by Calia Read
“Blue Grove?” Ian says although it comes out as a question.
For me, the name is remarkably close to Belgrave, so I nod and tell Ian Blue Grove was exactly the home I was referring to. But as I continue to talk, all the color drains from Étienne’s face. I’m seconds away from kicking my brother out of the room so I can demand that Étienne tell me what he knows.
Our conversation continues for a few minutes longer before Ian finally leaves. The second my brother’s gone, I face Étienne. “Out with it,” I demand.
“We’ve looked up Belgrave this whole time when we never thought to search for another home that belongs to my family.”
“Livingston’s home,” I reply, my voice faint.
Étienne nods. “The Lacroix House.”
There’s no time to bask in the glory of our discovery. The two of us practically dive for the laptop, and Étienne beats me to the chase. Standing behind him, I curl my hands around his shoulders while keeping my eyes glued to the screen. Étienne has used my laptop before without me around, but his movements are still awkward, and right now, I’m not patient enough to wait.
“Type faster,” I demand anxiously.
“I am typin’ as fast as possible,” he grits out. He pokes at the keys like his fingers are chopsticks as he types in his last name and Charleston. Only a few seconds pass by, but it feels like an eternity. Finally, he presses enter.
In unison, we lean in closer to the screen as the page loads.
And then we receive our answer.
Étienne throws his hands up and lets them land heavily onto the desk. “Nothin’.”
Defeat causes my heart to sink. I was so hopeful we would actually find something. Where do we go from here? I begin to pull back from the desk when my eyes skim the Google Earth widget on the dashboard of the laptop. Doing a double take, I have an idea that suddenly comes to mind.
“Type in the address,” I blurt.
Twisting around, he looks at me with confusion.
“Belgrave is in the country. Rural roads can be renamed, but the Lacroix House is in Charleston,” I excitedly explain. “The chances of them renaming roads in town are slim to none.”
Étienne slowly nods. “You type in the address and then what?”
“A street view will appear, and it will almost be as if you’re standing right there, but you’re not. You’re sitting behind your computer screen.”
“Brilliant yet highly invasive. Let’s do it.”
Étienne realizes he’s in over his head and leans to the side. I move in to type in the address and press enter. As Google Earth dives into the 3-D rendering of the Earth to find the address, I rub my hands in anticipation.
It finally settles on an aerial shot of the location.
“Is this Charleston in the present day?”
I nod as I move to street view.
This is it. This is the moment we finally find our most crucial clue yet.
As street view downloads, Étienne and I lean in until our heads are our touching. The camera is aimed in the opposite direction of the Lacroix House, giving us a perfect view of cars parked along the road. Rapidly, I click the button to turn the camera in the direction of the house and immediately see the wall surrounding and the outline of the Lacroix House. It’s still there. I begin to zoom in when Étienne taps the screen.
“There’s a sign beside the door.”
Sure enough, he’s right. It’s a plaque that I’ve seen before, but why is it there?
“What does it say?” Étienne asks.
I narrow my eyes, trying to get a better look. “The house is probably listed on the National Register of Historic Places.”
I zoom in, making sure not to get too close otherwise the picture will become too pixelated. The long paragraph on the plaque is impossible to read from this far away, but the words in large block letters can be, yet the letters don’t spell out Lacroix. I tilt my head to the side and look closer, and the name doesn’t change.
I push away from the screen, more confused than ever. “The Alton House? What the hell?” I mutter.
Before Étienne can open his mouth, I have Google open and am looking up the Alton House in Charleston.
The results don’t hold the key to our problems. Far from it. The articles I find mention nothing of the Lacroix family. They range from “Top 10 tourists attractions in the Holy City!” to“Renovations on Alton House are complete.”
“We lost the Lacroix House, too,” Étienne says lifelessly.
I should close my laptop, but I find myself clicking on the pictures. Because in the past, pictures have proven to tell a different story. Pictures, like words, can light a fire of optimism in your soul.
And the pictures I see do just that. They reveal the second-story window I looked out of numerous times while I was lonely and licking my wounds and pissed off at Étienne. It confirms the moment I knocked on the door and Livingston answered, disheveled and hungover.
When I glance at Étienne, I find his face remains stoic, but his eyes … his eyes say something else entirely. They widen ever so slightly. His pupils dilate. Almost as if the image in front of him has held him captive.
After a few seconds, he blinks. The yearning is gone, but his gaze remains riveted on the image.
My heart flips in my chest. “We have to go back.”
Étienne tears his gaze away from the screen and stares at me. “What do you mean?”
“I saw the look in your eyes. You miss home.” Reaching out, I tap the screen with my fingernail. “You miss your family and your era.”
“You’re my family,” he declares fiercely.
My hand drops to my side. I faintly smile. “Étienne, I know I am. But I am your family whether you’re in Charleston, Illinois, Europe, or wherever the hell you’re at. We’re always together. All right?”
With his lips drawn into a tight line, he gives me a quick nod. My fingertips glide up and down the middle of his back.
“We’re going to Charleston,” I declare. “We’re going to find the answers we seek.”
“Isn’t Charleston a good distance away from Illinois?” Étienne asks.
“Not by plane it isn’t,” I point out.
Étienne curses under his breath.
I stare at him with concern. “What are you thinking?”
Swinging his head to the side, he looks at me from the corner of his eye. “That I’m finally adjustin’ to this time and city. What waits for me in Charleston?”
“Welcome to my world.”
In our quest to find answers, it finally feels as though we’re gaining momentum. The second I met Étienne, it’s always been this way. I may glean information here and there—sometimes not even that happens—and then, when I least expect it, the answer drops into my lap, and it’s always the last person, location, or news I imagined. In this case, the answers have been patiently waiting in the present … in Charleston.
I frequently doubt myself, but this feels different. I don’t know if it was the life growing inside me or Étienne being here, but I felt sure of every step I took. Every decision I made.
I feel nothing but confidence as I purchase two airplane tickets online for tomorrow morning. Although the price gave me cause for pause. I know it was last minute, but the cost felt borderline exorbitant.
When I walk into the living room, I look around and instantly feel overwhelmed. We leave tomorrow afternoon, and we have so much to do. Ian is still here, packing up his laptop. The TV is on in the living room. The laugh track from the sitcom sounds through the speakers.
He sees me and frowns slightly. “Are you done talking to Étienne about Blue Grove?”
I look over my shoulder at the hallway. Étienne is still in the bedroom, in awe that you can order plane tickets with a few clicks of your hand. I give it a few minutes, and he’ll come wandering out.
“Not quite. I love it so much, Étienne and I are making a quick trip to Charleston,” I say, keeping my voice casual.
> “No, you’re not,” Ian interjects with a laugh.
At that, I lift my head and give him a look. “Yes, we are.”
“No, you really aren’t.”
He leans over the couch, grabs the remote from the end table, and turns it to the Weather Channel. “Have a look for yourself.”
Crossing my arms, I face the screen. It’s at that time Étienne comes walking out of the bedroom. He sees Ian and me staring intently at the screen and frowns as he stands beside me. “What’s wrong?”
I shush him and gesture to the screen as the news anchor begins to speak. Immediately, I recognize the location. He’s standing on The Battery. It’s cloudy with light rainfall. To his left, I can see the stately, historical homes lining the road, capped with palm trees. Behind him is the heavy steel fence where waves gently lap at the seawall. The promenade is relatively quiet save for a few people strolling by who gives the weatherman a quizzical look, stare directly at the camera, and then quickly walk by with their heads down.
“The National Weather Service predicts Hurricane Alex to be a category three storm with wind gusts reaching upward of one hundred and fifteen miles an hour.”
Ian whistles. I shush him too and turn the volume up as the screen switches over to a doppler screen and a weatherman pointing at a green mass mixed with yellow, orange, and red. It collects in the water before it gathers movement and heads toward the States.
“Now, as you can see, the storm will develop in the Caribbean as a category five. When it reaches the coast, there’s a possibility it can weaken although we still believe it will remain a major threat. Forecasted rainfall upward of seven to fourteen inches.”
I look at Étienne with eyes wide. First the Lacroix House and now a hurricane? Étienne stares at the screen, gripped by the information he was hearing.
“It is predicted to make landfall here in Charleston between next Tuesday and Thursday.”
“May 10th,” I mutter aloud because dates play a key component when it comes to time. At least, it has before. But the date doesn’t resonate with me. The first time I traveled it was April, directly before the Titanic sank. The second time, it was two years later in January.
Nothing of importance happens in May. But perhaps, and this is a big perhaps, the importance is us. If Étienne and I have broken barriers with our love, maybe we’re truly shaking things up in the world. Two people from different times simply don’t belong together, and this is the result you get. A natural disaster.
I know it sounds crazy, but I wouldn’t discredit the idea.
When the buzzer to the front lobby goes off, Ian walks over and turns it on. Étienne and I continue to watch the TV. It switches from the doppler back to the news anchor.
“This is freakin’ insane,” I whisper to Étienne.
“I remember the hurricane that struck Charleston in late August 1911. It produced heavy rainfall, and we had extensive flood damage. The rice crops were utterly destroyed,” Étienne says somberly as he watches the television.
By now, Ian’s standing beside us and has heard every word. I elbow Étienne in the side at the same time Ian slowly looks his way. It takes Étienne a few seconds to realize his blunder.
“Oh...I—”
“What he meant to say is he remembers reading about the hurricane that hit in 1911,” I cut in. I smile at Étienne. “Right?”
He smiles back. “Right.”
Ian looks back and forth between the two of us. “Yeah, okay,” he says slowly.
Just then, there’s a knock on the door. The three of us look at in that direction before I glance at Ian. “It was Mom and Dad buzzing the front lobby to be let in.”
My heart races a bit. “What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Ian says as he walks to the front door.
I wasn’t planning on seeing them, but this is probably for the best. Now that Étienne and I are preparing for to leave Charleston, I need to let them know, just in case it’s forever.
Mom and Dad breeze into the space, fresh air clinging to their clothes and an optimistic smile fixed on Mom’s face. A sharp pain lances my heart as I visualize this being some of my last moments with her. This isn’t the first time it’s occurred to me.
I’m positive it won’t be the last.
Whoever believes love comes without sacrifice is a fool.
“What is everyone doing?” Mom asks, oblivious to my sobering train of thought.
“We’re watching Hurricane Alex approaching Charleston while your pregnant daughter and her fiancé are planning a trip there,” Ian says, ripping the Band-Aid off in two point five seconds.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say sarcastically.
Ian shrugs. “No problem.”
Just as I expect, Mom’s eyes widen with concern. “Trip? Why are you planning a trip to Charleston?”
“There’s a house I want to visit with Étienne.”
Not true yet not false either.
“It will be there after the storm leaves,” Mom shrieks.
“This is a hurricane we’re talking about, so it might not be there afterward,” Ian says without missing a beat.
“See?” I gesture to Ian. “That is all the more reason Étienne and I should go now.”
Mom glares are Ian. “You’re not helping my case,” she says to him before she directs her attention to me. “You need to stay here. Stay here where it’s safe.”
At that moment, the weatherman takes that opportunity to repeat a shortened version of what Ian, Étienne, and I heard when we first walked in the living room. I point at the screen. “You heard the man. Hurricane Alex isn’t going to land until next week.”
Dad walks up beside Mom and stares intently at the screen. “Serene, it says the winds can reach upward of one hundred and fifteen miles per hour.”
“I know that,” I reply slowly. “But it’s fine. We’ll be back before the storm reaches the coast,” I lie.
“But it’s only going to get worse, and people will be evacuating soon,” Mom points out.
Nothing is going to stop me from going to Charleston. I have to see the Lacroix House with my own two eyes. If this desire burns bright in me, I can only imagine how Étienne feels right this second.
As if he can sense me thinking of him, Étienne presses the solid wall of his chest against my back and gently wraps his hand around my forearm. My parents don’t miss the gesture. Without words, he’s showing his support.
“Once again, we’re not staying there forever, all right? It’s just a quick trip,” The second the words leave my mouth, I settle against Étienne.
We both know I’m lying.
“If it’s just a quick trip, why can’t it wait until after the hurricane?” Dad asks.
“If I’m bein’ perfectly honest, I need to assure my home is boarded up before the hurricane,” Étienne replies calmly.
Dad slowly nods. The answer is so smooth and confident, I think it flies over everyone’s heads that Étienne found out about the hurricane at the same time I did.
“Serene’s pregnant,” Mom says, for the millionth time. “It’s safer if she stays at home.”
“I’m pregnant, not an invalid. Besides, most airlines restrict pregnant women after thirty-six weeks. And I am definitely not thirty-six weeks pregnant,” I point out.
In this situation, my family wants to keep me safe from the eye of the storm. Literally. However, I will not change my mind. This is something Étienne and I have to do together.
“I’ll call you the second we get there,” I vow.
“When will you leave?” Mom asks.
Étienne and I exchange glances. I look at my parents. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow?” Ian and my dad say at the same time.
My brother’s objection gives me a sense of déjà vu. Even though he has no recollection of the time I begged him to take me to the airport in McLean, Virginia, I do. He had more objections then, but he’s still just as displeased.
A l
ump lodges in my throat as I stare at my parents and my brother. The first time I flew to Charleston, I told just Ian, and that was only so he would take me to the airport. This time, I’ve broken the news immediately. Maybe it’s because I know deep down that this may very well be the last time I see them. The last time I get the chance to hug them and tell them how much I love them.
“Well, just hurry back as soon as you can.”
“I’ll try,” I whisper as a wobbly smile tugs the corner of my lips upward.
Étienne wisely turns off the TV, and the conversation thankfully shifts toward where Mom, Dad, and Ian should have lunch, and then to how Étienne has never played Oregon Trail and died over four times. Of course, that leads to the conversation of when Ian and I used to play the game as kids.
Ian leans against the wall and makes himself comfortable. “Serene, do you remember how shitty Bradley was at the Oregon Trail game? When we were kids, he used to die all the time.”
While Ian laughs, I glance at Étienne with wide eyes. He gives me a confused expression. I move toward my brother, my gaze cautious. “You remember that?”
His laughter fades. “Of course. It was rare that I ever had the chance to beat him at anything. Pissed him the hell off.”
No, no, no. That’s not how the story goes! I scream on the inside.
“How many times did Bradley win?” I challenge.
Reveling in his glory days, Ian doesn’t notice the intensity of my question.
“Twice, but only because I was sick,” we say at the same time.
Étienne looks between the two of us, and Ian stares at me as though I’ve grown two extra heads. And I’m staring at my brother as though my world’s been turned upside down again. In a small way, it has.
“What’s up with you?” Ian says. “You’re looking at me all strange.”
I shake my head slightly and snap out of it. “Nothing. Talk of Oregon Trail takes me back.”
“I bet it does. It was a dark time for us all,” Ian jokes. He pats me on the shoulder and shakes his head. “You never played the game. I always joked that no matter what you did, you could never survive in the past.”
I’m paralyzed by his words. Too terrified to protest. I watch Dad laugh with Étienne. Slowly, Dad’s moved past his anger over the engagement and then the pregnancy. If Étienne stays in the present, I’m positive they would become close friends. With a slack jaw, I watch Ian and my parents say good-bye. He closes the door behind them when they leave. The firm click reverberates in my chest, causing me to exhale a shaky breath. I stare at the space Ian once occupied.
