+1+
Bibliographies are my favorite part of any textbook. It’s the meat and bones that make up the great animal that is scholarly writing.
Whenever I write a new book I always start there.
I spent the entire evening at the kitchen counter after the D’Harcourt residential society meeting diving into the bibliography for my academic text. With my notebook and flashcards I perfectly formatted the bibliography for what I was tentatively calling A Study in Etruscan History. It wasn’t a catchy title but the Thames College Press had approved it. They hadn’t taken much to my other title What Etruscan and what Estruc-won’t. The grad student taking meeting minutes had laughed at my joke, which I took as a win.
A bright flash of light pulled me from my MacBook and for the first time I realized the sun had gone down. I looked up to see Fierro moving pensively from the refrigerator to the microwave with one of the meals the housekeeper had prepped. He flipped a light switch on, bathing the room in bright white light. I looked over at my phone in shock, was it really past 9 pm?
I tried to stay cool, even though I was suddenly on the edge of wining the bet Clara and I had over which one of us would actually see Fierro eat first. Victory felt in my reach but then I realized he’d approached the microwave with a foil dish in hand.
“Let me”, I said shooting up from the counter and taking the container, “Watching you in the kitchen is a said affair, my friend.”
I looked at the artfully arranged dish that consisted of a perfectly sliced avocados, bright green spinach, red pepper chickpeas and brown rice.
“Are you alright, Fierro?” I asked handing him the dish that was clearly meant to be served cold.
“I’m a bit distracted…Emile”, he admitted carefully opening and closing drawers.
I opened the drawer next to me and eagerly held out a fork and waited for him to look up.
“Is this about Bucharest?” I asked as the silence stretched on.
He looked up and held my gaze for a minute, as if he truly didn’t expect me to notice how he’d changed after his clandestine trip to Romania three weeks ago. The trip had been unplanned and came after he had several dinners with Dr. Robert Essex--a rather overzealous paranormal enthusiast who, for every correct theory Essex had about ghost and Spectres, also had millions of wrong ones. Fierro, who I considered honorably to a fault, was continually drawn to the man even though Fierro insisted Essex stay far away from Clara and Rose.
Fierro had promised me he simply humored Dr. Essex because Essex because was a believer and someone who didn’t take his very strange existent as an outright lie. From what I gathered the pair talked endlessly about theorems and strange phenomena. More than he talked about it with Clara or me.
The trip to Romania had been Essex’s idea. He’d simply told Fierro he’d discovered something of great importance and a few more phone calls later Fierro bought a ticket to Bucharest. He left a week before Rose went to art camp. The way he’d hugged and kissed Rose good-bye struck me as a different kind of good-bye but I shook it off. Clara hadn’t seemed to notice anything was off, she was too busy preparing for what I called her Great American Adventure.
Fierro arrived back in France 5 days early, smelling like tobacco and strong coffee. He never spoke a word about the trip. Afterwards, I could be in a room with him for hours and it was like he wasn’t there at all. He spent long hours out back in his glasshouse reading and his infrequent insomnia became very much frequent. The real kicker had been when Rose called from art camp during breakfast and he just let the phone ring
Something had rattled him.
“Fierro”, I said in the comfortable silence of the kitchen, “It’s been almost three weeks, I think we need to talk about Bucharest.”
“There is nothing to discuss”, he said and that was all he’d say on the matter.
“You’ve been out of sorts since you came back.”
“It’s nothing to do with…my trip”
“Is it Clara? You miss Clara now that she’s off on her Grand American Adventure”, I tease hoping to spark the tiny slivers of his good humor, and “You’ll see her soon at the wedding.”
“Actually…I’ve been thinking about Lucie and--”
“For god sakes”, I said deflating, “This again Fierro? I thought you were putting her behind you.”
“Our anniversary would have been today. I can’t help but to associate this time of the year with her.”
“You were married in the summer?” I leaned in. Despite myself I was always curious about his preternatural romance with the first Mrs. Fierro. I mean sure, he hadn’t gotten around to the second Mrs. Fierro--but I had high hopes.
“May 20thth”, he said soberly, “It was the same date we met as children…in the Chautauqua Lake County Library.”
“How…quaint”, I said not even bothering to hide my sudden disinterest. I had to remind myself of the things the mere memory of that awful woman did to him.
“Emile—“
“Fierro. It’s been years. Stop letting her define your life.”
He shifted his eyes to me with that cold closed off “Mr. Fierro” expression that I’d quickly learn to look pass.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Emile.”
“I’ve lost people”, I said, “I know what it’s like to lose people.”
“Yes, but you’ve never been married.”
“…and what would know about that?” I said and it came out quieter and harsher than I’d meant it. But I truly wondered if it ever weighed on his mind what I’d lost over the years.
“Emile I’m sorry I—“
“It’s not about me.” I said finding my light tone again, “You’ve got to stop this illusion of Lucie go. She was awful to you. She was selfish, closed minded and never listened to you or respected---“
“That’s enough, Emile”, he says cutting me off swiftly. His voice raised enough to just barley echo in the empty space.
He makes his way out the backdoor, the flood lights on the patio flipped on reflecting the stillness of the pool and garden. He continues out into the darkness to his glasshouse. It was late but it wouldn’t be the first time he spent the night there. Lost in his journals, or some new godless project or endeavor.
He’d been that way since before Romania. Probably since selling Le Fleur Marche. The small boutique wholesale rose business we’d started together 8 years ago. It had all been very hands off, the business model ran itself. Fierro tinkered away and sent the hybrids to manufactures to grow, package and distribute. I was occasionally flown around the world to be the face of the company, and yes I’m bragging.
But six months ago he’d called me into his office to tell me he was selling the company name, trademarks and rose hybrids to a major South American grower for 12 million dollars.
“That’s barely anything”, I told him when he handed me the check. The company did at least a million in sales a year
“It’s not about the money”, He said, “I’m devoting myself to a new purpose and quite frankly capitalism is a false idol I’d rather not worship.”
It was easy for him to say considering he’d inherited quite a bit of money from the valuable land his family farm used to reside on and fathered a child with an heiress with two healthy trust funds.
“What exactly is this new endeavors of yours”, I’d asked after he basically fired me.
“I need to know the truth of it all”, he had said looking down at his desk, “I want to understand the impossible, the unnatural and very thin lines that divide this very strange world of ours. This world is not at all what it seems.”
“Is that wise?” I had asked knowing Professor Essex had probably gotten to him.
“I don’t know”, he said and turned the papers over for me to sign over my percent of the business.
Clara on the other hand had been taken out to a Saturday business lunch and given the news, but she hadn’t seemed concerned and her role managing the Le Fleur Marche Charitable foundation wouldn’t change. Her head had been in the clouds to concerned about her trip to think anything was wrong.
I’d just taken my 50% share and squared it away for a retirement then went right back to work on Monday. Though I’d give up the money in a heartbeat if it meant prying Fierro away from the somewhat dark texts and subjects he was researching. I’d prefer he, being a man with the idleness only the rich understand, found another project but I knew it was moment like this-- when his memories of the past collided with the present-- that made him more determined to find proof that there was more to the story than a man who woke up in a place he didn’t belong.
+++
“Hmm”, Clara DeLune leaned into the camera, it was probably Saturday morning in San Francisco and she was still in her pajamas. Her eyes were bright and I could see a few stray fine lines as her otherwise youthful face filed up the flat screen SmartTV in her bedroom. I’d adjusted the camera on the SmartTV in Clara’s bedroom so it faced the reading chair beside her bed. It was a picturesque set up from when she’d considered adding vlogs to her travel blog, but after some thoughtful consideration she decided against it. I looked up from where her face filled her SmartTV to the built in camera that imperceptibly moved with me.
“He and Ms. Bisset got along as always”, I continued re-hashing my riveting Friday evening, “Rose called me on the way back…but you’d be proud of me I told Rose she had to stay at art camp.”
“She called me 22 times”, Clara says holding up her phone, “I’ve started ignoring her. How are the books going?”
I sat back in the settee and for the first time realized Clara’s nightstand was plugged into her wall. It was cool to the touch. I bend down to investigate the nightstand.
“Is this a wine cooler?”
“How are the books going”, she says quickly trying to change the subject.
“You have two of these?”
She sighs.
“The other one is a regular nightstand. It’s a big house and I hate going into the cellar at night”, she explains.
“Right…so the books. Well, for the French Murder book I finished the background chapters on Victor. I just had to close my eyes and put myself in his shoes.”
Clara leans back and I got a better view of her mid-century modern hotel room. The place was a mess but her bridesmaid dress hung neatly behind her. The beautiful bright blue chiffon dress hung pensively on the closet door.
“How is the bride?” I ask changing the subject away from my books.
“Eleanor is way to laidback to be a bride”, she turns back to the camera, “but between you and me her fiancé is really cute and smart. He teaches special needs kids.”
Clara’s Great American Adventure had started with a reunion tour with her sisters. She’d traversed to Boston to support her recently divorced sister Claudia, then to the Key West for a mindful solo weekend before venturing to the upcoming start-up hub of Seattle to visit her older sister Clarice before driving to San Francisco to be the maid of honor in her best straight friend’s wedding.
“Clara, don’t be that girl.” I warn as she gets the starry-eyed look.
“I’m just saying. I’m happy for her. Her fiancé’s family is a little intense but planning a wedding in three months does that to you.”
“It can’t be that hard you should try it.”
She gave me a tired look, “Okay, Emile.”
“What? It could be fun”, I tease, “I’m already ordained, and you have a wedding ring—“
“I only wear that so I don’t get hit on when I give private home lessons—“, she protests
“Sure”, I tease, “…And what about the diamond ring”
“It was a present”, she insists.
“From…”
“…Fierro, but it’s just my birthstone.”
“Convenient”’, I’d decide.
“It is isn’t it”, she says with a satisfied smile. She was at her best when she was in a good mood, “I can’t wait for you to get here, Emile.”
“Why? Because I’m bringing your date?”
“Pretty sure he’s bringing you along”, Clara teases, “But the hotel has three bars and hot tubs so you will have plenty to do while we are at the wedding. I also found a few clubs we can check out during the week and there is a museum on Beat Art.”
I smiled at the thought, I hadn’t realized how much I needed this little break from my wasted words. Vacationing in San Francisco with Clara was the break I needed. While Fierro had agreed to be Clara’s date for her best friend’s wedding, he made it clear he was leaving the right afterwards. He’d barley be in California for 24 hours.
I’d offer to tag along with Fierro and spend the week in San Fran with Clara. It was an excuse to get away from my writing, however the first class ticket with all expenses paid was a plus.
“Don’t worry about me”, I tell her, “I can revisit the ill-advised places I spent three months of my youth being a hippy in the 90s. I do worry about all of us being so far from Rose.”
“It will barley be a day”, she says not so kindly referencing Fierro’s quick turnaround time. We fall into a comfortable silence and Clara peers back into the camera
“…You’re not really ordained are you?”
“Of course I
am. I want to be ready the minute you and Fierro come to your senses.” I tell
her, but I'd really done it so I could help marry some of my college friends when it became legal.
“I do not want to get married, Emile. I’m not interested in being a wife or being tied down.”
“I think we’re all a little interested in being tied down.”
She laughs and half-heartedly throws a pillow at the camera.
I didn’t understand how to people so entwined by time couldn’t see what the literally universe was telling them. I was convinced they were so well suited the universe itself bowed to bring them together. Just then Moonlight Sonata began to play and Clara dives for her phone, her expression hardening.
“…it’s my Mom”, she said her voice wavering a bait, “I should take this encase she can’t call back. I’ll call you later and be strong when it comes to Rose. Say ‘no’ to her.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ciao”
“Au revior”, she said and the screen faded out.
I scribbled my thought about ‘universes bowing’ on a notebook near Clara’s nightstand. I continued writing by hand, inspired for something that was not in the two books I was supposed to be writing.
“What? What’s wrong?”, Clara whispered.
I looked up startled to see Clara on the screen but she wasn’t looking at me. It took me a minute to realize it wasn’t actually her… but a recording of the very spot I was in. The camera focusing imperceptibly on Clara sitting up in her bed rubbing her eyes.
She wasn’t alone and the fully dressed man sitting on her bed who she was talking to was Fierro. I squinted and saw the remote crushed under her arm, she batted it away not realizing her camera was recording her bed. There was a long uncomfortable silence where they were just watching each other. After a few moment of avoiding eye contact and hesitation they started kissing, both of them visibly relaxing. In the dim lighting I could tell Clara’s skin flushed. I also recognized Fierro's clothing and I knew exactly what day this was.
When Clara reached for his jacket he grabbed her wrist, there was an awkward moment as he freed her hand but Clara shrugged off the moment
“Sorry”, she yawned then looked at her phone, “You don’t want to miss your flight. Is everything. ..Okay?”
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I wanted to make sure I said good-bye to you.”
“That was good-bye?” Clara laughed a little, “You are coming back from Romania aren’t you.”
“In two weeks’ time. Hopefully”, he added
“Hopefully?” she said swiping aimlessly at her phone.
“It’s unlikely Clara…but if I were to disappear, I want you to know… it was for the right reasons.”
“What are you taking about”, she asked now fully awake.
I just barley caught the next part.
“I don’t belong here. I just…there is always going to be a part of me that wonders if this is the life I’m supposed to live if--”
“You’ll break your daughter’s heart.” She whispers.
“Rose understands.” He says “She understands more than you think.”
“She shouldn’t be thinking about things like that”, Clara says suddenly self-consciously wrapping her arms around herself, “She’s already so… fragile and it would impossible to raise her alone. You know how she is--”
“Clara”, he said sternly.
“I just...she’d tried to find you”, Clara says, “Why would you want to go back? Won’t that make things complicated?”
“I want a chance to do live my life right. You know just as well as I do that nothing has to be for eternity for it to matter. This life will always matter. It will always be important. “
He kissed her again and I reached for the remote. Clara held herself back, I could tell she wanted more...a lot more, but she held back. I racked my brain for several minutes and realized I’d never witness them share a kiss.
There were some quiet words exchanged which ended Fierro checking his watch. He was quickly out of frame and Clara settled back into bed with the remote now snug under her pillow, she kept her eyes open and stared at the ceiling until the camera went to sleep.
I deleted the stored footage and flipped through the other reordered videos. Most of the recordings featured Clara asleep with the remote tangled in her bed, she was alone in all of them. Not that it was really any of my business. Sure, this living arrangement hadn’t made having overnight guest easy but I hadn’t let that stop me.
I moved quietly from Clara’s room which was on the same hall as Fierro’s. His door was slightly ajar, a warm yellow light filtering from it. I could hear the scratch of his pen on paper, and the smooth incomparable sound of his 1958 vintage RCA record player.
I knocked lightly and pushed to door open. Fierro looked up from the mahogany antique writing desk that was backed by matching bookshelves. Tucked between two 1949 encyclopedia’s was a black and white picture of Lucie. It wasn’t on display, but it was still there.
Another world existed in this room. It was like stepping back in time. Everything from the fixtures, furniture and accent where carefully chosen. The simple bedding, A few photos an Rose and Clara’s holiday card were the only anarchistic items.
“I was just talking to Clara”, I began, “She can’t wait for you to walk her down the aisle.”
“I’m sure the best man will be escorting the maid-of-honor.”
“I know”, I respond lightly, but he clearly wasn’t in the mood for a joke, “Have you spoken to Clara since she left?”
He ignored me in that way he hadn’t in years. The dismissiveness came so easily.
“Fierro”, I ask again.
“Emile I need to be alone”, he says and that was a dismissal.
“Hey, how about tomorrow we—“
“Emile”, he says coldly and I digress, but not before I saw him set his pen down. I peered down at the journal and saw the same thing he did. At some point the lopping graceful text had turned into utter nonsense.
Just like that the frost broke and I saw the hints of the helpless and vulnerable man that lured beneath his Mr. Fierro exterior.
“Fierro, you really do need to get some sleep or…talk about Bucharest.”
“Emile”, he begin then changes course, “I need some time…you…you simply wouldn’t understand.”
+2+
Upstairs in my guest suite I tried to get back to writing but I felt overturned. No words were coming out and I felt restless.
My favorite writing advice had been to write whatever the fuck you feel like first. It was good advice
I rolled out of bed and booted up my MacBook then I clicked on the folder hiding my secret writing project. I felt sort of giddy opening the secret file and entering a world of my own making. Where I could escape my roommate, the walking existential l crisis.
And of course the reality that at 46 years old… I had a roommate.
I looked over my shoulder before opening the secret folder on my desktop entitled ‘CH’.
I’d been inspired to write this particular secret story just a few months after moving in with Fierro in that other life on Litany Lane, when I was just a confused and sullen writer who suddenly had all the time in the world. Literally. ALL the time.
So I wrote.
Back on Litany Lane Fierro had taken me in because he thought I was a good writer but I think he saw a fellow lonely soul. I was looking for a change and at first I was honestly attracted to him; but the reserved solemnness quickly got very old. He had been incredibly regimented, serious, mind-numbingly dull, conservative, pious, a little cruel and to practical… which sent my imagination spinning.
So, I’d started writing a secret story about the man I’d wanted him to be….and it got away from me.
My secret writing project turned into a series of dashing, fun, smart, sexy and witty mystery novels lead by an intelligently stoic, brooding private investigator with a dark past, Morgan Quinn and his clever funny debonair assistant Luther as they solved crimes committed in Celestial Hollow, a small town in an unnamed time and place... I’d written by hand in the dim lights of my room on Litany Lane. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.
Admittedly…it was an obsession.
I’d gotten as far as book four, along the way dropping hints that not all was what it seemed in the town of Celestial Hollow. No one ever died in the books and character used strange tenses and spoke in varying dialects. The reveal that Celestial Hollow was the afterlife came in book two…depending on what version you read.
At first I spent more time upping the tension between the leads which was hard when there was no peril, so I created needlessly intimate moments bringing the character to the edge of confession before pulling them back. I’d never written fiction before then and it gave me a new lease on life…death? Fierro had noticed me writing but he was so distant back then that he would have never asked about it.
Then Clara DeLune joined us in Litany Lane and I played with the idea of introducing a playful beautiful young widow in book three, a woman caught in an epic conspiracy that turns Morgan Quinn’s and Luther’s world upside down
The idea never really solidified and by the time I was back in my old (new) life, I hadn’t had thought to revisit Celestial Hollow until one weekend I went off the grid (after a week from hell) and I typed as much of the stories and I could until my hands were numb.
I’d been using this secret file and Celestial Hollow as a stress ball for almost a decade. I’d considered querying the stories but Fierro would have my head and I just…couldn’t let it go. It was my little secret. Dirty little secret depending on which version you read.
Over the years I’d written out the widow and instead written in a young child character, but the flow didn’t quiet come. One year I’d gone back to the widow and managed what I felt was an interesting dynamic between her and Quinn. But I was always pulled back into the close unbreakable partnership between Luther and Quinn.
“This can’t just end”, Quinn said aloud, “Our
partnership is the only things keeping me going here. My life was maddening for nearly a century until you, Luther. What you are seeking could destroy everything. We have to focus on finding out what happened to Samuel Briar."
And this Luther understood. There was something dark underneath this uncertain world they inhabited and they were on the edge of something dark. It was possibletheir damn souls were on the line and in this moment Luther had things he wanted to say before it was too late.
Quinn turned to face him, waiting for his answer.
“But…If there is a way out”, Luther made a point of saying, “I’d take it. I want to live again. Don’t you--”
“You know the answer to that. I died in a prison… I can’t go back. I was a murderer when I was alive…at least here I’m a good man.”
Morgan Quinn wondered fleetingly if The Briar Widow would be accompanying Luther, but for some reason he couldn’t’ bear to know the answer.
“You’ll always be a good man to me.”, Luther said closing the space between them. Realizing this could be one of their last moments together, “I’ll stay to finish this last case…but after that I can’t make any promises.”
The end of book four is always changing, For some reason Quinn continuing his work to bring true peace to the afterlife with Luther deciding to stay by his side felt the most triumphant, depending on what day it was.
I hadn’t gotten past this moment in years... Maybe tonight would be the night?
I started typing. Nonsense really. Just thinking about how the imaginary Bancroft Boarding House where the characters lived in would be decorated for Christmas. I was deep into googling pinecone DIYs and wreath making when I was mercifully interrupted by my phone ringing. I didn’t recognize the number but considering all the connections I’d made in my international forays, a late night phone call never bothered me.
“Hello--”
“Daddy it’s me. I just got a bit turned around and honestly they are making such a fuss. I’m fine Daddy honestly I am.”
I instantly recognized Rose’s voice despite the harsh fake American accent that made it sound like she was imitating her mother. What the hell was she up to? I heard some shuffling and then an authoritative Scottish voice.
“Sir, I’m Officer Crestwick. We have your daughter at Canterbury station. Some attendants noticed her wondering around the station alone, we had to detain her as she was trying to buy a ticket with what appears to be a stolen credit card.”
“Stolen credit card?”
“Belongs to a Miss. Clara DeLune.”
“No. No”, I said thinking on my feet, “She didn’t steal it. It belongs to her…sister. I—did you say Canterbury station?”
“Yes, sir. You know unaccompanied minors are supposed to be registered before traveling.”
“She is supposed to be at summer camp. I’ll be right there. I’m so sorry. That camp is not going to hear the end of it. Please keep an eye on her.”
I hung up and bolted out of my chair. I took a very quick shower and pulled on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled gray oxford. I grabbed my glasses and wallet, then like a teenager slowly made my way down the steps of the guest suite and to the second floor in my socked feet.
I knew Fierro wasn’t sleeping and I could see glow from his bedroom door and hear the slight shuffling of pages. I took the main steps downstairs and well…scampered to the back door. It slid open effortlessly and I slipped out.
I sat in my car to catch my breath and then I prayed to the environmental gods for my Tesla which hummed silently to life as I drove down the one mile long road and used my cell phone to disable the alarm that charmed whenever the gates opened.
Once on the main road I plugged in my phone and settled in for the long ride, Canterbury was nearly 100 miles away but I’d make good time
Author’s Note
So when I first wrote this 3 years ago a Facebook Portal was not a thing and that’s totally what Clara would have instead of a SmartTV with a camera. I mean the Facebook Portal has a moving camera and all…I feel like I predicted this.
Why yes this is my Litany Lane Fanfiction and Emile is also writing Fanfiction inspired his friends and adventures he wish he could have had on Litany Lane.