can’t afford a hotel in the city.”
Clara smiles, “I knew you would get it. I think having a real American nurse from a big city would make a big difference. “
“It sounds like you want me to put me on display.”
“No”, Clara laughs, “Well maybe a little. I bet you could give donors real insight into what their donations can do. You’d also be an invited guest, so you can also enjoy the garden and have all the hors d'oeuvres you want. If it helps I could make a donation to your hospital as a thank you.“
“…. I don’t really have an outfit.”
“ A sundress is fine. It’s a light afternoon garden party. If you come early you can look through some of my dresses. Something is bound to fit.”
“I don’t know….”
“Think about it. I’ll make the donation to your hospital no matter what.”
The administration would love a sizable private donation. I could tell Clara’s heart was in a good place. It wasn’t like I had anything planned for tomorrow.
“Okay.”
“Great. I’m having lunch with LFM’s founder in a few”, She checks her watch, “Join us and we’ll all get more acquainted.”
“Just let me call my son’s father and let him know I don’t have my phone.”
Clara lets me leave a message on Adam’s phone. I make it brief and try not to let my worry show.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to just show up”, I ask. I wasn’t exactly dressed professionally in black faded sundress and jean jacket.
“Positive.”
Clara keeps up a light conversation. Maybe she can tell I’m nervous. She points out shops and restaurants that I should visit as we walk. I’d let it slip that I was more of a tea than coffee drink and she immediately lists off every single tea shop in the area.
We’ve left the city center and turned into a quieter part of the city. Everyone seems to be strolling at a leisurely place. Little shops are crowded alongside quaint cobblestone streets. I wish I had my phone to take pictures.
She turns into a posh corner café. I assumed a lunch meeting would be a boxed lunch in a conference room. The café is painted a beautiful light blue and has large glass windows displaying baked goods. The front door is overflowing in wisteria and ivyThe smell of fresh baked dough and fruit is delightfully overpowering. There are only a few occupied tables and the ambient sounds of the espresso machine and clinking glasses puts me at ease.
I follow Clara to a table by the window. She comes to a sudden stop and I run into her. I follow her gaze and almost do a double take. I’m surprised I hadn't noticed the pair sitting at the table when I walked by the window.
A man with light and nearly colorless skin sits at the table. His long hair is a peculiar whitish blonde and settles in soft waves past his shoulders. He looks up from a worn textbook when we approach and tucks a pair of thin gold glasses into his starched pale blue shirt .He leans back against the chair where a dusky navy blue jacket is hanging on the back.
Despite how striking he was...Clara’s attention seems to be on the small girl seated across from him. Her skin was the same cool colorless tone except her hair is ink black and neatly braided into a crown around her head . The girl looks up briefly and I see her eyes are a unique soft tawny color—her left eye moves at a slightly slower speed as she takes me in.
She is dressed in a purple and yellow school uniform. She’s very still. For just a second I think she might not be real-- but she reaches for her cooling tea and turns her attention back to the oversized notebook sprawled on the table. The man starts to say something but stops when he notices me.
“What are you doing here, Rose?”, Clara asks, “Shouldn’t you be in school.”
“It’s a half day”, the girl says not looking up from her sketch, “Papa came to get me.”
Clara looks at her watch, “But don’t you have your foundations class today.”
“I’m in the late class. It’s not for hours”, The girl says. She still doesn’t take her eyes off her sketch.
“I planned to take her after our meeting”, The man says, "I see you’ve also brought a guest to our meeting.”
Clara straightens.
“Fierro, This is Sofia…umm.”
“Madigan.”
“Oh, really ?” Clara says, “That’s Irish isn’t it ? Anyway, she's from Queens. She had phone trouble at the Palace. We started talking and it turns out she’s a nurse. I thought she’d be an amazing guest to have at the garden party. I invited her to lunch”,
“Hi”, I manage.
Clara clears her throat, “Sofia, this is Fierro. He founded the LFM Foundation.”
I reach out to shake his hand. He hesitates but warmly shakes it.
“Please have a seat.”
I move to sit next to the little girl but Clara promptly takes that seat so I take the one next to Fierro. I’d only ever worked in the medical field so I wasn’t sure what a business meeting entailed. Would it be like the sit downs I had with hospital administration ? Lots of questions, no progress.
Clara starts to speak but she seems to lose her train of thought. I track her gaze to Fierro’s hand around his coffee cup. His ring finger has a faint ring line.
“Clara ?” He says.
“Yes.
“You called this meeting.”
“Oh. Right. Ummm”, Clara snaps out of her reverie. She takes out her floral folio, “I need you to sign this. It’s a tax form.”
He takes the paper and studies it.
“I thought we agreed Emile would sign these forms”, He says
“Oh”, Clara looks at it, “I guess we did. Well. That was all I had. Meeting adjourned !”
“Was there a reason we couldn’t have this brief meeting at Mercier ?”
“I supposed I was just trying to get you out of the house.” Clara looks at her watch, “It’s getting late, how about I take Rose to her foundation class and you fill Sofia in on the big event. Come on Rose.”
Rose turns abruptly to Clara, “It’s not for another 2 hour--
“Don’t be silly.” Clara haphazardly gathers up the girl’s notebooks and pens while simultaneously hoisting the girl’s small frame out the chair, “There could be traffic-”
“But my tea—“, Rose tries to explain.
“Come on, Rose”, Clara says.
“Clara—“, Fierro starts
“She’s fine.” Clara turns to me, “Stay. Have lunch. You should try the ham and cheese croissant. It’s amazing. Lunch is on me.”
She lays a few crisp bills on the table.
Before I can say anything Clara leads the girl outside. Fierro watches them squabble as Clara pulls her past the window.
I reach for my phone then remember it’s at the Galleria.
“Sofi—“ he begins.
“What is going on”, I say taking a defensive stance, “ I don’t want trouble-“
“There is no trouble here”, he says calmly. His voice is deep and steady, “Please, don’t feel the need to stay.”
I consider leaving. People traveled without cell phones for years before. I just wish I had a better idea of where I was now. Or where the galleria was. A waiter walks by with a plate of croissants and I remember how hungry I am.
We were in a public location so I should be fine. It was naïve to think, but knowing he had a daughter made me feel a little bit safer. It wasn’t just knowing he had a daughter, but how comfortable she had seemed with him. Clara had been so nice and open. I trusted her. If she trusted her boss...maybe I could too.
“I don’t mind staying, but I need to tell my family where I am.”
He opens the black leather folio holding his legal pad. He flips to the back and pulls a phone.
“Here.”
“Um. Where are we ?”
“Café Liberte”, He says, “938 Brittany Lane.”
I struggle to open the phone, but then realize it isn’t turned on. I call Adam but he doesn’t pick up. I leave a message.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So…You're American too.”
He nods, placing the folio on top of a stack of old textbooks. The only name that looks familiar to me is Aristotle.
He pours more coffee from the press on the table and gestures to the menu, “Sofia, Let me buy you lunch. Consider it an apology for whatever Clara is up to.”
“Clara is very sweet. She is very passionate about her job. You are very lucky to have her. That little girl was your daughter ?”
He picks up the sketchbook Rose had left behind in the rush and stacks it on top of his books.
“Yes. I apologize for her manners. Rose can get a little too focused on her art.”
“It’s okay. My daughter is the same way when it comes to her interest. When she finds something she likes it’s like the rest of us don’t exist."
“Rose is old enough to know better. If you come to the garden party I’ll have her apologize.”
“No, she may not realize she’s doing it.”
He straightens the stack of books. He starts to say something else but the waiter comes back. I order the ham and cheese croissant by pointing to the menu. I also point to the water. I emphasize bottled water.
I stare at the huge tea menu. I knew some of the words but it was all blurring together.
“Rose likes the jasmine and lemon”, Fierro says after a few minutes of watching me squint at the menu.”
“Okay. I’ll try it.”
He orders for me in French. It’s nowhere near as smooth and effortless as Clara’s. There is an awkward back and forth between him and the waiter as they communicate. Either way I’m impressed.
“Are you fluent ?”, I ask
“Hardly”, he admits, “My Russian is a bit better.”
“Is your family from there?”
“ No. I wanted to read Russian literature without the translation.”
“I..really ?”, I hadn’t meant to say it. It just sort of came out.
“I had a lot of time on my hands”, he says and I catch the way his thumb brushes against his middle and ring finger. It's a ghost gesture. Reaching for a cigarette that isn’t there.
I was starting to feel out of my depth so I transitioned back to what I knew.
“So Clara said the fundraiser is a garden party.”
“Yes.”, He leans in just a little, “Let me start at the beginning. Le Fleur Marche was a business I started a few years ago. My business partner and I sold it for a very modest amount so we could focus on other projects. I put most of my portion into an endowment for the foundation. Clara’s grown it nearly 10 times that much.”
“She’s good.”
“She’s an heiress that runs in the right circle.” He says,“Though I worry we spend more time courting donors than helping people.”
“As long as it’s helping people that’s all that matters. You’d be surprised by the difference small gestures make.”
He pushes his stacks of books to the side, “You’re a nurse ?” Tell me about your role.”
“I’m a critical care nurse. My job is to care for the most at-risk patients in the hospital. “
He considers his cold coffee, “That is a very admirable job.”
“So is what you do. Donors make a big difference in healthcare. We don’t like to admit it but it’s true. My foster mom does a lot of philanthropy overseas she–..”
“You were a ward ?”
He seems to have eased into making eye contact with me.
“A ward of the state ? I guess for a little bit. I got very lucky and was placed with a family that eventually became my family.”
“I also had a foster family. I wasn’t quite as fortunate, ”, He crosses a finger over the ring line, “Well perhaps that's not true.”
The waiter brings out a gorgeous rounded blue and green teapot with two matching cups. Fierro tries to signal to the waiter that we only need one set.
“No. It’s okay. I don’t mind sharing. I think it just has to, steep.”
I gesture to the small timer on the tea tray. It only had 45 seconds left. The silence that followed as we waited should have been awkward –but it wasn't. The timer flashes when it’s done.
He fills my cup then his. I add a little granulated honey. The tea has a lot of interesting notes and the jasmine is perfectly soft and earthy.
“This was a good choice”, I decide.
“Rose will be happy to hear that,” he says while setting his cup down.
“Are you from New York too ?” I ask. It’s a silly question.
He nods.
“Western New York. I was raised by siblings. They were…Plain People.”
I only sort of understood what he meant. Sometimes my co-workers would watch re-runs of those Amish tv shows in the breakroom. If anything, it explained his formal mannerism and very proper way of speaking. I sort of liked it.
“…was Rose the reason you started the charity ? I noticed her glass eye”
He nods.
“I wasn’t there for her like I needed to be. The foundation helps the parents who are doing what I couldn’t…”
He trails off for a bit. The silence is quickly filled by the waiter setting down my warm croissant. It’s unbelievably light and flaky. The warm cheese is perfectly creamy and tart. Not sharp and salty like the bodega breakfast sandwiches I’ve been craving.
Fierro refills my tea cup and then his own. A still but strangely comfortable silence falls. He goes back to writing on his legal pad. His elegant handwriting seems to flow out of the sharp tipped pen.
“Working on something big ?”, I ask
“An essay”, He says, “I’m on a bit of a deadline for class.”
I study the stack of books. Most of them are very old textbooks with a ‘giant ‘W’ stamped into them..
“What are you studying”
“Philosophy”, he says
“That’s different.”
“I am learning to appreciate the pursuit of order in a world of chaos.”
“It must be quite the learning curve if you were raised without technology."
He nods, “It can be. The program director is a bit esoteric which certainly helps. He insists everything is hand written.”
“What’s your essay about ?”
“It’s about the existential phenomenology of Jean-Paul Sartre”.
“I won’t pretend to understand."
He sets his pen down
“It’s about consciousness and how our experiences impact our quest to live what some call an ‘authentic life’. Every choice we make, all of our understood morals and ethics are based on our personal experiences. Even experiences we wish to forget.”
“That makes a little more sense.” I say which is true but it still goes way over my head.”I enrolled in a philosophy elective but I dropped it for applied Chemistry. I guess I’m more of a science person.”
He thinks on this.
“I admire the sciences. I’ve considered auditing a biology course at our sister-university.”
“You should.”
“It seems scientists always want to solve everything. They want answers. Facts. Logic. I’m not sure I want such easy answers.”
“That’s fair”, I decide even though I feel like we are talking about something else
I do some people watching and finish my lunch while he writes. I re-read my France travel guide just to have something to do. When he notices me folding pages, he offers me a pen and I circle things I’d like to do–if only because I love how smooth the ink flows.
When I finish lunch I stand up.
“Um. Tell Clara I really appreciate her hospitality. I’ll think about attending the fundraiser. I’m just gonna pay and get out of your hair.“
“If your schedule allows, you would be more than welcome at the garden party. If anything Chateau Mercier is an infamous sight worth seeing. It’s one of the oldest Pre-Revolution houses in Versailles. It also has quite a bit of macabre history to it. ”
He writes the address on one of the café’s sturdy brown napkins. The writing is as beautiful and elegant as it looked it in his notebook
“Um, can I ask a favor”, I manage.
He considers this “A favor ?”
“…I don’t know how to get back to the Galleria. My phone is there getting repaired. Would you mind jotting it down ?”
He closes his book and stands. I’d anticipated he was tall but didn’t realize how much until just now.
“I’ll walk you. Seems my afternoon is suddenly free.”
As we head out I peer through the window wondering how we’d looked to outsiders. Perfectly framed in that wide window with draping wisteria. I peer through the window and give the cafe one last glance. Then I see the waiter bussing the table.
“Oh no”, I dash back inside and grab the sketchbook and pens his daughter had left when Clara rushed her out, “Almost forgot this.”
“Thank you.” he puts it under his arm, “She would have been very cross if it was lost.”
He walks at the same leisurely pace all Europeans seem to. I’m too busy taking in the sights and sounds to notice the prolonged silence. I was kind of glad there was no rush to fill the silence. I get the feeling he is still working out his essay in his head. My heart drops when we get to the Galleria. The inside is dark and the doors are locked..
“No. I---No. It’s not even three.”
“Shops close early around here. They will be open tomorrow afternoon.”
I remind myself he wasn’t raised with technology. Maybe he doesn’t understand why it is so important to me.
“I need to call my son’s father and tell him where I am.”
“Here.” He slides out a phone again.
I step aside and call Adam. I get an update on Eli and then explain the situation. The connection is bad but I assure Adam I am fine. I don’t want him to travel to me. It was important he and Eli’s time was uninterrupted.
“Is it okay if I call myself cab ?” I ask him.
He nods and I call a service to pick me up. He doesn’t take the phone when I hand it back.
“ Why don’t you keep it? You can return it to me at the fundraiser tomorrow."
“I..wait. Is this your way of making sure I attend?”
He considers this.
“ I suppose it is. I don’t believe in coincidences Sofia. Clara was placed in your life at that moment for a reason. Also…there is something about you I haven’t quite figured out. Alternatively, you can just toss the device when you’re done and continue your vacation. I’ll take no offense. Either way it was very nice to meet you.”
+++
The sky is ominously gray the next morning.
Yesterday, after I’d gotten back to my hotel, I’d asked the concierge about the Mercier village and the illusive Chateau Mercier. The concierge shied away from talking about the chateau, but told me that Mercier Village was famous for its vintage thrift shops, cafes and historical homes.
Before going to bed I’d done something truly awful. I pulled out the phone FIerro had given me and started to explore a little. I just wanted to know more about the man whose house I was going to. There were only a handful of photos in the album—Rose’s school photo and a few photos of a man with close cut curls and deep brown skin who had seemingly taken a few selfies when the phone was locked.
The phone only had the default apps.There were no texts and e-mail wasn’t set up on the phone.
There were plenty of calls. The only stored numbers belonged to an Emile, Prof. Essex, Dani, Rychard Sinclair, Oliver Harrington, Rosalie Emmiline Fierro, Luna’s Mother, Luna’s Father, Daphne Mother 1 , Daphne Mother 2, Rev. Kissick, Ms. DeLune, Ms. DeLune-Locke , Mrs.DeLune- Bell, Mr. Bell, Miss. Bell, Clarence (Spencer), Versailles Pret A Manager, Du Jour Market Traiteur Gourmet and WIltonshire Shoppe and Ready.
I felt instantly guilty for being nosy but I was doing it for my own safety
The only interesting thing was the massive amount of music on the device. It was divided into obscure playlists. One was songs from the 40s and 50s. One that was exclusively classical piano music. There were playlist for sleeping, walking, driving, meditation and the train.
I set the phone on my nightstand and opened the meditation playlist. A soft piano began to play. I let myself fall into it as the sound of a gentle rain shower began to play underneath.
I now realize too late that my driver and I are having a big miscommunication.
Before getting into the car I’d practiced telling him I needed to be dropped off in Mercier Village in Le Vésinet. He was now driving r through the town instead of dropping me off.
I watch helplessly as he speeds through the village. He isn’t going to drop me off in the town square like I’d asked…or thought I’d asked. I start to panic when we turn down Monet Drive. He’s taking me straight to Chateau Mercier. I’m so anxious I can't even appreciate the beautiful mansions and historical houses that line the long street.
It feels like we are in the middle of nowhere. Then he makes a turn. For the next mile or so there is nothing. I brace myself as we reach a pair of wrought iron gates. The doors swing open and a few hundred feet in I see a house at the end of a paved drive. It’s an elegant neoclassical mansion with glittering windows and columns. It’s settled gracefully in acres of green grass.
The driver doesn’t seem phased by the mansion and pulls into the circular drive. I try to explain to him that we need to turn around. He says something to me I don’t catch. I don’t like his tone and I think he is demanding payment. He gets a little hostile so I pay and get out of the car. In my panic I’d given him way more than I meant to. He drives off before I can correct the mistake.
I look at the imposing house.
It’s 6am.
How was I going to explain being nine hours early for the fundraiser?
I sit on the front steps. I’d packed some magazines, crosswords and crochet. I’d planned to leisurely work my way through these activities in a quaint cafe in-between antique stores and sightseeing. Oh well. I could get comfortable out here.
“Sofia ?”
I turn to see Clara at the front door. She looks bright-eyed to be at work so early in the morning. She’s in a casual light green t-shirt dress and sneakers. Her gaze goes from me to the thick clouds in the sky.
“Clara, I ’m sorry to disturb you. I told the driver to take me into town. We just had a miscommunication. “
“That’s so funny. Come in. It’s so chilly out there.”
I try not to stare as I enter. The floors are a beautiful white and gray marble. An elegant staircase at the center splits dramatically at the top floor. Although one wing upstairs seems to be sectioned off in industrial wrap and tape.
I follow Clara to the left side of the staircase and into a short hallway that leads to a massive airy eat-in kitchen. It has gorgeous stainless steel appliances and pristine pine cabinets.
“You must get an early start.” I say.
“It's going to be a long day. I found a frozen quiche in the freezer. I need some fuel.”
Rose is sitting at an oversized quartz island with her sketch book from yesterday. I guess she is an early riser too.”
“Hi, Rose”, I say, “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Hello . That’s peculiar.”
“What is ?”
“I’m not certain yet.”
Clara settles on the far side of the long island where a stack of large white stemmed garden roses are waiting to be trimmed and put in a vase
“Those are beautiful,” I say, “ Are those for the fundraiser ?”
“No. These are just to brighten the place up, “ she says, “I’m so worried about the weather. It’s so cloudy.”
“I’m sure it will pass.”
She nods more to herself than to me.
“There is so much to do before the caterers get here. The decorators should be here by now. I need to check on a few things. Please, make yourself at home. Feel free to check out the garden. It’s–”
Clara’s phone rings and she starts speaking frantically in French. Her accent is so sharp and flows like a native speaker. I would love to speak French like that one day.
There is a pitter-patter from down the hall and a not quite fully grown Saint Bernard bounds into the kitchen. The dog circles Rose’s chair and nips at her shoes.
“No”, Rose says in her very polished accent, “Go away. Oh. He’s just awful.”
“He’s just a puppy”, I say, letting him come and sniff me. My kids would love a dog but we didn’t have the room or resources, “He’ll learn.”
“That’s what mother said but she was wrong.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. No one had mentioned Rose’s mother. I was very curious to meet her.
When Clara comes back into the room the Saint Bernard jets off to her and follows her around the kitchen.
“I’m going to step out. The caterers are all turned around”, Clara fills the dog’s bowl from a water and food station built into a cabin by the back door, “I’m going to go get them. If the decorators show– would you mind letting them in ? They really should have been here an hour ago.”’
“Of course.”
Clara shrugs on an oversized cardigan, grabs her tote bag and heads out the front door. The dog quickly abandons his food and follows her excitedly.
“Thank you so much, Sofia. I’ll be right back.” Clara picks up the vase of white roses and takes them with her. “ Help yourself to the quiche and there is a fruit tra—“
The dog runs between Clara’s feet. She doesn't see him and she ends up falling into Fierro who has come up behind her. Fierro manages to catch himself before his head can hit the floor. Clara falls ungracefully on top of him. The vase she was holding clatters to the floor sending flowers and water everywhere. Mercifully, the vase was plastic
“I’m okay”, Clara says, “Oh no... Are you okay.”
Fierro sits up, Clara sits ungracefully until she is sitting in his lap. Her focus seems to be on his form-fitting long-sleeve black athletic polo.
“Is everyone okay?”, I ask , “Any aches or pains ?”
“I’m alright”, Fierro says, then looks at Clara. She looks back at him as if expecting him to answer for her, “Clara ?”
“I’m”, she looks at me, “I’m okay ! I’m just never up this early. You look… I mean this is–”
“Take your time. Move slow”, I reach down and help Clara up then check her eyes for signs of a concussion.
Clara’s phone rings again. She rolls her eyes at the device.The dog bounds over to Clara and curls around her feet---probably a little aware that this was his fault. I help Fierro up too. It’s a bit hard for me to check his eyes on account of his height.
“I just need to check your eyes”, I say. His pupils also aren’t dilated. His light icy blue irises are almost white. I’d never seen anything like it. His eyes narrow slightly.
“Sofia ? What are you doing here ?”
“We have an early guest”, Clara says, “I’ve told her to relax until the fundraiser.”
“Well, it’s good to see you again, Sofia.”
“I should go”, Clara smiles, “Unless you want to come with me.”
“I wouldn't want to leave Sofia alone-“
“Oh…I was talking to Rochester”, Clara picks up the dog who already has his leash in his mouth.
Fierro easily moves past his mistake.
“I think it’s best he stay here.”
Clara apologetically sets the puppy down, “I’m sorry, Chester. Next time. Okay ? ”
Clara makes her way out the house and the dog, Rochester, scratches at the door. Fierro whistles and the dog reluctantly pads away and down the hall towards what I assume is an expansive backyard for him to run in.
“Hi”, I say.
“Hello”, he says and for a second the silence is uncomfortable, “Like Clara said, please make yourself at home. After breakfast I can give you a tour of the house–tell you a little about the history…if you like.”
“Of course. Yes. Thank you.”
He goes upstairs and I head into the kitchen. There is a lovely solarium just off the kitchen filled with soft modern furniture. I could certainly read out there for a while. Then I notice Rose watching the oven from her place at the island. She looks at the oven mitts but seems to think twice about picking them up.
“Is something in here ? It smells good”, I grab the oven mitts and take the quiche out, “How about I cut a slice for each of us.”
Rose nods
I don’t see any plates set out. I open a random cabinet and see stacks of colorful floral china. I open another cabinet and it is filled with mismatched tea cups. I open another and there is more vintage china.
“Is this okay to use ?”
Rose nods and I take out a pretty set of bone china plates with a mandarin orange and hummingbird design. I also grab the artfully arranged fruit tray from the fridge. It’s luxuriously rustic with bright pomegranate slices, blackberries, sliced clementines, blueberries and strawberries still on the vine. There is a white porcelain dish of honey and soft cheese on the platter as well.
“What’s your favorite ?” I ask.
“Clementine and blueberry, ” Rose says.
“That sounds good. I’ll try the same.”
I do my best to artfully place a slice of quiche and fruit on each plate.
When I look up I see Rose studying me.
“Is this okay ?”
“Yes”, She says, “Thank you.”
Barking breaks the silence. I look into the hallway and see Rochester is splashing around in the spilled water and roses. He barks and nips at the roses on the floor. That can’t be good.
“Oh dear”, I pick up the dog before he can eat a flower. I get him to focus on his food. While he is distracted I start picking up the roses.
I’m so focused I don’t hear Fierros’s footsteps until he is in front of me. He’d changed into brown slacks and a beige collared shirt with a few buttons undone.
“Sofia”, Fierro says, “What are you doing ? You’re our guest. I’ll handle this.”
“Oh, I don’t mind--” I pull my finger away and see a spot of blood. Clara had missed one of the thorns.
I rinse my finger off while he picks up the rest of the roses. A few are still in decent condition and he puts them in a different vase from under the sink.
“Do you have a mop ?” I suggest. It's not my place but spilled water makes me nervous. So many accidents and head injuries happen that way.
Fierro seems to deeply consider this. I start to wonder if I’ve hit some nerve. Or maybe it was nothing. He and his daughter seemed to be in perpetual thought before speaking.
“I’m certain we do, I am not certain where it is.”
“Oh.”
If only to have a house so big.
He starts opening kitchen cabinets and I gather he must not spend a lot of time there. While he is looking I notice a small door by the solarium.
“Could it be in there ?”
He opens the door and sure enough there is what looks like a mini show room with shiny high-end vacuums and mops displayed on the wall. Glass bottled cleaners are neatly displayed next to them.
“Maybe I should do it ”, I suggest.
“You are our guest. That would be—“
“It’s okay. I’ve been abroad for a week. I kind of miss doing a little housework.”
Honestly I’m intrigued by the high-end cleaning supplies. The wet vacuum works like a dream. It takes me less than ten minutes to make sure the spot is perfectly dry. By the time I’ve washed up, I’m more than ready for breakfast.
Fierro is by the stove watching a moka pot bubble away. Rose watches as I reach for my plate. It’s very warm to the touch and the fruit looks a bit wilted.
“Um…did you put this in the microwave ?”
“It started to make an awful noise”, Rose says
“I apologize. I didn’t want your breakfast to get cold.” Fierro admits.
“I don’t think you can put china in the microwave.”
“I’ll admit Ms. Madigan. The kitchen is not my forte.”
“It’s fine.”, Based on the way the single male doctors at my hospital acted– it didn’t seem uncommon at all.
“Ms. Madigan, I certainly don’t want you to think we put all our guests to work.”
“It’s fine.”
The moka pot on the stove begins to whistle. He sets it on a stunning gold trivet. He picks two large cups from the cabinet and stands on the other side of the island facing Rose and I. When he offers me coffee I decline.
“I hope you won’t think me too incompetent. In the past I’ve always had housekeepers. Somethings are best left to professionals.”
“If you can afford a little extra help. Why not ?” I could just imagine all the extra time I’d have if we had a regular housekeeper.
“That’s what mother always says”, Rose pipes up.
“I’d love to meet her”, I look to Fierro, “Is your wife coming to the garden party ?”
“I’m not married. I’m a widower”, He says putting sugar then a fair amount of cream into his coffee.
“Oh.” I look at Rose. “I’m sorry. I assumed she was alive-"
“She is,” he says, adding a bit more milk to his coffee, “Clara is Rose’s mother.”
“Oh”, I say looking at Rose. They had the same dark raven hair, but that was the only resemblance, “Goodness. I feel silly…. Clara said you were her boss.”
“I am to a very small degree.”
“Oh. I...got it”, I say even though I very much did not.
Although it made sense why Clara had been drawn to my conversation about co-parenting.
Fierro picks up his coffee.
“Rose, let’s give Ms. Madigan some space.”
“I don’t mind the company.” I take the plush stool next to Rose and sprinkle a little bit of honey on the warm fruit.
He doesn’t directly respond, “If you’ll excuse me. I need to do a final walk-through of the garden before this afternoon.”
“Oh…I…okay.”
I was more than concerned with how comfortable they were with leaving me alone with their daughter. People had a tendency to trust me more when they learned I was a nurse but still .
Rose goes back to her drawing. I notice there is an empty tea cup next to her and a floral tea tin with a label that says Orange Blossom white tea
“Do you have tea every morning?”
“Yes. Usually”, She says looking impatiently at the empty cup, “I have to wait until mother gets back. Mother says I can’t be trusted around the stove so I’m not allowed to touch it unless she is here. Although I’m sure I could…but I won’t.”
I knew that parents of sick children could be overly cautious even when their children are grown. Rose looked to be 11 or 12.
“What if I handle the stove part?”
“Well, I suppose that would be alright.”
Rose helps me navigate to a cabinet filled with vintage teapots and antique tea kettles.
“For two cups you have to do two tablespoons of leaves. The water has to be below 85 degrees”, she explains.
“You want two cups ?”
“No. One is for you.”
I scoop the tea in and then use a fancy gold thermometer to check the temperature before pouring. Rose sets an adorable analog bird -shaped timer for two minutes. We both watch it intently as it steeps. For some reason it makes me smile.
“How did you learn so much about tea?” I ask her.
Rose gazes up from the steeping tea pot. She blinks at me slowly. I’m worried she didn’t hear me but then she answers,
“Magazines and books. When we lived in England Papa’s housekeepers were English and they were very particular about tea.I like tea but I’m not overly particular like Luna. I even like American tea. The very sweet cold kind.”
“Whose Luna ?”
Rose considers her empty cup, “She’s in my class cohort. Her father is a Lord. She insists everything has to be done the proper British way even though she’s from Australia.”
“That’s funny.”
“It’s all very silly, I think. There is no proper way to drink tea.”
When the timer goes off I pour. I put in a little honey from the fruit tray in mine. Rose just adds a broken cinnamon stick and dried pineapple. She takes a small sip, then sits up very properly.
She takes a small breath and asks.
“Why do you like tea Ms. Sofia ?”
Her accent is so adorable.
“Good question. For starters I like all the flavor combinations. A hot cup of tea is comforting. Especially when you are holding it with both hands on a cold day.”
Rose nods her head as if she found my response acceptable. Strangely, I wanted her to approve of me. I settle at the counter with my magazine. The radio turns up a little, it’s set to a quiet vintage 1940s classic station.
I get a little restless when I finish my tea. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I collect and wash the breakfast dishes. The lavender and thyme dish soap smells amazing, it also lathers and cleans pretty well.
When Rose's father comes back in he doesn’t make mention of it.
“Ready for a tour ?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Sweetheart, will you join us ?”
Rose doesn't look up from her book, “ I don’t think Mother would want me to. Also Ms. Sofia, the house isn’t haunted anymore. Well, not nearly as much.”
I’m not sure which of those statements I want her to elaborate more on.
“Haunted ?”, I say more to myself.
I follow Fierro out the front door. The overcast sky and chill give the house a foreboding look. The glittering windows are spaced out evenly across the whitewashed stone. The lines are clean and symmetrical. A strange shiver runs over my shoulder. I turn and there is of course no one there.
“…according to the historical record”, He begins, “ Mercier began construction in the late 1760s. A gift to a newly married couple with a very minor title. They were a part of the Bourdeaux family. Mercier was smaller than most peerage houses of the time. When it was completed--the French Revolution began. Most of the Bourdeaux family fled before it could be occupied.
The house remained abandoned until the Bourbon Restoration. It was later renovated, but by the 1880s it was considered garish and out of date. It was reluctantly passed down from Bourdeaux to Bourdeaux for decades. It was an occasional base during wartime– but was for the most part abandoned.
In 1917 Victor Bourdeaux inherited the house.", His tone changes slightly, “When The Great War ended he began to host secret bacchanals here. The entire affair was anonymous. He’d send out cryptic secret invitations and require all his guests to be masked. In 1925 he threw a Versailles themed masquerade. He invited hundreds of people.
Three of the guests never left; the girl he loved, the man she loved and his best friend. No one knew they’d attended the event. Though personal records show some speculation. The trio’s disappearance was a scandal. Some thought they had run off together to Algeria chasing a Bohemian lifestyle. Others thought their car had run off into the river.
Victor died a few weeks after their disappearance. He took his secrets and the truth of their disappearance with him.
After World War II, Mercier was abandoned. The Bourdeaux line quietly ended and the disappearances were forgotten to history.”
I get chills. For a moment I can hear the celebratory music and laughter. The sound fades on the air.
“It was in quite a state when Clara decided to purchase it.”
“The renovation must have been intense.”
“It’s still a work in progress. Finding the bodies caused quite the delay.”
I stopped as we tread closer to the front door again..
“The missing guest.” I realize.
He nods, “ Unfortunately Victor’s crimes didn't end there. There were at least 15 more remains found on the property. All of them his victims. He’s been posthumously dubbed The Mad Heir.”
I felt shivers run through me, “Is this place haunted ?”
“I promise you there is nothing to be afraid of.The soil has been overturned, Spectres have been cleansed. New life has been brought to Mercier.”
“You should write a book about that. ”
“One is being written, though not by me. “
I follow him onto the portico and back inside the house.
“The exterior facade has been entirely restored and preserved. Very little of the original interior architecture remains. The first floor has been thoroughly modernized. The third floor and half the second are inhabitable at the moment. The basement library had to be sealed off to keep the building stable.”
He takes me down the hallway and past the kitchen. At the end of the hall is a huge framed hand-drawn blueprint of the house framed in gallery lights.
“As you can see. The basement doesn’t appear on the original blueprint. It’s believed Victor built it to facilitate his .crimes.”
“I feel like you’re trying to scare me.”
He looks at me and seems to consider my words.
“Enough of this unpleasantness. The gardens are right this way.”
Before following him I peer into a little alcove at the end of the hall. There is a giant white piano overlooking the back lawn. Rochester is sleeping soundly under the bench.
I follow Fierro through the kitchen where Rose is preparing a new sketch. We head out the back door and step onto an expansive terracotta patio. A beautifully modern wet bar and strategically placed bistro sets are set up around a pristine blue pool.
A pergola entwined with fairy lights lines the massive patio. Soft orchestral music seems to play on the air. I feel like I’m at a rustic countryside resort. It inspired joie de vive in a way I hadn’t felt yet. Maybe that’s what came from meeting locals.
“The house sits on 50 acres.”, Fierro continues, “Work on the garden finished last year.”
A few feet away from the patio is a tall gold gate surrounded by deep green hedges. We step through the gate. On the other side there is a small phone booth-shaped structure draped in wisteria and climbing roses. An ornate ticking clock ticks on top of it. The little structure is stocked with neatly organized garden supplies.
I carefully follow Fierro down a cobblestone path. We are surrounded on all sides by neatly trimmed hedges and blossoming white and red English roses. The real star seems to be the red gardening roses with splotches of white.There are whimsical statues hidden in the garden; a rabbit, walruses and caterpillars and cats. Around the next turn is a small burbling fountain with delicate white benches and a bistro table around it. A glowing lantern sways quietly above it. It feels like we’re somewhere else entirely.
“They are all roses”, I say as we pass through another archway overflowing with white roses, “Is that how Rose got her name.”
“I think so”, he says, “I missed her early years.”
“You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” At least I hope it does.
He nods as we continue.
“There is a small section over there with lavender, peonies and hydrangeas. I have plans to expand it across the entire property as time permits.”
“You planted all these ?”
“A few local landscapers helped towards the end”, he admits.
“It’s a beautiful place for a garden party. The guests are going to love this. “
He seems to make the same quiet adjustment that Rose did. “Do you garden ?”
“I’d love to but we don’t really have the space.”
“You don’t need much space.” He says, “I've managed to grow a few plants in my Wiltonshire flat."
"It might be something worth exploring. We do have a small backyard."
"What occupies you when you’re not working ?”
I shrug knowing whatever I say will sound silly compared to having the ability to create all of this.
“Being a mom keeps me busy.”
“Clara mentioned you were a mother.”
“My son and my adopted daughter. I also provide care to one of my neighbors and a family member. Other than that I like going to tea shops. I volunteer with my church’s health outreach ministry. My daughter has really been into crafts so I’ve been into crafts. My son just loves going to the park and running around so we've been trying to visit every park in Manhattan.”
“You have a lot on your shoulders”, He says, “Makes all of this seem like a rich man’s folly.”
“This”, I say, “Is beautiful. It’s 10 times better than the Versailles gardens and it didn't t cost $39.50. This is amazing. Really. You’re so talented.”
“You’re too kind”, he says.
We approach a small footbridge over a man-made pond. The pebbled rocks are beautiful but they do a number on my heels. I let him take my hands, our skin is cold from the weather. His grip is secure and I hesitate a little to let go.
We are reaching the end of the path. It ends abruptly in front of a glass house that looks a bit like a gilded birdcage. Inside I can see a small study is set up in the corner with a chalk board. There are long tables with nursery pots and diagrams. Along the wall is what looks like an herb garden. I spy some gorgeous buttercup yellow ans soft pink roses in the back. At the end of the path there is a small table stacked with notebooks and tea cups. Another swooping lantern glows above the table. What a cozy spot.
He flips through the book. It's filled with Rose’s sketches and drawings. She’d drawn the garden but turned the statues into live animals. A few seem to be getting into mischief.
“Oh”, I say while studying the image, “This garden is Alice in Wonderland themed.”
“It’s Rose's favorite book. She tolerates the…old film.”
“My daughter loves Disney but she’s more into the princess. I don't think I’ve seen it.”
“I saw it with my wife…a long time ago.”
“That’s an interesting date night.”
“Small town. There wasn’t much to do.”
There was so much care and detail in her work. I'd met amazing tattoo artists who couldn’t capture the feeling Rose’s art gave me. There was so much love in these pages. She loved this garden.
Fierro didn’t put up a fight when I offered to carry the dishes back while he carried the books.
Rose is still in the kitchen when we return. She had now broken out a set of watercolor markers and was coloring in her sketch. I take the dishes to the sink and out of habit start to wash them. I’m also now obsessed with the fragrant dish soap.
A chime sounds and Clara walks in. Rochester rushes around the corner and scurries into Clara’s arms.
“I drew a whole map for the caterers. They should be here soon”, Clara says to no one in particular and no one in particular answers her. She turns to me, “Did you get a house tour?”
“She did," Fierro says pouring another cup of coffee from the cooling pot.
Clara smiles and turns back to me, “Sofia, I can’t wait to show you my dress. I just have a few more things to wrap up first.”
“I’m happy to help out if you need–”
“No. You are on vacation. Enjoy the garden. Make yourself at home. ” Clara heads out the kitchen and Fierro follows behind her.
I consider the wide selection of tea. There is a vanilla blueberry white tea that looks tempting. Rose is still at the island diligently shading her drawing of the fruit platter.
“You are quite the artist, Rose. Who is your favorite artist ?”
Rose looks up from her art.
“Do you have any favorite artists?” I ask again.
Rose considers me for a long time. She and her father seem to have the same quietly hesitant presence and temperament, all expression seemed relegated to their unique sets of eyes.
“May I show you ?” Rose finally asks.
“Oh. Sure.”
She takes her time sliding off the stool. Her black riding boots click with each step. She is almost swallowed up in a long sleeve black and purple floral dress and long flowy cardigan. She seems to orient herself and then heads towards the front .
Rose veers to a set of double doors not far from the entrance. The parlor is lined with antique mahogany book shelves. One shelf has pictures of what must be Clara’s sisters and her mother. There is a cozy fireplace and the space is filled with sumptuous wood and velvet furniture. The lamps are dim and look to be from the 1960s. It takes me a second to realize the vibrant Renoir above the fireplace is a television. It’s all a bit mismatch in a timeless way. The floors and tables are all covered in books and a laptop is sitting on the couch.
“I suppose I don’t have a favorite artist”, Rose scans the massive shelves,“My tutors like old boring ones. All the current artists like abstractionism. I suppose if I had one I liked…”
Rose trails off and begins to scour the shelves.
“Rose, are you causing trouble for our guest?”
I take a step back when I realize Fierro is sitting at a small desk nestled into the corner by the window. I passingly notice him close a drawer with a lighter. His desk is crowded with very well used French history books, maps and a typewriter. The room smells faintly of tobacco.
“Honeslty”, Rose says peering at a stack of oversized coffee table books stacked in a corner. When she doesn't see what she is looking for, she moves to the next stack of books.
Fierro rolls his chair over to a stack of books on the floor and holds out an oversized book. At first glance it looks like a colorful bouquet is pictured on it. But upon closer inspection I see it is a painting.
“Looking for this.”
“Thank you”, Rose says, “Papa found it at the used bookstore. Rachel Ruysch. I don't care for the hyper realis-
Rose retracts her hands from the book and it hits the ground hard. I get a little closer and see a large chunk of the book has been chewed up.
Rose looks affronted. Her narrowing gaze goes from the book to the hallway.
At that moment Clara comes in holding Rochester.
“What’s everyone doing in here—“
“You let him eat my favorite book”, Rose says, pointing an accusing finger at the dog.
Clara frowns and looks at the book
“He’s just a puppy. You shouldn’t have left it on the floor.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s enough Rose.” Clara’s voice goes cold. She then smiles at me, “We have company.”
The dog starts barking at Rose
“You did it on purpose.” Rose says accusingly.
Clara rolls her eyes, “He’s a puppy Rose.”
“You let him chew on it.” Rose says.
“That’s enough Rose.”, Clara’s tone comes back, “The caterers are going to be here soon. I need to clean up in here. Go take your stuff off the kitchen coutner—“
“No. You did it on purpose. You let him chew on my book—“
“That conversation is over. It’s just a book. Keep this up and I”ll make you stay at the party the whole time.
“Admit it”, Rose stands in place and focuses on her mother, “You let him do it.”
Rochester barks at Rose. Clara kept him close.
“Enough. Rosalie.You are being so disrespectful and--”
“Clara”, Fierro pulls her towards him as the bookshelf she’d been standing in front slams into the ground. The shelf splinters upon impact. Books and wood fly everywhere.
Clara’s bright and bubbly expression hardens. Rochester jumps out of her arms and retreat in a corner. A long silence follows and I’m not sure how to see myself out.
“Rose”, Clara snaps at her, “,This fundraiser is already stressing me out as it is. I don’t have time for you to be throwing a fucking temp—“,.
“Clara”, Fierro warns.
“A temper tantrum", Clara continues. She’s shaking a little, “You are too old for this. . Pick that book up off the floor and go take your supplies out of the kitchen right now.“
Rose stares up at her mother. Instead of responding (or picking up the book). Rose heads up the stairs. Clara follows after her but Fierro steps in front of her.
“Clara. I need to run into town. I need to pick up a last minute item. I’ll take Rose with me.”
Clara rolls her eyes, “Fine.”
I help Clara and Fierro pick up the toppled bookshelf.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it. “ Clara starts to pick up the books
“Are you sure ? I can help.”
“ I’m fine.”, Clara seems to be bouncing back , “ You should go with them. You didn’t get to see the village yet. It's so quaint like a story book. It’s like Luxembourg. It’s actually designed after it or so I’ve heard.”
It’s subtle but it sounds like Clara is on the verge of tears. I have no idea what my place is in this.
Author’s Note
The beautiful facade is starting to crumble