Colleen accepted the piece of paper. There wasn’t much to assess. Just two words:
Dear Aggie,
“Julie told the responding officer that Madeline promised to write her brother every day. She took that very seriously, Julie said. He might want… to know, I suppose. I think I would.”
The sound that emerged from Augustus was not human. It was not her son. It was…
“Thank you,” Irish Colleen managed. Breathing at this moment was no more than an automatic response. If her body was relying on her, she’d be passed out on the floor.
“Here’s my card,” he said. She took it without being conscious of the action. “I’ll personally deliver your daughter’s bag with all her belongings as soon as I can, Mrs. Deschanel. You have my word.”
“Your word.” She set the card on the table beside her. “I have your word, but the Lord has my daughter. Is that about the whole of it?”
“I am so sorry for your loss.” He looked past her with heavy, glistening eyes. “For all of your losses. I’m so sorry to be delivering this news to you on Christmas, of all days. God be with you all.”
The door closed, and the officers disappeared with their news.
Irish Colleen should turn around. She should face her children. And though their presence in the past moments meant she no longer had to bear the burden of repeating the news, it was her role to comfort them. But if she turned around now, it would be a hollow comfort, for who would comfort her?
How could she ever survive this?
Her Madeline. Maddy. Her troubled child who she’d tried a little less harder than she should have to understand, but ultimately, always, prioritized keeping safe over the less tangible things.
How was she to know the truth in keeping her safe lay in those less tangible things?
Irish Colleen turned around, because she must. Because, in failing Madeline—who she’d been ready to listen to, later that morning, a Christmas gift of sorts, and now…—she had failed them all. Failed herself. And she must face this.
The haunted, tear-stained faces of all her children filled her heart with darkness, one by one. Colleen and Charles wrapped in one another’s arms. Elizabeth pressed into Maureen, who was held up only by the steady arm of her eldest brother. Evangeline clutched Augustus’ leg, tearing at it with her hands, sobbing.
But it was in the eyes of Augustus that Irish Colleen saw reflected her true penance.
She’d lost two children that Christmas.
The story continues in 1972…
1972
The Seven Book 2
Preface
If you’re here, you’ve hopefully started with 1970, which is where this series, and the remarkable lives of the seven Deschanel children, really began. The threads winding these seven books together are best enjoyed when woven in order.
As with 1970, I feel it’s important to add the disclaimer that I was not alive at any point in the ’70s. I was raised on the music, values, and results of that period, coming up in the ’80s with a vision of the world that matched what my parents had experienced in that pivotal decade. My musical tastes, then and now, are highly influenced by the music my parents raised me on, and even today I enjoy Pink Floyd, CSNY, Carly Simon, and other artists who shaped this decade, more than just about anything else.
Yet, as with all my stories, it’s imperative to me that I get it “right.” I leveraged the experiences of people who did live through the time, including the memories of my father, George Klepach, and my dear friend Deborah Burst, who not only grew up in the ’70s, but in New Orleans, where this story takes flight. She’s been invaluable in helping me visualize those experiences unique to New Orleans in that period, such as the incredible music scene of The Warehouse (before there was a district of the same name), and the allure of the Playboy Club, for my own playboy, Charles.
Any errors, however, are entirely my own. As I mentioned in the last book, research can only take you so far, and where I took contextual liberties in the absence of hard facts, I’ll beg your forgiveness if I went too far… or not far enough.
Beyond the setting, beyond the time, is the story, and the story is one only these characters can tell. I’m grateful they’ve given me the voice to find theirs.
The Seven in 1972
Children of
August Deschanel (deceased) &
Colleen “Irish Colleen” Brady
* * *
Charles August Deschanel, Aged 22
Augustus Charles Deschanel, Aged 21
Colleen Amelia Deschanel, Aged 20
Madeline Colleen Deschanel, Deceased
Evangeline Julianne Deschanel, Aged 18
Maureen Amelia Deschanel, Aged 16
Elizabeth Jeanne Deschanel, Aged 13
For Evangeline
SPRING 1972
* * *
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Prologue: Irish Colleen and the Seven
Colleen Deschanel, known as Irish Colleen to her family and friends, peeked her head into the bedrooms of her seven children, one by one, as she did every night of her life.
When she swung the door open into the room of her oldest, Charles, she curbed her surprise at the lack of his presence. When was he ever there anymore? He’d always come and gone like a fickle specter, and she wondered why he didn’t, finally, leave the family home for a life more suited to his desire for lack of law and order.
Next, she checked on Augustus, whose absence was more notable. Her sweet boy, the one who should have been heir. She’d lost Charles years ago, and now she had lost his brother, but while the former was a loss driven by character, the latter was a matter of conscience. Augustus would never lay aside his guilt in Madeline’s death, and his only balm was usefulness of another kind. She could call over to his office, but it would be wasted breath. He was there, probably curled up on his couch, sleeping just north of anywhere sound. He’d jump straightaway into work, and with luck, she’d see him at dinner if he let himself pause long enough to eat. She’d set a place for him, anyway, as she always did.
At Colleen’s room, nothing was out of order, at least that Irish Colleen could see with her eyes. Colleen was sound asleep, her blankets lying neatly over her as if she’d slid under them with a mind to avoiding disruption. On her bedside was stacked the heavy pile of textbooks, a strange mix of who Colleen was before and after the loss of her sister. She had always found her meaning in a classroom. Irish Colleen prayed she would find meaning, one day, in a matter of the heart.
She still, even two years later, paused outside Madeline’s door. The contents hadn’t changed since the night Madeline fled with her anger, and, in the early hours of Christmas, died with it. Irish Colleen’s hand trembled at her side. What if she opened it? What if Maddy was there, flipping through her crate of records? What if…
Evangeline’s snores were a symphony—no, that was far too nice, a word of love, not reality, they were godawful—that carried into the hallway of Oak Haven. Irish Colleen went from seeing them as adorable when her spirited genius was a toddler, and, eventually, for the one thing that might prevent her daughter from ever marrying. Now, though, when nothing was okay, they were a great comfort. A constant in a time of fluidity and change she couldn’t ever put her hands around.
Irish Colleen’s hand paused on her bedroom door, and then she went on, to Maureen, who was dealing with something she believed her mother to be unaware of. But she was aware now, as she suspected the first time, that her precocious Maureen was involved in things she had no business with at sixteen. She wished, as she did many times in a day, that August were here to help guide her in how to handle each of her unique children.
Irish Colleen opened the door and blew a kiss across the room. Maybe Maureen was sleeping. Maybe she was only pretending. But it was their thing, no matter how things stood between them.
As always, Irish Colleen stopped last at Elizabeth. Her baby, Lizzy. The tortured one.
Moonlight spilled throu
gh the dormer window and onto the floor before her youngest daughter’s room, a familiar sight that both stilled her heart and reminded it that everything could change in an instant.
Irish Colleen slipped inside the bedroom. She grabbed a deep breath before she rounded the corner, where she could see Elizabeth clearly, and in an instant, gauge whether her sweet girl would be enjoying needed sleep or carrying a great burden.
She would never forget the burden Elizabeth laid upon her the spring of 1970. The spring seemed the worst for Elizabeth. The season of light and flowers was, for Lizzy, a time for the weeds to find their way in through the cracks.
Last spring had been mercifully quiet. But this cursed family wouldn’t pass another with such a reprieve. Irish Colleen carried this knowledge with her each night into the bedroom of her youngest, who held the keys to everything.
Elizabeth was not sleeping, but that didn’t mean anything was wrong. Irish Colleen let her breath escape in a slow rhythm. Sweat clung to her baby’s nightgown, so something had happened, that was for sure, but it didn’t have to be about them this time. It didn’t have to be one of the seven in turmoil again. Elizabeth had made a profession of predicting the misfortunes of her classmates and teachers. It could be anything.
Anything at all, really.
“Lizzy.” Irish Colleen gripped her nightgown and sat at her daughter’s bedside. “What’s wrong, dearest?”
Elizabeth sniffled and looked down at her hands.
“You were quiet at dinner.”
“Middle school is tough, man.”
Irish Colleen started to respond and then realized this was her youngest daughter’s odd, but developing humor about the world. She didn’t understand it, or her, at all, but she knew it was better to smile. You smiled when you could in this world. In this family.
“Yes, but you’re tougher.” Irish Colleen reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a hair tie. The balls at the end knocked together as she pulled Elizabeth’s damp hair tight in her fist, working the odd contraption around the knot. “You’re a Deschanel.”
Elizabeth shrugged. She swiped her hands across her wet gown, and then giving up on that, leaned against the back of her bedframe. “You’re just old.”
At this, Irish Colleen did laugh. “Old? Missy, you better be careful there. You’ll be my age before you know it.”
“Will I?”
Irish Colleen pressed her hand to Elizabeth’s cheek and turned her head in a snap. “Don’t talk like that. Others can joke like that, Lizzy, but not you. When you say it…”
“Yeah, yeah. You don’t know if I’m just talking, or if it’s the visions.”
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Elizabeth shrugged again and shuddered through a deep breath. “Mama, every time I open my mouth, someone gets hurt. What good is saying it when I can’t prevent it?”
Irish Colleen dropped to her knees on the shag carpet. She gripped Elizabeth’s slick hands in hers. “Elizabeth, no. You have to tell me.”
“I told you before. Maddy still died.”
Irish Colleen’s eyes stung. She hated to cry… control was all she had, and even that was a fleeting, thin construct that came and went. “Is someone… another one of us going to die?”
Elizabeth sighed and slumped forward. “This isn’t going to be our year, Mama.”
One
Love is the Answer. What was the Question?
Charles groaned as the first of the long sleep departed. Something blinded him beyond. He could see this even through his closed eyes. He rolled his head back and forth for relief, but found none. Heat accompanied the sensation, which was heavy, suffocating. The thick layer of crust gathered at the corners of his mouth cracked as he yawned and smacked his gums. The memories of last night’s debauchery welcomed him in an array of tastes and flavors, like rings on a tree trunk.
The night started at the Playboy Club, but oh, it hadn’t really begun until they ended up here.
His limbs screamed as he willed them to action. He pitched forward, moving himself out of the intrusive line of sunlight streaming in. Both hands slid down his face, down his stubble, which was new, but he was older now, and shaving daily was a part of life he’d yet to embrace. His hands came back with a layer of grime that had a story to tell. No doubt whatever oozed out his pores should come with a biohazard warning.
The hotel room was empty. It hadn’t been the night before, but the remnants of the party didn’t leave with the guests. The hundreds of silvery, glittering beer cans, now empty and scattered, came together in a mosaic of depravity. Condoms littered the furniture and flooring. He chuckled, then regretted it when his solar plexus seized in pain. Had he been in a fight, too? Where were Colleen and Evangeline when he needed their healing hands?
Charles couldn’t make himself stand, so he forced himself to fall to the carpeted floor. He grunted on impact and scrambled to his hands and knees. That was better. Just ahead, white dust blanketed the floral pattern of the carpet. Angry, at first—who would discard precious cocaine like that!—but then sensing the opportunity, he scrambled forward, toward the prize, like a crab missing half its legs.
“Give me a few minutes to get him decent, and we’ll be out of here. My office will handle the damages.”
“Very well.”
Was that Colin? Charles buried his nose in the dirty fibers and inhaled. He fell back, coughing and fighting back one hell of a sneeze. He’d taken in some of the good stuff, but also some other things, probably dust, and dirt, and, if Evangeline were here, she’d tell him dust was a collection of broken, discarded bug wings and other—
A golden halo of light appeared before him. He blinked and strained his sight into focus. The halo subsided, but what remained was no less awesome. Cat.
“Huck,” she said softly. A hand brushed his greasy hair back from his face. “Rough night, huh?”
Rough? Charles wouldn’t have explained it that way at all. His dick might be broken, but he wouldn’t be stopping in to visit the complaints department. How did other orgy enthusiasts handle the task? Is that what they were called, orgy enthusiasts? Orgiasts? Orgy connoisseurs? His first foray into this sexual art might have been overkill. Seven women, and he, the only man. His dick throbbed. Yeah, it was broken, but he expected an ad in the Times-Picayune praising his performance.
“Cat, come on, don’t baby him. He’s not a child.”
Catherine dropped into a crouch before Charles. Her smile was pink bubblegum and honey fresh from the hive. “No, but he’s hurting, Colin. Don’t forget that.”
“Forget it?” Colin stopped short of laughing. “His pain is the only thing keeping him out of jail. Anyone else would be in a world of trouble right now.”
“He is in trouble, though.” She fell back, settling onto her heels. She pressed her palm to his chest. “Aren’t you? You just can’t see it.”
Charles swallowed so hard whatever was trapped from the night before was forced down his esophagus. She said the words as if she could see straight to his heart, right through whatever skin and sinew and bone separated the organ from the air.
“Charles, come on, get up. Cat, seriously, I know you mean well, but we’ve got to get him out of here before the hotel owners think too hard about the offer I made them. Augustus isn’t going to help smooth this one over, not this time.”
“You’re a good man, Colin Sullivan, but you’ve never known pain like your best friend has.”
“But his siblings have, and they haven’t spent the past two years destroying their reputation and every hotel in town. They haven’t avoided drug charges… let’s see, twelve times?” Colin ticked off his fingers. “What else am I missing? Felony vandalism, public indecency, statutory rape—”
“Underage sex,” Charles corrected, belching further evidence into the musty room. Acrid. He raked his teeth over his tongue to rid it of the vile taste. What else had he done last night? Sucked on copper pipes?
Well, he’d sucke
d on something. That didn’t make him a fairy, either. Whatever got the girls wetter was just part of the game.
“Given the consequences of underage sex where you’re concerned, I would think you’d take that a lot more seriously.”
The daughter out there somewhere. How old would she be now? Over a year. The letter, telling him where. Neither existed anymore. He’d burned the information in the fireplace of the heir’s office at Ophélie. “Protection, my man. It’s a wonderful thing.”
Colin scanned the room in palpable disgust. “From the looks of it, yes.”
“Impressive stamina,” Catherine whispered with a playful wink only Charles could see, and he very nearly asked her to marry him on the spot.
“Seriously, Charles, we need to get out of here.” Colin sighed as his eyes took another trip around the ruined suite. “Now.”
“You think you can get up?” Catherine asked. She rocked back on her feet and held her hands out.
For you, I could fly out of here. Charles took her hands and focused all his energies on not stumbling. A man who could create the apocalypse in this room was one who must walk proudly through the wreckage; the great Napoleon, traversing the Alps. No, Caesar. Napoleon was purportedly a little man, at least that’s what Charles remembered from the one or two history classes he bothered to attend. There was nothing small about Charles Deschanel.
He was Caesar, crossing the Rubicon.
“Any day now, Gatsby.”
“Come on,” Catherine coaxed, leading him to his feet. Her smile encouraged him, even though deep down he knew it was the smile of a mother proud of her son for using the potty for the first time.
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