by Calia Read
The newel posts nearly sparkle with no trace of dust on the carved oak. My hand curls around the urn style top as I lean forward and tilt my head back to see the third floor. I never get the chance because my eyes notice something else entirely.
“Étienne, can you come here for a moment?” My voice sounds faint even to my own ears.
Seconds later, I hear heavy footfall as Étienne approaches me. My gaze remains rooted on the ceiling far above me.
“What is it?”
Wordlessly, I point at the focus of my attention. His shoulder brushes against mine as he leans in for a better look. I know the moment he sees it because expletives pour from his mouth.
Before, if you stood in the middle of the foyer and tilted your head back, you’d see the staircase that ascended over three floors. Now, the eye is drawn to the top landing, where on the ceiling is an intricate painting of the center of a spiral clock. The Roman numerals are crisp, the numbers painted in black. Beneath each stairwell, on the smooth stucco, continues the ornate spiral clock design. It appears so real, so three-dimensional, almost as if you can reach out and touch it.
The chilling part for me is there’s no hour or minute hand telling the time. When you look at this clock, you almost feel as though time is standing still. It rings all too true for Étienne’s and my situation and shows whoever painted this clock took great care in the design.
I feel a strong sense of déjà vu as I stare at this painting. I remember when I read the letter on the side of the road, and I looked back at the highway and allowed my imagination to take over. I never knew I’d see something like this in real life.
“That wasn’t there when I stayed here, and it wasn’t here when you were a child, was it?” I ask Étienne, my voice quivering.
“No,” he confirms. We stand for several seconds before he speaks again. “Di sotto in sù.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye. “Come again now?”
Étienne crosses his arms and keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “A di sotto in sù means seen from below in Italian. It’s a technique that gives ceilings depth and space,” he explains.
I nod my head and resume my staring.
“Your husband is correct, Mrs. Lacroix,” Sylvia interjects. Étienne and I turn and see her standing behind us, her eyes twinkling with unsaid information. “This was commissioned by Prescott Legare after his union to Imogene Alton. They married in 1917, one year after Mr. Legare purchased the home. Some say he bought the Alton House as a wedding present for Imogene.” Sylvia’s eyes twinkle with merriment. It takes all of my strength to smile back and play the part of some clueless tourist and not a visitor from the present and the past. “Silas Claftan, a well-known Charleston artisan, is the creator,” she continues. “It’s certainly peculiar, but it catches the eye, and truly makes it the focal point of the foyer. Some might say, the entire home.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand as I stare at the ceiling, but I can’t stop looking. The clock is too close to Étienne’s and my situation. I can’t help but wonder if Prescott Legare was linked to the letter I found on my windshield. It’s a long shot, but something to consider.
“May I asked what compelled him to design somethin’ such as this?” Étienne asks.
Sylvia sighs. “Through the generations, it’s been said Imogene was friends with Nathalie Claiborne. Once her brother Étienne went missing and was declared dead, she then received news her brother Livingston had died. Of course, Nathalie struggled.”
Beside me, I feel Étienne stiffen. “What did Livingston pass away from?”
“I’m not sure. When I’m not tracing ancestors for clients, I’m giving tours of the Alton House.”
Discreetly as possible, I reach over and lace my finger through his. We made a pact not to research Livingston and Nat. And here this stranger is, unknowingly feeding morsels of the pasts to our greedy souls. It hurt, though. God, does it hurt. Like salt on a fucking wound.
Sylvia is oblivious to my inner turmoil and keeps speaking. “As I was saying, the loss of both brothers was too great for Nathalie. She spiraled into a depression.” Étienne squeezes my hand. “Nathalie and her husband lived in Savannah, Georgia, with their children, both boys. They made trips, and it’s said her sons were close with Imogene’s son, Carter. But Nathalie stopped visiting after a few years. People said her behavior became strange. She began to fixate on a different time. It’s said she would tell her sons stories about being able to go back and forth between certain eras and right a wrong. Her sons relayed these stories. People became increasingly concerned, especially her family and friends. She even gave one of her sons a pocket watch belonging to one of her brothers. Thus the design of the illusionistic painting.”
Étienne’s pocket watch. The one belonging to his father, Adrien. The very one Étienne never has out of his sight.
“I believe Imogene desired to capture the whimsy and heartbreak behind her dear friend’s stories. Mrs. Claiborne was forever chasing happiness and trying to escape heartbreak, and that’s exactly what Mr. Claftan achieved.”
A shaky breath escapes from my lips. “That’s a dramatic story.”
Sylvia shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “It is. But that’s what happens with time. Stories become warped and the truth embellished. And the only people who know took the truth to their graves. I’ve read numerous letters in Imogene’s possession, but there’s very little from Nathalie Claiborne. Nathalie thanked Imogene for her condolences after Livingston’s death, and she would speak about her sons, but there was no mention of her obsession with time. My guess is she was close friends with Imogene, but the time story was simply exaggerated.”
I wish I could be like Sylvia and blindly believe that lie. Yet I know there’s a sliver of truth to her words. If Nat was never to hear from Étienne and Livingston passed away shortly after, she would be beyond devastated. Nat knew the truth about me. She knew Étienne would never just up and leave. Sooner, rather than later, she would put the pieces together.
Just then, the front door opens. Étienne goes from being quiet and composed to alert and tense. Sylvia hustles toward the door, unaware that Étienne is acting as a guard of this home. If he could pee in each corner of this house, I think he would. Alton House differs from the tours offered of Belgrave. For starters, the one I experienced at Belgrave was in a group setting, mainly because everyone had to be closely monitored. Here, it seems people pay at the foyer for a self-guided tour. The rooms that aren’t open to the public are sealed off.
As Sylvia greets two older women, I place a hand on Étienne’s chest. This isn’t Belgrave, but this home still belonged to his family. Watching strangers come and go, knowing you can’t do a damn thing about it has to be torture.
“Calm down,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
With a rigid posture, Étienne regards the visitors from afar. My heart breaks for him the longer we stand here.
Linking my hand through his, I nudge my head toward the front door. “Let’s go.”
We’ve seen all we need to see. Why stay any longer?
Étienne and I say our thanks and head out the front door. I thought Étienne would be reluctant to leave a place that held a piece of his family, but after the bomb Sylvia just dropped, the two of us are nearly running toward the street. When the gate closes behind us, I whirl and stare at Étienne with my mouth hanging open. Étienne looks behind me, a state of shock etched across his face.
Leaning against the brick wall behind me, I try to process everything. Scattered clouds have rolled in, and the wind has begun to pick up. I appreciate the dreary weather. The ominous colors settle around me like a warm hug. And when I see someone on the street, I can immediately pick a true Charlestonian from a tourist. The residents are preparing for a tempest with Mother Nature. They’re hunkering down and gathering all the necessities to ride out Hurricane Alex.
The residents are similar to Étienne and me. Our battle just happens to be with time.
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My head lolls to the side as I glance at Étienne. “Well. That was fucking weird.”
Étienne simply nods.
Pressing my palms away from the wall, I step in front of Étienne. “Are we not going to talk about Sylvia talking about you being dead when you were standing in front of her the whole time?”
Étienne’s slow to meet my gaze. “I’d rather avoid that topic,” he replies, his voice calm. When Étienne is unnervingly composed, he’s either one of two things: incredibly angry or trying to gather his thoughts. Normally, I would give him some space to process it all, but we don’t have time for that.
“How did she not know it was you?”
“She’s either seen a picture of me in passin’ or heard stories throughout the years. However, since we lost Belgrave and now the Lacroix House, it’s quite apparent the Lacroix name no longer has the impact it once had.”
A lump gathers at the back of my throat when I hear the frustration in his voice. More importantly, I hear something that rarely comes from Étienne—sadness. It’s so infrequent I don’t know what to say. I stand there and watch as he drags his hands through his hair and looks toward the street.
“When I first arrived, I constantly thought about my siblings. Nathalie, in particular, but I became distracted. But for her to think I’m dead when I’m not …” His words veer off as he raises his hands and glances at me with a look of helplessness in his eyes.
I rush over to him. “Hey. It’s okay. I get it. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say reassuringly.
“I did, though. I should’ve been searchin’ harder for a way back to my time. I was so focused on bein’ with you and happy about the baby.”
My body stiffens. “Do you regret that?”
Étienne’s eyes meet mine as he fiercely whispers, “Serene, not a single moment.”
“Then please don’t regret it. We’ve lost so much time together. Nat knows where you are.”
“But—”
“No buts. Your sister knows. She knows.”
Étienne nods and doesn’t say another word. Together, we continue walking down the street.
Étienne and I can pretend our life in the present day is fine, but the echoes of time are moving closer. Wind brushes against my cheek like a soft caress. The smell of honeysuckle drifts beneath my nose, reminding me of a Belgrave that no longer stands and a history I’m trying so hard to duplicate.
We are willing to repeat certain moments, even the bad, because we know we can conquer them. And isn’t that feeling exquisite? How the calm settles within our bones when we know we’ll be all right as long as we have one another.
I prefer for people to come to me. Lie down before me and wait until I need you. Never touch me but always be within reach. This has been customary my entire life.
So the frustration I’m feeling over having to seek the truth behind my dreams and the people who know me is foreign. This might be the one time in my life I’ve ever had to work hard for anything.
But there’s a euphoria that comes along with it. If men gave me this chase, I would have made my mother the happiest woman in Boston and married years ago.
Such as it is, the only men I allow in my life are the ones who can benefit me, and right now, no one appears to be of any help in terms of my one objective. That simply means I need to become creative in my approach. I need to blend into my surroundings. Blend into this unfamiliar city with people who speak in deep Southern accents.
I know that I can do that. But I might need to stay in Charleston longer than I anticipated, which isn’t ideal. I miss Boston. I miss being the life of the party; surrounded by people who hung on my every word, and men who stared after me as though they’d devote their entire lifetime just for one minute with me.
Yet I miss a quiet mind and knowing with absolute certainty there is no twin stranger of me in the universe.
“Ma’am? Maybe it’s best we consider the journey back to Massachusetts?”
I tear my gaze away from the Charleston cobblestone streets and focus on my maid beside me. “Betsy, are you paid for your opinion?” I ask sweetly.
Wringing her hands together, my maid merely shakes her head.
“Precisely. You’re paid to attend to me. Nothing more. If I desire your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With the conversation over, I continue to stare out the window. Traveling by one’s self is frowned upon, so I had no choice but to choose a companion. I needed someone who I could easily sway. Betsy’s been with our family for six years. She became a servant when she was eleven and is someone my mother trusted, so she seemed to be an easy choice. Apparently, I was wrong. For the entire time we’ve been here, I could see the doubt on her face and the weariness in her posture. By principle, people were hesitant to approach me because of her.
My lack of answers was her fault.
“Honestly, Betsy, you must learn your place. I allow you to go on this lovely trip with me, and this is how you repay me? You’ve been a worrywart the entire time.”
“I apologize, ma’am.”
“Sometimes apologizing just isn’t good enough,” I say as I adjust my kid gloves. “You need to learn how to be grateful for what you have.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied with Betsy’s answer, I link my fingers together and run through my plan one more time. My aunt Aida said King Street was bustling with shops and that perhaps I might find a hat or gloves to my liking. Her suggestion appealed to me on a materialistic level but also logically. If King Street is bustling with shops, it must be very busy with people. Therefore, easy access to keep my eyes open and ears alert to the conversations. It may prove futile, or I might find something of value.
As requested, the driver stops on King Street where businesses line the street. The brakes squeak in protest, and I’m all right with that. The sound causes people to turn in my direction.
I adjust my gloves one last time and graciously accept my parasol from Betsy while the driver walks around the car. “You stay right here,” I command, wagging my finger at her the entire time.
I don’t wait for my maid’s reply. Instead, I face the door. I’m anxious to go outside because it’s incredibly hot today. I’m unbothered by my maid staying in the car. She’s resourceful, so she’ll think of a way to stay cool.
The driver opens the door. Sunlight floods the car, bathing me in a warm glow. Instantly, my mood changes as I can see people turning my way. They’re captivated by me and my striking red hair. I took great care in selecting one of my finest dresses. The blue lace and taffeta are delicate and airy. Perfect for today. The sides of the dress are artfully draped with double cuffs that billow around my elbows. My waist is pulled in with a belt that has a single rosette, adding a splash of color.
I smooth the material over my thighs, knowing full well there’s not a wrinkle to be found.
Perhaps someone in my crowd of admirers will recognize me and step forward.
As my skirts settle around me, I turn toward the driver, giving him explicit instructions to stay in this very spot until told otherwise.
Appraising the selection of stores, I decide Aunt Aida is right. I believe this the busiest area in Charleston. Although my uncle disagrees. I don’t have nearly as close a relationship with him as I do with my aunt Aida, but I know he works somewhere near or on the dockside. From the looks of their impressive home, he must generate a notable income. That makes him somewhat tolerable in my eyes.
As my mother once said, “The world countenances people with money.”
With my parasol open and delicately perched on my shoulder, I begin walking down the sidewalk. Every so often, I spare a glance at a window display. Occasionally, I smile at a passerby. I can tell from their friendly expressions they don’t recognize me, but they want to. We can’t help but gravitate toward anything that is elegant and new.
As I walk past a store with the inscription EAL Corporation on the window, a m
an opens the door. His head’s down, eyes fixed on the documents in his hands. He doesn’t watch where he’s going and promptly runs into me.
He lifts his head, barely sparing me a glance; his gaze focused on the papers in his hands. “I’m sorry.” Then he continues on his merry way.
My mother often told me it was churlish to allow your feelings to rein free. I give the man a pleasant smile.
“The apology is all mine, sir,” I say, trying my best to sound contrite.
Immediately, the man stops walking and turns around. He blinks rapidly at me. His grip around the documents becomes so tight, the skin around his knuckles turns white. His mouth opens and shuts, but no sound escapes. Briefly, he shakes his head.
“Serene? Why are you here?”
The moment has arrived. This man knows me! Do not let this opportunity go to waste.
Even though my heart is pounding, I attempt to beguile this man with a smile and reply to his question. “I’m in search of a new gown.” Between my forefinger and thumb, I pick up the thin material.
His head tilts to the side. It’s almost as though I’m speaking in a different language, and my words are getting lost in translation.
“When did you and Étienne arrive at Belgrave?”
Belgrave? What is Belgrave? Perhaps he’s referring to a town or some sort of organization? And who is Étienne? From the way he comfortably speaks of this Étienne, it’s apparent we both should know him.
As I attempt to think of a correct answer, his eyes narrow. It’s plain to see this man is shrewd and subjective. He judges not by what you say but by what you don’t say.
And in those few seconds, I didn’t say anything.
For a moment, my smile fades. It’s as though he can see inside me, can read my thoughts. “Serene?”
How he says my name the second time makes my blood run cold. It’s spoken with disbelief but also drips with disdain. This man hasn’t mistaken me for my doppelgänger. Oh, no. He recognizes me for me.
I swallow loudly. Do I have the courage to admit why I’m here and confess the truth?
