Echoes of Time

by Calia Read

  “I’m unsure,” he starts out slowly. “Currently, I’m alive although I should be dead. And someone I’ve never met has me on their family tree.”

  “Hold that thought,” I say as I click on the first family tree with the most records attached to their tree. My heart begins to pound because I saw something Étienne didn’t. At least I think I did. Étienne’s page loads, but there’s no picture attached. Just a silhouetted avatar of a man in blue.

  “Look at that. Your date of birth is still the same.”

  Tilting my head back, I watch as Étienne scans the screen. He glances over the row of facts on the left side of the page, the sources users can attach to a person, and his immediate family members to the left. At once, I notice this family tree has no wife for him. I don’t know what to think about that. That’s the least of our problems, though.

  Étienne’s eyes widen, and I know he’s come across what caught my eye. “There’s no death for me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It could be one of two things: either there isn’t a credible source to prove the exact day you died.” Just saying those words causes hair on my arms to rise. “Or you’ve changed the course of your own life by time traveling to the present.”

  “I’m uncertain which one is worse,” Étienne replies after a beat of silence.

  “Well, you’re not dead right now, so I’m going to say the former is the worst choice.”

  “Yes, but if I’ve altered my life, do my siblings remember me?”

  I know the fear of leaving behind loved ones all too well. While Étienne talks, I do the one thing he offered to me when I time traveled. I remain quiet while he voices his frustration and confusion.

  After a beat of silence, I open my mouth, ready to console him, when he speaks. “What about my companies and Belgrave?”

  He mentioned this earlier, so I should’ve known he would bring it up again. “You really want to open that can of worms so quickly?”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “Yes.”

  “All right.” I face the laptop and open a new window. “EAL Corporation, Charleston, South Carolina,” I say aloud as I type.

  Results are instant but far from what either one of us wants to see.

  “In 1915, EAL Corporation merged with Clearwater Real Estate. Due to underwhelming numbers, Clearwater Real Estate was bought out by the Meridian Company in 1919 to become the country’s top full-service real estate company.”

  When I’m finished reading, an unbearable silence hangs in the room. Étienne leans over me, deathly quiet. A muscle along his jaw jumps as he stares at the screen. If anyone had the power to change the results with a single look, it’s this man, but it didn’t happen.

  If I even ask, I think Étienne will rip the laptop charger clean out of the wall and break my computer into millions of pieces. He’s that pissed.

  I’m incredibly curious and anxious. What is The Meridian Company? Why did Étienne’s corporation merge with Clearwater Real Estate in 1915? Something serious must have happened. Later on, I would like to research this in greater depth.

  “Look up Lacroix Shipping Company,” Étienne says, his voice controlled and contained.

  I type his family’s company into the Google search bar. The results that show up on the screen have Étienne and me frowning. For me, it’s confusion because it’s nearly the exact answer I received when I researched the Lacroix family business not so long ago. The Lacroix Shipping Company was sold to Charleston Terminal Company. But instead of the year being 1919 as it was before, it’s 1917.

  What’s happening?

  Étienne slams his palm on the computer desk, causing me to jump. Standing up straight, he covers his mouth with his hand before his hands move to settle on his hips. “None of that is possible. I would have never sold the companies.”

  Twisting around in my seat, I watch as Étienne begins to pace. “Livingston perhaps?”

  “Livingston would never do somethin’ of that nature,” Étienne says vehemently.

  As the second pass, so does Étienne’s fury. I know it’s necessary for us to research to figure everything out, but maybe we’re going too fast, too soon. When Étienne passes by me, I place a hand on his arm to stop him. “We can take this slow if you wanna. Maybe we can look at Belgrave tomorrow?”

  “No, no.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “We can look now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Étienne takes the same position as before as my fingers move across the keyboard. This process never gets easier. If anything, it’s worse because you know to expect the unexpected, and even then, the outcomes can be shocking.

  For Belgrave, the results to show up are plantations Drayton Hall, Magnolia, Boone Hall, etc. near Charleston. Several links lead to articles about the plantations that offer tours in South Carolina. Romantic-style gardens near Charleston.

  Underneath each link, Belgrave is listed under missing, and it’s crossed out from the search.

  “Try again,” Étienne demands.

  The second time I type in Belgrave, the page takes a bit longer to load. And when it does, I’m given the infamous Error 404, Page Not Found.

  “Did you write Belgrave correctly?” Étienne asks.

  “Yes.” I bite my tongue from saying anything snarky like telling him you type on a keyboard, not write.

  I tap the screen. “Look. The name is right in front of you.”

  “Quelle est ma vie?” Étienne mutters under his breath.

  I still don’t know the French language, and even if I did know a bit, Étienne speaks so fluently the words flow too fast for me to catch them. But I’m willing to bet what he said centers around this fruitless research.

  “What about Old Serene?” Étienne says.

  My brows rise the exact moment my heartbeat stutters for a millisecond. The subject of Old Serene is unavoidable, but I’m still coming to terms with the fact she’s still alive. What does it mean for my existence? How will it affect Étienne’s and my relationship?

  Étienne and I stare at my laptop, wearing twin expressions of dread.

  “Sure,” I manage to say. “But this is the last search we’re going to do today, all right?”

  Étienne’s lips draw into a thin line. He doesn’t want to stop, yet he also knows if we continue hitting these roadblocks, his anger will only continue to grow.

  Reluctantly, he nods. “Very well then.”

  Links for Serene Quentin appear within seconds, and I click on the first Ancestry link. I have my doubts whether it’s the Old Serene, but when I see Frederick and Delia listed as the parents, it’s confirmed.

  They lived in Boston, Massachusetts. Frederick was born in 1861 and died in 1932. Delia was born in 1866 and died in 1925. Nothing seems overtly suspicious about them.

  Through all the changes, Old Serene has remained their only child. Her birthdate is September 9th, 1883. However, unlike Étienne, she has a date of death listed, and her death certificate is attached.

  The date is June 6th,1927. She passed away in Boston at the age of forty-three. The cause of death was cirrhosis of the liver. I whistle.

  “Old Serene was a drinker,” I say.

  Étienne merely grunts.

  She never married or had children. There are no pictures attached to Old Serene, just the censuses from Boston. When I’m done, I slowly turn and look over my shoulder at Étienne. She lives, but she dies. But for us, we know she’s alive, yet that can change at any moment depending on our actions.

  “What does this mean?” Étienne voices what we’re both thinking. Once again, Étienne begins to pace. His shirt rises as he drags his hands through his hair with palpable and understandable confusion. Unfortunately, I have a feeling this won’t be the first, or the last, setback.

  Standing up, I wait until Étienne’s steps away from me to intercept him.

  “Étienne,” I say gently. “I know better than anyone the answ
er won’t come overnight.” He looks me in the eye, allowing me to see the defeat swirling in his hazel eyes. I link our fingers together and gently squeeze. “There are a lot of unknown questions right now, but we’ll get the answers. Let’s give ourselves a grace period.”

  Briefly, he looks away, then back at me. “What do we do until then?”

  “We do what you hate the most. We wait.”

  “And if I can’t wait?”

  I muster the brightest smile I can manage. “Then you must do what I did in your era. You adapt to your surroundings with me as your tour guide.”

  When you live in one town, one home, one time, you quickly acclimate to the environment around you. I’ve never known a life without television, cars, or frequent trips to restaurants and the mall. It’s so easy to see everything as one-dimensional. Why wouldn’t we? It’s been our landscape nearly our entire lives. But if you’re an outsider, especially someone like Étienne, the world takes on a different light when you see it in a brand-new way. Everything seems brighter, the buildings look taller, and the sounds are amplified.

  At least, that’s what I’m assuming. As always, Étienne’s face remains impassive as we walk hand in hand toward the mall. His eyes skim over the cars, people, bushes, and even the trash on the ground.

  After our research yesterday and what we uncovered, we needed to get out of the house and take a breather. Étienne couldn’t remain idle. This morning, he was up before me, attempting to figure out how to turn on the TV. We had breakfast, but he furtively swept his gaze around the first floor. He still hadn’t gotten the opportunity to speak in depth with my parents any further, and he was used to going to work each day. I knew this all had to be getting to him.

  Walking a few steps ahead of him, I face him and walk backward while I spread my arms. “Soak it in, Étienne. Soak it in. This is the American dream right here.”

  “It’s … intriguin’.”

  Right then, a guy drives by with his window rolled down, a cigarette clutched between his fingers, and rap music blaring from the speakers so loudly his windows rattle. Étienne jumps back, nearly landing in the shrubs.

  Étienne gives the retreating car a ferocious scowl before he looks at me intently. “Do you know that man?”

  “Do you think that because I’m from this time I know everyone in this time?” I ask. I grab his hand and tug him toward the entrance. “Come on. Your new wardrobe awaits.”

  Upon entering the mall, Étienne’s reaction is a lot like it was outside—tense and alert, and ready for anything that may come his way. He appears more ready for battle than a fun day shopping. Just hand him a sword, and he’s good to go.

  I’ve never been to this mall before, but if you’ve been to one, then you’ve been to them all. We weave through the crowd, passing kiosks filled with toys and gadgets that are nothing more than junk but always manage to catch your eye. Especially Étienne’s. More than once, I have to pull on his shirt and remind him there’s no need to buy a cell phone case because he doesn’t have a cell phone.

  I find an Old Navy and make a beeline to the men’s section. “We’ll just get a few things, and then we’ll leave, all right?”

  Étienne nods.

  I begin grabbing shirts and dress shirts that look Étienne’s size and some boxers. We head toward shoes where I discover Étienne’s a size 12 and hates flip-flops with a fiery passion. He tried them on for two seconds before he slipped them off.

  “No, Serene. I refuse. No contraption is goin’ between my toes.”

  “If you think that’s uncomfortable, try putting a corset on,” I murmur as I return the flip-flops to the rack.

  We move to the final item left: blue jeans. I thumb through the stack of jeans, searching for any that I’m guessing are in his size. I grab a few just to be safe.

  When I hand them over to him, Étienne gives me a blank stare.

  “Go try them on,” I explain as though I’m talking to a toddler.

  “You expect me to wear these?”

  “I’m wearing them now,” I point out.

  Étienne gives me an appreciative look. “Yes. And they look quite lovely on you.”

  “Everyone wears them, and we don’t know how long you’ll be here. You need some clothes.”

  Étienne’s chin stubbornly juts out. He knows I’m right; he just won’t admit it. “I’ll wear my other clothes.”

  “Too late. I burned them,” I say dryly.

  He narrows his eyes. He knows I’m giving him a hard time.

  Furtively, I look around the store to make sure no one is within hearing distance. “You need new clothes. I know I keep repeating myself, but until you find a way back to your era, you need to fit in to this time.”

  “You mean our era.”

  I smile and press the jeans to the solid wall of his chest. “Our era,” I concede.

  Étienne’s face remains stubbornly stoic. I’ve been in his shoes before. He doesn’t want to put these jeans on any more than I wanted to wear a corset. To give up his clothes, as little as that may be, is to give up the last fragments of the only life he’s ever known. But Étienne’s watched me do it, so I know he can do the same.

  “Please. Just try,” I ask one last time.

  Étienne looks me in the eye, then sighs heavily and takes the stack. We go to the changing rooms. Étienne’s so tall he can nearly see over the top of the changing room door.

  As the minutes pass, he slings one pair of jeans after another over the door. Impatiently, I tap my foot. “Are you going to show me?”

  “I wasn’t aware that was a requirement.”

  “Show me.”

  Slowly, the door opens. For all his reluctance, you’d think the jeans would be riding high à la Steve Urkel, but they fit him better than I imagined.

  Étienne makes a face of discomfort and spreads his legs awkwardly as though he has a wedgie. “I do not care for the feel of these.”

  “Really? Because you look thrilled,” I reply dryly.

  Solemn-faced, he looks my way and adjusts himself. I shoo his hand away. “Stop that.”

  “When I walk, the material rubs against my thighs.”

  “You’ve walked like two steps. Give ’em a try.”

  “Can I tell you that when you’re hollerin’ about wearin’ a corset?”

  “Absolutely. But before I put another one of those damn things on, I’m having one of my ribs removed.”

  He smiles down at me. I’ll never find a better sparring partner than this man. I’ll never find another person who drives me crazy one second and then warms my heart the next. If anything happens to him this time around, if he leaves me, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. I never anticipated being solely dependent on one person so intensely. It’s terrifying when you really think about it. It even borders on being co-dependent, but if the person you rely on highlights the better parts of yourself, can it truly be a bad thing?

  “How is everything going over here?”

  The saleswoman breaks my train of thought, which is probably for the best. If I think of time and everything I’m up against, I’ll be tempted to bang my head against the wall.

  Étienne stands a bit straighter. His brows slant low as he looks at the woman. “Quite well, ma’am. Why do you ask?”

  Her eyes widen, and her head veers back, looking momentarily stunned by his blunt words. The rest of the world is going at thirty-five miles per hour while Étienne is driving at a steady seventy-five. If you’re not ready, he’ll speed right by you. “Oh. Um, I was just making sure everything is going all right.”

  “We’re good. Thank you,” I say gently. She scurries away. I turn to Étienne and shake my head, wearing a grin.

  He watches me solemnly. “Why was she bein’ so inquisitive?”

  “Because it’s her job. You had shops in your era. I went there with Nathalie. And correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t a certain madame measure me for clothes?”

  Étienne’s eyes become hot from
the memory. “Yes. However, tailors or modistes will come to my home for measurements.”

  “Of course,” I murmur. “Well, I don’t have the money you do in your era, so that’s not gonna happen. So perky salesclerk it is. Now haul it back inside the dressing room and try on the shirts.”

  Étienne grumbles but complies. After a few minutes, he walks back out wearing one of the dress shirts. I eye him appreciatively. Étienne doesn’t notice because he’s too busy frowning at his shirt.

  “I don’t care for this,” he mutters as he tugs on the sleeves.

  Gently, I slap his hands away so I can get a better look at him. “I find that ironic coming from a man who wears dress shirts with a blazer every day in the Charleston heat.”

  “Those dress shirts fit me.”

  I look him up and down. “This one fits you.”

  Indeed, it does. Étienne could wear a garbage bag and somehow manage to pull off the look. Articles of clothing conform to his body and developed muscles. Étienne begins to toy with the buttons on his sleeves.

  “Give it here.”

  A sense of déjà vu sweeps over me as Étienne rests his large hand on my chest between my breasts. My heart begins to pound as if it’s the first time I’m close to Étienne. I smell the soap he washed with that morning.

  Get it together. You’re in public, I tell myself.

  I undo the button and make quick work of the second. When I’m done, Étienne gives me a knowing smirk as if he knows how he affects me. He turns to the mirror and methodically rolls the sleeves of the shirt up to his elbows. Once he’s done, he nods.

  “Feel better?”

  “Much,” he replies.

  “Good.” I pat his back. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think the shirt will do, but I have no money.”

  I pull out my wallet. “Yes, but I do.”

  “I’m not letting you pay.”

  Technically, this VISA credit card is one my parents apparently gave me, but I’m not about to tell Étienne that. I give him my brightest smile. “You have no choice in the matter, do you? You need the clothes.”

  Wordlessly, I give him the green henley. Étienne knows the process by now and yanks the shirt out of my hands, grumbling back to the changing room about how I’m lucky he loves me so much.