6 Years Earlier

  +1+

2013

I had to get out of Rochester. I couldn't be the gossip of the Rochester one percent. . . certainly not again.

Not Clara DeLune, the piano prodigy. The one marrying royalty, the one who disappeared, the one who was found on Christmas Eve, the one who hid away. The one who watched her mother kill her father.

Everything I had in Rochester was broken after my Father's death and I didn't want to stick around and pick up the pieces.  So I left. I ran.

My original plan had been to take my daughter and go to Rome. Italy was like a second home to me and the last place I'd been really happy. I just wanted to be somewhere warm with thick Italian accents.

My plan deviated a little and instead of settling on Italy, I went anywhere and everywhere I could ; Dubai, Capetown, Athens , Sweden, Berlin and Madrid. I had a large inheritance, a past I was running away from and way to much time on my hands. It was a bit reckless and maybe indulgent but I needed it. 

The best part about leaving, was I didn’t do it alone.

I couldn’t run forever.  I had to be a responsible adult and settle down. After all I had a four year old  and a little girl needed a touchstone, a place to call home. Even if that little girl was as unusual, exhausting and difficult as Rosalie Emmiline Fierro.

London would have never been my first choice as a place to settle down, it lacked that spark I felt in other cities. I mean if you're going to live overseas you should choose someplace interesting. I mean, But  did have Emile and I needed all the friends I could find if I wanted to make a something-like-normal life for myself.

Emile had been so gracious letting me into his world and circle of friends when I’d always kept him at a distance from mine. Ever since I was a teenager I’d learned to put on a good imitation of WASPY perfection, so it didn’t take much effort for me to hold a glass and charm my way through Emile’s countless parties. Joint efforts between him and his abundantly social paramour, Robert,  an English academic and casual tennis player from Edinburgh.

If Emile thought there would be an exceptionally good opportunity for networking at his parties, I hired movers to lug my white Steinway from my apartment to his townhouse so I could just "casually" show off my talent.

That little trick was how I ended up catching the attention of Margot Workshire, the Department head of Sloane International & Arts High School Chelsea. They had a vacancy in Freshman Music Theory, it wasn’t my forte (or "pianoforte" which is what I said in my interview) but I wasn’t going to turn honest work down.

I never hid the fact that I was a wealthy American heiress still working though a 20 million dollar inheritance, who wanted a job for independence, and Mrs. Workshire didn’t hide the fact that Sloane was a private school always in need of passionate new young donors.

And I was passionate. I taught my whole life and I put my entire self into that position, into my music. I started giving piano lessons to students and their siblings after school, I stayed late helping the French and Italian students with their English.

Secretly, I used my students to gather intel. Asking what it was like being raised away from their home countries. What they liked what they didn’t like. What they wish their parents had done differently.

When I wasn’t working I was searching auction houses for art to fill my Chelsea apartment, a modest 950 sq ft two bedroom rental in a post-war building mixed with a glass faced high rise. I got used to visiting boutiques and sample sales alone, no room for close friends. I occasionally attended faculty events if I wanted company, but I never said more than I needed.

At one point I’d started renting studio time, recording compositions and going to meet ups with fellow musicians, one who dared me to take my classical training and try street performing. I can certainly attest that it was like living all over again. When I was out there I felt less like a classically trained prodigy . . . and more like an artist.

I’d kind of accepted that my dream of landing at a conservatory, playing for a full house just wasn’t in my future. Instead I settled for a few short term gigs. I was playing for myself, for the music for the first time in years. Me and my piano was the closest I got to feeling complete.

All of it was a distraction. A constant distraction from all the . . . waiting.

+2+

To put in simply Addison M. Fierro was a persistent riddle wrapped in a perfectly starched, well spoken, polite enigma that was so transparent, yet I still couldn’t see through it. He was handsome with cheekbones and light very controlled features. He was always too polite and always smelled like the potent long stemmed white roses that were delivered to my apartment every Monday morning since  the day I moved to London.

After our short  and very. . . complicated history together we were so close to being allowed to fall for one another. It started off slow. Very slow. So much so that I’d had to constantly remind myself we had ever done anything to conceive a child. At first I had needed slow. I needed a friend more than anything else.

When I left Rochester and started traveling, he came with me. Were started our relationship as very cautious friendship. While traveling we were the kind of friends that can fall asleep next to one another on a long flight, get lost in a strange city, share meals, make small talk and the (very) occasional controversial opinion.

We’d had a very rare moment alone while in Madrid. Rose was asleep in my hotel room and he’d asked me to come to the rooftop bar with him. Madrid had been the last city we visited before we were set to move to London.

From the roof of The Metropolitan Bolivar Hotel the entire city was spread out beneath us. It was a seamless mix of old and new. The occasional warm laughter and sharp Spanish floated up from street. I took a few pictures with my phone, not sure who I had to share them with.

Mr. Fierro had been quiet the entire time we were in Spain. Since we’d started visiting warmer climates he had long since ditched his ties and a single button on his collar. His hair was neatly pulled back, there was something in his expression that night. I was surprised I hadn't seen it earlier.

“Ms. DeLune”, he said.

“Yes”

“There is something I need to. . . ”

I turned to face him and he took both my hands in his, a very intimate gesture.

“Ms.--Clara, I was a different man a long time ago. I don’t know if you know this but I was a ward of the state before I was taken in, with nothing more than a faint memory of a mother. No proper surname or birthday.

All my life I worked on the Fierro Farm and took care of my aging guardians. Work and God were my only tenants in life. I worked hard . . . including nights in your family's factory, all while asking for nothing and getting nowhere.

Ms. DeLune I wanted more out of life. I was intelligent, curious, and wanted to live in more than the books in the local library. Upward mobility wasn’t an easy path then When I fell in love . . . I wanted to start a life and a family as soon as possible, but I had nothing to my name.  I promised Lucie I would work hard and make something of myself.

As you know I failed miserably. I know it was my own fault. I could hardly bring myself to leave the farm. I told myself next week, next year. Lucie probably turned down a handful of proposals waiting for me. Until Roger came along . . .

I think about that time in my life a lot now. It keeps me up at night. If I’d stopped being afraid and took more action  I could have married Lucie sooner. She never would have  . . .

That is to say. . .I failed her and myself then. My foolishness cost me my happiness the first time around. While I’ve lost Lucie forever,  I still need to make something of myself. Something solid and worthy in memory of the promise I made her”

I kept my expression neutral; this hadn’t been at all what I was expecting. He hadn't mentioned her name in months and it bought back strange feelings for me.

“But you are a perfectly worthy person now, ”, I whispered, “You’re very well off now—“

“Yes, off the Fierro Estate that was endowed for my family by Lucie.”

I frowned at the mention of her name again tonight, although I knew he was right.

“Mr. Fierro. I would never make you wait like she did. You don't need to be anything. I’d take you if you had nothing”, I said

He scoffed. That was new.

“That is a lie, Ms. DeLune. If you would have known me then, a smart beautiful privileged well off girl like yourself wouldn’t have never given a poor disfigured farm boy a second look.  ”

“That’s not true.”

“It is Ms. DeLune ? Lucie and you are alike in that way. It’s understandable.”

The muscles in my lips pulled followed by the heat behind my eyes. That wasn’t true. Was it ?

“Ms. DeLune”, he said taking my hands again, “I need to leave my mark, however small. I want to be the man I should have been all those years ago. I don’t know how this road I plan to take will go, but I think it’s a road easier traveled without lingering commitments I can’t fufill right now."

lingering commitments ?

Was I a lingering commitment ?

“What do you mean ? What's happening ? We're moving to London in 3 days. I haven an apartment. . . . you bought a house.”

“We are, but I  think it's best we live separate lives. I know what you want ” he said, “And it's something I can’t give you now. I made a lot of mistakes in my past, and I don’t want to take another friendship for granted again.”

“Friendship ?”. I questioned, “Is that how you see this playing out ?”

“Ms. DeLune. I hope to make you a happy woman one day, but I need time to make something of myself first. I promise I won't make you wait as long as Lucie--”

“I understand”, I said cutting him off, "You're basically breaking up with me--"

"No-"

"You know you really haven't changed in 50 years. I'm not going to stand still waiting for you.."

I hadn't meant that last part. I understood the sum of our time together was . . . relatively small, but I was so certain there was never going to be anyone else. I knew he felt the same way. . . just not about me.

"I don't expect you to wait. If we don't have this lifetime. . . well we have the next. We have forever, as it were."

I didn’t remember what happened the rest of the night I remember not saying much, I remember tactfully walking away and making a quick getaway back to my room. I could do everything he wanted, be whatever he wanted and I still couldn’t be her. I still couldn’t make him forget about Lucie.

We both moved to London as planned and were stuck in a strange orbit after that. I lived in the city and he moved to the country. It wasn't like we could escape one another. He would always take his share of responsibilities to his daughter and Emile was a close friend to us both.

That left me with a lot of nights alone, wishing things were different. I had to remind myself that it could never be good-bye, we would always be entwined. After all we were cursed.

+3+

Le Marché Fleur

 

Nowadays Emile claims the name was his idea. Emile was a majority partner in what started off as a small venture between him and Mr. Fierro. To them It was the classic American dream. . . just in London.  Their venture could have failed and Emile would still have his tenure to fall back on, but if it succeed Emile could stand to make quiet a bit of extra money.

Emile didn’t join Mr.Fierro as a partner in business for the money, or because Emile could charm and network in any situation. Emile did it to fix the subtle rift in his relationship with Mr. Fierro.

Admittedly I hadn’t noticed it before, but we were all in such close proximity in London that it became obvious.  I’d started to notice they never really sought out one another and were hardly alone together. There were always these silent looks and unsaid tension in the air. I couldn’t remember the last time they had a full conversation or even a drink together. Like the old days. old old days.

Emile confessed to me one night while the two of us (and Rose) were playing Clue that Mr. Fierro could never fully forgive Emile for not telling him about Rose. As Rose’s Godfather Emile had held her as a baby, rocked her to sleep and watched her take her first steps. . . she was even named after him; all while Mr. Fierro had been none the wiser. Emile never said the word but I'm sure jealously or betrayal would have been the right one.

Le Marché Fleur was Emile's idea. It was no secret that Mr. Fierro had always had a certain aesthetic and patience for cultivating beautiful roses. A leisurely pursuit he’d picked up in his youth on his family farm.  He’d spent hours reading agriculture books and working with the wildflowers that grew around the edge of the farm. His idea of fun.

Le Marché Fleur started as a very small distributor of wholesale hybrid roses. The roses are methodically grown and cultivated in small quantities, back then in Maidstone, England. They were all so beautiful, with full petals in vibrant colors.

The rose were distributed in bouquets of 20, 24 or 30, no more no less. Bouquets only came in single colors, the tall leaveless green stalks always tied with a thick black silk ribbon.

According to Emile the boutiques didn’t like purchasing from Le Marché Fleur .  Despite the high-end price there were to many rules on what shops could and couldn’t do to the  roses. They couldn't be trimmed, colors mixed or be paired with baby's breath. It was too much of hassle for shop owners.

Of course, everything that made it a pain for the boutiques intrigued the customers. I had to admit there was something dark and romantic about slipping loose the thick black silk ribbon keeping the fragrant long stemmed roses together.

Le Marché Fleur had one signature item. A bouquet featuring 28 closed alabaster white English roses, delivered in a black box with the gold foil Le Marché Fleur emblem on the front. Market value upwards of 195 dollars. The white roses were extremely potent, uniform,  full and plush when bloomed. They drew the eyes instantly in any room.  Occasionally I’d find myself shopping in high end boutiques and I’d catch a trace of the floral scent.

Every two weeks these Alabaster roses were delivered to my apartment, my first instinct was to throw them away but that seemed childish, so I kept them in a vase by the door. Sometimes Rose liked to look at them. Staring up at the crystal vase like she wanted to tip it over and shatter it. Something she actually did do when she didn't get her way

I never took my time opening the black box when the roses were delivered. , I just threw out the previous weeks roses and arranged the new ones in the vase like clockwork. There was never a card or note but I knew what the roses meant; I hope to make you a happy woman one day.

It was nearly a year in London before I noticed it. The one thing about Le Marché Fleur  I never noticed.  When a delivery came to my apartment I’d taken my time for once, running my fingers over the gold foil Le Marché Fleur emblem on the box and the more I looked at it the more something clicked. I felt a bit of heat in my blood, the bad kind. I don’t know why I hadn't noticed it before.

Le Marché Fleur

I forced the lid back on the roses and tucked the box under my arm, I slammed the door on my way out of my apartment and slammed the door again getting into my SUV.

When I made it to Emile’s townhouse, I already knew exactly what I was going to say.

Mr. Fierro was there in Emile’s living room and Emile's de facto office space, along with Mr. Fierro’s quiet dark haired and dark eyed unassuming assistant, Augustine, whom he said he’d hired because he was discreet and had secrets of his own to keep.

“Clara”, Emile said noting my expression, “What’s wrong.”

I ignored Emile and kept my gaze on Mr. Fierro. The business kept him and Emile busy, which was good for their friendship. We'd hardly seen each other unless Rose was involved

“You said”, I began then restarted,” – You said you needed to make something of yourself in memory of the promise you made Lucie. I understand that, but did you have to put her name all over it.”

Mr. Fierro kept his eyes focused on whatever he’d  been writing.  His profile was still and his hand tensed at my last words.

“Clara what is it”, Emile asked.

I picked up the box lid and put it on the table in front of Emile.

“Le Marché Fleur ”, I said, “L-M-F. Lucielle Mills-Pepperidge Fierro. His wife’s initials.”

“Ex-wife”, Mr. Fierro corrected

“First wife”, I countered after all they’d never divorced.

“Last wife at the rate you are going.”

“Really ? This needs to stop ”, I folded my arms, “You need to let her go. This is crazy-“

He stood up and turned to face me.

“Stop this”, his tone was direct, “Stop this right now Clara. Don’t reduce yourself to such pettiness. You know I loved her. I loved her more than anything and I know that part of my life is over. I am going to have to ask you to respect the feelings of the man I used to be, who took vows with her. Clara, please take your roses and go.”

I had gone to reach for the flowers, but at some point my body decided to go in a different direction. I’d reached up and kissed Mr. Fierro. I didn’t want to wait anymore, I didn’t care if he was poor or rich. I just wanted to be together. Something Lucie never wanted.

But when I kissed him he was still and I felt like something was missing. Mr. Fierro looked over my shoulder and he must have given Emile and the assistant a look because they both quietly dispersed, then he broke the kiss.

“Clara”, he whispered

“I know. I know we aren’t ready for this but--”

"Ms. DeLune you know I value our friendship more than anything else. We’ve just arrived here and if you want to make London our home, Rose’s home, we need to take caution not to break this very fragile thing.”

“We've been in London for a year and the thing is Mr. Fierro I don't think we are friends. Somedays it feels like I'm still your employee and somedays it feels like you are treating me like I'm a little girl with a crush---"

"Ms. DeLune, Please", he said, "Don't insult me. I would never think of you that way."

"Don't worry Mr. Fierro,  I understand."

I picked up the roses and walked out feeling silly. He might have nodded a good-bye but I hadn’t been completely honest.

Because when I’d said ‘I understood”, what I meant was that I understood how he must have felt all those years ago, being denied the love of your life. Over and over again.

 

+++

 

A/N

Whew, so a lot of exposition here. Like I said I always knew Clara and Fierro would become ex-pats after JNRR. So much so that I actually thought it was cannon somewhere. This is still Clara recollections she is telling the story from the present so she can be an unreliable narrator.  Meaning she will jump through years and mention things you know nothing about it's all very subtle... hopefully

I really missed out on doing relationships stuff in JNRR because when I go back and read Clara/Fierro you know what I find. . . very little. I get to fill alot of that in now. .