by Calia Read
“Stop making a joke out of all of this.”
“Stop making ridiculous suggestions, and I won’t have a reason to joke.”
“I’m starting to believe that the entire reason this happened is because of you.”
“Excuse me?”
“In my dream, who was in pain? You. And when I come here, I’m your wife? That can’t be ignored. I think you’re the one who needs my help.”
That sobers Étienne up quickly. “You can’t be serious.”
“Think about it.”
“I did. And it’s ridiculous. Did you ever think that you’re the one who needs my help?”
“If I did, then you would’ve been the one to travel to my time,” I counter. Just as I expect, Étienne bristles at my remark. He doesn’t utter a word though, so I continue. “I think it’s worth looking at the company you keep. Employees. Friends. People who might be angry at you.”
“You can add Johnathan Hunt to the list of angry people.”
“Fair enough.” I stop and grab Étienne’s arm. “You have to at least look at what I’m saying objectively; you know I have a point.”
“Fair enough,” he says reluctantly.
“And maybe the first person you should look at is Asa Calhoun.”
“You have no reason to be suspicious of Asa. I’m not disagreeing that your encounter with him didn’t go well, but he’s not a cruel person. You simply took him by surprise.”
I know I made a far reach by making that declaration, but once the words came out, I felt better. Étienne is convinced that his friend would never do anything to harm him, but all I can picture is the way he sulked and glared at me. True, he thought I was the other Serene. But it was more than that; he didn’t want me in that office or giving my opinion because he didn’t think it was needed. Or valid.
We become silent, lost in our thoughts. I sneak a glance at Étienne and see lines near the corners of his eyes. They’re like faint parentheses, barely discernible far away, but apparent up close. Undoubtedly those lines appeared from the countless times he’s narrowed his sharp gaze in someone’s direction or squinted at a document because he didn’t have his glasses on hand.
“Asa is an accountant for your company, correct?”
Étienne gives me a nod.
“Will you at least think about looking into his activity within the company?”
He sighs loudly. He doesn’t want to agree. In fact, I’m confident he thinks I’m way off base. But he throws his hands in the air in defeat. “Yes, I will think about it.”
That’s good enough for me.
With the sun setting, the harsh line of his nose is less discernible. I can barely see the small bend. His hands are linked behind his back, but even in this peaceful environment, he’s as tense as a board. It’s as if he’s waiting for someone to burst out of the trees and attack.
“Have you always been this…” I try to think of the right word. “Serious?”
A corner of Étienne’s mouth twitches. He stares at me. “Serious?”
“You know… uptight and businesslike. Do you ever let go and have fun?”
“It’s hard to let go and have fun when you’re running a business,” he confesses.
Although Past Repeat doesn’t come close to being the business Étienne has created, I understand what he’s saying. Most companies have the odds stacked against them from the get-go. So you spend your days working like a dog only to have your head barely above water. The only thing keeping you going is your refusal to let all your hard work to go to waste.
“I understand.”
“You do?” he asks skeptically.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I do not. I was born with responsibility looming over my head. The responsibility that I would run the family company.”
“We have more in common than you think.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Although I was born from alcohol.” Étienne stares at me as though I’ve grown three heads, so I continue. “Parents went to Cancun for vacation. Had too much tequila and bam! Nine months later here I was.” I shrug. “The parallels between our lives are uncanny.”
He continues to stare at me with a small frown.
“Étienne,” I say softly and nudge his arm, “I’m kidding.”
His lips kick up into a smallest of smiles, and all I can think is that if he smiled more often, no one would think of him as ugly. No one would look at him in fear. He’d have the attention of every woman around him.
“But to answer your question, my business will probably never see the success that your company has, but I imagine that once you reach a certain level of success, it’s expected of you to keep that success going.”
Étienne looks stunned, and a glimmer of respect shines in his eyes. “You’re right. For that, I’m going to do something I rarely do.”
With his eyes on me, he raises both hands to his throat and unfastens the first two buttons.
I whistle low. “Oh, you are a rebel. What’s next? Not wearing a waistcoat and blazer to dinner every night?”
A smile plays on his lips. “Perhaps.”
I smile back. “I take back what I said. You do know how to lighten up.”
In some roundabout way, we’ve reached a truce. This walk has proven that we can be around each other and be civil. I’m sure there will be more moments where he takes a jab and I take one right back, but that’s the exhilarating and infuriating part of being around Étienne. He doesn’t know how to back down.
“Follow me.” He grabs my hand.
Unlike the other times he’s seized me, his touch is now gentle and makes my heart race. Étienne seems oblivious, a man on a mission, and continues down the driveway. Our shadows project across the white gravel, making our limbs look long and exaggerated. The only thing keeping us connected is our hands. Quickly I look away from the image.
“Where are you taking us?”
“You’ll see,” he replies cryptically.
For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel a rush of excitement. The fear and apprehension I feel on a daily basis fade away as a slow smile creeps across my face.
Minutes tick by as we walk. Étienne’s legs are so long that I’m practically running to keep up with him.
“Slow down,” I say a bit breathlessly.
Étienne abruptly stops, making me run into his back. He veers to the left, stepping between two oaks. We walk through some bushes and onto a hidden path. The tall grass grazes my legs. Étienne makes an abrupt left turn and stops in front of a tall oak.
“Livingston and I used to spend time back here.”
I look around at all the trees surrounding us. “What did you do?”
He points high above him. “Up there. You see that severed rope?”
Sure enough, a frayed rope gently sways in the breeze. “Yeah.”
“It was much longer when we were kids, and we would have races to see who could climb it the fastest.”
I smirk at the thought of a young Étienne and Livingston creating mischief in the woods.
“Once I made it to the top and sat on the branch, waiting for Livingston to follow me. I lost my balance, started to fall off, and when I grabbed the branch, my head slammed into the branch.” Étienne points at the jagged scar that starts at the top of his forehead and drags down toward his left brow. “That’s how I got my little scar.”
“Definitely little,” I say, deadpan. “You can hardly notice it.”
Étienne grins. “It hurt, but growing up, I would constantly use this scar to point out to Livingston that I was faster.”
Once again, I smile. I could picture myself doing the same thing to Ian if it happened to me. I touch the bark of the very tree where Étienne earned his scar. It’s corrugated and textured. Suddenly, I get an idea.
I turn to Étienne. “Do you have a pocket knife?”
Surprisingly, he sticks a hand in his left pocket and pulls out a knife. I peer closely at it.
The main blade loudly snaps open. On the shiny surface are the words Crandall Cutlery Co. Bradford, PA.
“Do you recognize this?” Étienne asks.
“I’m an antique fanatic, but not that educated on knives,” I confess with a small smile. “Can I have it for a second?”
Étienne narrows his eyes. “Are you going to stab me with it?”
“If you asked me that question weeks ago, my answer would’ve been yes,” I reply. “But now? No. I have something else in mind.”
He hands me the knife with a wary expression. I turn the handle around and watch the light reflect off the blade.
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Relax, Lacroix. I may not have a lot of knowledge on knives, but I’ve held one once or twice.” I step closer to the tree, place the tip of the knife against the bark, and get to work. The blade’s imperfect with a slight curve, but it still gets the job done.
Étienne stands beside me with his hands in his pockets. He’s silent as he watches me drive the tip of the blade into the bark over and over. My hand aches a bit and the upper portion of the knife digs into my skin, but I keep going until the last letter is finished.
With a sigh, I step back and inspect my handiwork. The letters are jagged and uneven, but certainly readable.
SERENE WAS HERE
If I’d more time to think it over, maybe I would’ve been more creative with my carving. But this is an impromptu opportunity. I jumped at the chance. What’s happening to me right now is unimaginable. Time changes. People die and are born every second. But what stands the test of time is the world around us. I want to leave something to show that yes, I was here. That is, if I ever do leave this era and go back to the present day.
I watch Étienne from the corner of my eye. “Ridiculous?”
Étienne stares at my work for a second longer before he looks at me. He gives me that same heart-melting half-smile. “Not at all. I think I would do the same thing if I were you.”
There my heart goes again, wildly thumping like a bird trying to escape its cage. My hands shake, so I hand Étienne the knife, not bothering to close the blade. His fingers brush mine, but instead of moving away, he lingers for a second. I don’t move a muscle.
His eyes lock on mine. This should be the time when I break eye contact, but I don’t.
The silence between us is somewhat dangerous. When we talk, its similar to fencing. Our words become weapons, and when one of us attacks, the other feints left, then right. Neither of us knows how to disengage, so on and on it goes. We play the game so skillfully, I sometimes forget where I am, who I am, and whose company I’m enjoying.
In the stillness, the impact slams into me full force. I feel as though I’ve been sucker punched in the gut, and I grapple to come up with any subject that is sure to outrage Étienne. Something to shatter this moment. I can think of nothing.
Étienne is the first to break contact. “We should probably go back. Dinner will begin soon.”
“You’re right,” I rush out, grateful to leave this area.
We walk back through the tall grass, and by the time we leave the live oaks and step back onto the driveway, the lights are faintly glowing at Belgrave.
After a few minutes of silence, I turn toward Étienne. “I have a personal question to ask you.”
“You mean the questions you’ve been asking me recently aren’t personal?” he asks gently.
“This one is a personal question you may not like.”
He sighs. “Ask away.”
I observe him. “Why do you hate your wife so much?”
Étienne’s eyes widen with understanding. “I was waiting for this question.”
I remain silent, waiting for him to reply. The relationship between him and his wife has lingered in my head since I came here. I never felt comfortable—or thought it was the right time—to ask the question. But right now, I can only hope he’ll give me an honest answer.
Étienne looks forward, his eyes fixed on Belgrave. I’m starting to believe he’s going to ignore my question when he takes a deep breath. “It was decided when we were both kids that we would marry.”
“So it was a betrothal?”
“Not quite. More of a marriage of convenience for our families, something they’d been planning since we were both children.”
“An arranged marriage?” I don’t hide my shock. “I thought they were typically done in the eighteenth century.”
“They’re still quite frequent, I assure you.”
“I’m assuming you and your wife weren’t thrilled?”
Étienne shrugs. “It made no difference to me. Serene… I mean, my wife… we didn’t get along growin’ up.”
“Why not?”
“For starters, there’s a significant age gap. That may work well for some couples. Between us, it couldn’t be more apparent. While I want to work, she wants to be at every social gathering. I want to invest money; she wants to spend. I prefer to be monogamous. She does not.”
“If you two didn’t get along in the first place, then why did you proceed with the marriage?”
Étienne gives me a queer look. “It was, for the most part, an irreversible decision. Our families were counting on it. Not to say that Serene didn’t fight it every step of the way. She hated the idea of marrying me.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t exactly a face that people dream of waking up to every morning.”
“That’s a bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?” I give him a once-over. “You’re not exactly the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
My cheeks feel red from his inspection. “Neither. It’s simply the truth.”
Étienne looks forward. “She insisted on marryin’ Livingston. ‘The handsome twin.’ Her words, not mine.”
“Did the Old Serene really say that she wanted ‘the handsome twin’ in front of you?”
“No, but I overheard her.” He sees the look on my face and smiles. “It didn’t inconvenience me. Nothing she said did.”
That can’t exactly be the truth. Étienne may act gruff and emotionless, but he’s not. He hates this woman with a passion because her words hurt him to his soul. That’s why he can be so cruel. He wants to hurt you before you can hurt him.
But Étienne will never admit this, and I’m not going to press him any further on the matter.
“I have another question for you.”
Étienne rubs the back of his neck and looks at the ground. “As personal as the last?”
“’Fraid so.”
“This means I’m allowed to ask you unlimited questions about technology in your time.”
“Fair enough,” I concede.
“Then go ahead, ask your question.”
“What happened to your parents?”
Other than his brows lifting a small fraction, there’s no indication that he heard me. He’s silent for a few seconds before he clears his throat. “You want to know how they died?”
I flinch slightly; I’m still adjusting to his acerbic tone. Everything Étienne says is so forthright. His siblings seem nonplussed by this, but not me.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“You’re familiar with the oil boom, right?”
I nod.
“What about Spindletop?”
My brows scrunch together. “You’ve lost me.”
“Spindletop was an oil field in Beaumont, Texas, that struck oil in January 1901. The gusher blew for nine days before they could control it. Standard Oil was very interested in this oil field, but they couldn’t drill due to state antitrust laws. At the time, my father was heavily invested in Standard Oil.”
“How invested?”
“He had a close friend who had a small oil company that was bought out by Rockefeller. The friend gradually rose in the company and advised my father to invest. My father placed almost all the money he had then into Standard and became a stockholder.”
I whistl
e. “Wow.”
Étienne barely acknowledges my words and plunges on. “My father was determined to exhaust all efforts for Standard to dominate Spindletop. No matter what. He had meetings to attend in New York in March and planned to visit Beaumont directly after. My mother knew he was making a quick visit to New York. My father’s sister, Christine, lives there, and Mother wanted to see her, so they decided to make a trip out of it.” His lips flatten into a grim line. “They left February 15th. It would give them ample time to visit my aunt and arrive in Beaumont without hurrying. At the time, Livingston and I had recently graduated from Brown University. I was preparing to move back to Charleston to work with our shipping company. Nathalie was ten, so she stayed with Grandmaman.”
“And Julian?” I ask softly.
No one talks about the deceased Julian Lacroix, and my curiosity has been growing stronger.
“He was on the mend from influenza and still a bit weak. They thought the trip would lift his spirits.” He snorts bitterly before he continues. “They made it to New York safely. Nathalie still has the postcard Mother sent. Father visited Texas with no issues. He went back to New York for Julian and mother. On their way back to Charleston, the train derailed.”
He says no more, but I can fill in the blanks. In a blink of an eye, he went from being a young man fresh out of college to the patriarch of his family and president of the family company. No wonder he’s so serious all the damn time. A weaker person would’ve crumbled under the pressure.
I take in his profile: Roman nose, the stubborn tilt of his jaw, firm and unsmiling lips.
“Stop giving me that look,” he says.
“What look? I’m not giving you a look.”
He watches me from the corner of his eyes, and a corner of his mouth quirks. That little half-smirk does something to my stomach that I can’t explain.
“You’re giving me that same expression that everyone gave my siblings and me after the accident.”
“And what expression is that?”
“It’s this pitiful expression where someone tilts their head and slowly nods. Their eyes are wide with sympathy. The corners of their lips curve down, making them look like sad mimes.”
