by Calia Read
“Yep.” Ian stares at the letters. “Please don’t get sucked back into the past. Nothing good can come of it.”
My heart momentarily stops beating from his words. I know what Ian means, yet he has no idea that’s my very dilemma.
Clearing my throat, I look at the letters and make sure the stack is even. “I’m just reading letters, Ian. You don’t need to worry yourself, okay?”
My brother holds a hand up. “All right, all right. I’ll let it go. To answer your question, no I don’t have a lot of happy memories of our family. Our dad was always working, and Mom was always at one charity gala or the next. Our parents were a string of nannies, who cycled in and out of our lives more often than not. If our parents had been more present, perhaps there wouldn’t be such discord in our lives now.”
Ian’s face remains neutral. His tone, however, doesn’t. It becomes heated. As if he’s delivering an impassioned speech and he has one shot to persuade his audience of his convictions. I believe him, and I believe the guilt encompassing me because I know if it weren’t for my decisions, the discord would never exist in our family to begin with.
“Oh,” is all I can manage to say.
Ian looks visibly uncomfortable. “Anyway, I’ll leave you alone. I need to study. Night, Serene.”
“Night,” I say quietly.
I watch as he closes the door. Adrenaline races through my body the entire time; I know, I just know, there’s a finality to our last words to each other. Like the moment I slipped off my engagement ring from Will and placed it on the dresser in our former apartment. It was the end of our relationship.
Tonight is filled with the final moments spent with my brother. Well, both brothers.
My heart breaks at the thought even though I know this is the right decision. Dropping my face into my waiting hands, I take a deep shuddering breath. I have to get it together. There’s no other choice but to keep moving forward.
“Focus on Emmeline and Étienne,” I whisper aloud.
Slowly, I lift my head. If I have to give up the era I was born in to be with the person I belong with, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for him. My hands fall to my lap. I gently move my index finger over the touchpad on my laptop. The screen comes back to life, and I Google the antique store. How many antique stores begin with Étienne? My guess is not a lot.
Just as I anticipate, one store located in Long Grove, Illinois, called Étienne’s pops up.
The first thing I do is look up the directions from Champaign to Long Grove. The routes vary, but the drive is around two hours and thirty minutes. Relatively close, considering I have to hop on a plane to visit Étienne’s hometown.
Tomorrow morning, I’m waking up bright and early and hitting the road to visit this antique store. I have to see what else is there. Maybe I can find more items that belong to Emmeline. Or even articles that can link back to Étienne.
Before that can happen, I need to finish reading the letters. And I haven’t even touched the pictures yet. Pushing my laptop to the side, I grab the next letter.
February 1, 1914
Little Poison,
I don’t think I’m patient enough to have correspondence with you this far away. Letters take too long to reach you and vice versa. I check the mail daily and feel disappointment when I see there’s nothing addressed from you. Your stories of Henry are quite entertaining. I read those portions of your letters dozens of times.
Life continues to slowly move forward on Calabria Road. I would love to return the favor for your sweet stories by captivating your imagination with stories of my own. I’m sad to report nothing has happened worth mentioning.
Please write to me.
Love,
Margo
February 15, 1914
Dearest Margo,
It is not my intention to go this long without speaking with you. Hambleton’s continues to do better than I ever dreamed possible. Uriah is still determined to open a second store within the year. Nothing I say deters him.
The divorce proceedings are quite exhausting, and I find myself struggling to appreciate the success. I read your letters often to build new hope inside me. Have you considered coming to America? There are so many opportunities for you here, and I would love to have you stay with us. I also know of a store that will hire you if you’re in search of work.
All my love,
Your Little Poison
February 25, 1914
Little Poison,
By the time you read this, I shall be on my way to America. Ever since you left, I’ve been thinking continuously about uprooting my life to be closer to you. What is here for me in England? I believe you could be right. The opportunities appear endless in your new country. I’m excited at the endless possibilities and to see you and Henry, of course. However, I’m saddened to hear how you’ve been suffering. I beg of you to keep strong. Although you haven’t said it, I can sense your fear. Do not allow Uriah to affect you this way.
In this letter, I am enclosing another letter from Mr. Asa Calhoun. I presume the two of you are in contact, considering this is the only correspondence he’s sent to Calabria Road. To answer your question, yes, I did read the letter. I’ve never been able to resist temptation.
The reason I have kept the letter from you is not that of the content. No, Mr. Calhoun seems quite polite. It’s what he sent along with the letter. I believe the photograph could cause you distress. I will confess I wanted to throw it away, but after much deliberation, I decided I needed to send it with the letter. The outcome of this object is not mine to make. It is yours. You do with it what you will.
Remember, you are strong, Abigail. Emmeline. Little Poison. No matter the name you choose, you will triumph above all else. Simply pick the time.
Love,
Margo
I finish reading the letter and gently place the aged paper on top of the small stack of letters in front of me. I smile faintly when I see Emmeline’s nickname. Even without the backstory from Allie, it’s apparent from reading the letters how close Margo and Emmeline were. To Margo, her sister would always be Abigail or Little Poison. To me, she’s merely Emmeline.
The juxtaposition between Margo and me is impossible to ignore. We’re both fiercely clinging to the happy memories of a sibling who lingers in the past. To allow the flashbacks to slip away means saying goodbye to a part of my life I have such fond memories of.
Exhaling loudly, I drag my hands through my hair and try to regroup. It’s a bit of a letdown; the picture accompanying Margo’s note is no longer available, but that was wishful thinking on my part.
Then I remember Allie mentioning that she made copies of Margo’s letters, but gave me the original versions of anything belonging to Emmeline’s. If the picture belonged to Emmeline, does that mean Margo gave me the photograph? If the image didn’t get lost throughout the years, of course.
It’s a long shot, but I need to look. Grabbing the Ziploc bag filled with the pictures, I open it up, pull the pictures out, and begin to thumb through them. Margo wasn’t descriptive of the image enclosed in her letter, so I don’t know what I should be looking for. Except she thought it might cause Emmeline distress. But why?
The first photo I see is turned over. The back reads Little Poison and Margo. 1914. Smiling, I turn the photo over, expecting to see two sisters smiling back at me. And that’s true, to a certain degree. However, my smile vanishes.
Because one of the faces looking back at me is the woman from Asa’s party. The woman I ran into in the hallway and had the conversation with about a man who was hurting her.
With my mouth agape and heart racing, I stare blindly at the wall in front of me.
“Just know that weak is the man who hurts a woman.”
She ran off before I could find out his name and any more information, and honestly, that night I was so hell-bent on snooping through Asa’s office I didn’t give it much thought. But later on, I would. Never in a million years did I think I would run into m
y great-great-grandma and have a conversation with her.
Never in a million years did I think this woman was Emmeline.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.
I can’t help but give the photo another look. It’s almost too much to believe.
I begin to sift through the rest of the photos. Emmeline and her son Henry. Contrary to the image my family painted, Emmeline appeared to be a loving mom. Henry is propped on her hip. Her hands curl around his chubby leg while he rests his head against her shoulder. Emmeline smirks at the camera and rests her cheek against the crown of Henry’s head. There’s no denying how much she loved her son.
The next photo is of Emmeline standing in front of the window display at Hambleton’s. Her eyes appeared haggard, but her lips pulled upward. Judging from how Emmeline is bundled up, it must be January or February. Sure enough, when I flip the picture over, I see the date, February 25, 1914.
I suppress a shiver; in precisely a month, she would be dead.
Shaking my head, I move onto the next picture and then the next. Pretty soon, I’m on autopilot. I feel as though the photos are a flip book of Emmeline’s life. A forty-five-second trailer, highlighting her accomplishments and the closest people in her life. I’m nearing the end of the stack when I see a glimpse of Belgrave and a flash of green eyes looking at me.
My heartbeat turns erratic as I stop and go back. What I see has my lips parting and eyes widening for a second time in minutes.
Here it is. The picture of the four men who started it all. No one could’ve predicted one would end up dead.
I remember how devastated I was when Will threw the photograph in the fireplace because he thought I was obsessed with it. I tried to grab it, but in the end, the picture was nothing but charred remains. There’s no explanation for why I’m holding this photo. If I want to get technical, there’s no explanation for a lot of the things that have happened in my life since I met Étienne. Why should this picture be any different? I’m just happy it’s back in my possession.
The longer I stare at the photo, the hazier my eyes become until the faces go in and out. I rub my eyes, and when I open them up, the photo is back in focus.
Visiting Long Grove tomorrow is fading away. Staying another minute in this time is fading. I am fading away.
My eyes remained focused on Étienne’s stoic face as the pain crashing through my body becomes too much to bear. My hands begin to shake, and the edges of the photo begin to bend. I don’t let go. Not even as a pulsating agony rocks through my skull.
As my eyes begin to open and shut, I start to lose my balance. The room begins to tilt. It becomes harder to breathe.
I’m slipping away from this time, possibly forever. For courage, I keep my gaze rooted on Étienne’s face even though the agony is unbearable.
I’m slipping away from this time holding the picture of the four men who started it all...
PART III
“There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.”
― T.S. Eliot
There are specific moments in your life you will eternally remember. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, they are etched into your mind.
You will be going about your day, content and happy, and a particular scent will reach you. Maybe you hear a certain song or watch a movie. The details of the trigger don’t matter. The only thing that matters is that they lead you back to the recollection that’s become part of your soul.
For me, the moments I’ve arrived in Étienne’s time will never leave me. Each one has left a lasting impression on me. The last one is no exception.
The first time I arrived, it was with a bang and zero aplomb. I was surrounded by people I didn’t know, yet they knew me. The second time, it was dramatic, running down Belgrave’s driveway with a breeze behind me, pushing me forward. The third was wrought with heartache as I watched Étienne with another woman. The fourth is...natural and peaceful. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the sunny skies and birds chirping outside the windows to greet me that helps. One thing it has in common with the first time is I’m inside Belgrave. It stops there, though.
There are no people around although I hear movement around the house. I didn’t land on the ground. Instead, I traded one bed for another.
Sitting up, I look around. It doesn’t take me long to realize I’m in my old room. I find myself hoping I’ll spot items as they were when I first arrived in 1912. Because if it’s the same as it was then, that means there’s no Scarlett, right?
My hopes are foolish, though. The room is swiped clean of any trace of me. It’s apparent from how every item has a place that this is a guest bedroom. It’s still pink, and it still looks like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol exploded in here, but the familiar scene doesn’t give me any comfort. It’s a mocking reminder of what I once had in this time.
If Étienne’s still with Scarlett, and I want to stay with Étienne, I cannot break up their marriage. The thought makes me sick, but that’s the truth. That’s the way things have to be. The minute I mess with time, I’m out of here.
As I try to take deep breaths, my mind is working in overdrive. Did Étienne marry Scarlett? Am I too late? And where is my place in his life if he did?
With such weighty thoughts, my heart begins to race while the aftermath of the time travel wears off. Deliberately slow, I swing my legs over the bed. They feel like noodles as I stand. Gripping the nightstand to my right, I find my balance. Once I’m sure I’m not going to fall over, I head toward the door.
The minute I step into the hallway, my anxiety shoots through the roof, and I feel exposed to the elements. Anyone can see me now. I know I can’t run back into the room. I have to face whatever I discover. It’s akin to ripping a Band-Aid off. The first few seconds hurt the most, but the sting will fade. My footsteps are cushioned by the carpet runner. The pictures on the walls are still of past relatives. I brace myself for finding a painting of Scarlett, but I never see one.
As I approach the staircase, not once do I run into a servant or any Lacroix family member.
Is anyone home? Earlier, I heard noise coming from downstairs, so someone has to be here. When I round the corner and see the chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the breathtaking details of the foyer, I take a deep breath of relief. My hand curls around the banister as I slowly make my way down the stairs.
Déjà vu sweeps through me as I spot Ben standing near the front door. At once, he spots me. Standing up straighter, he opens his mouth. Before he can utter a word, I hold my hand up.
“I know, I know. ‘Ma’am, who are you?’” I say, doing my best impersonation of Ben. “I’m familiar with this whole song and dance.” I reach the first floor and point toward the direction of the dining room, then the front door, and lastly, Étienne’s closed office door. “Just tell me where Étienne is, and I’ll be on my way,” I say in a hushed voice. It’s eerily quiet in the house, and it feels wrong to be speaking loudly.
Ben blinks rapidly and wordlessly points at the office.
Gratefully, I smile. “Thank you.”
My good luck is bound to run out. I don’t give Ben a chance to change his mind or knock and wait for Étienne to answer. As quietly as can be, I turn the knob and slip into the room. Étienne doesn’t turn from his spot in front of the window. Just as quietly, I shut the door.
The second I see him, I forget about my past anger. I’m so relieved to see him, my shoulders sag. My knees start to shake, and I fight the urge to drop to the ground.
His arms are braced above his head, and his hands are curled around the top of the windowpane. The sunlight streaming in is almost swallowed up by his powerful frame. Corded muscles in his back strain against his shirt.
He hangs his head for a second. It’s a moment of vulnerability coming from Étienne. I can’t help but stand there, leaning against the door, and watch him. His head swings up. While he continues to rest his weight against the window frame,
he stares out at the vast Belgrave property.
Breaking my trance, I blink rapidly and lightly rap my knuckles against the door.
Étienne doesn’t bother turning around. “I asked to be left alone.”
At the sound of the deep timbre of his voice, goose bumps appear on my skin. For me, it’s been days since I’ve heard that voice. How long have I been away from him?
I clear my throat although it still manages to crack. “That’s not the hello I was hoping for.”
Étienne whips his body around. Although it’s evident from the bags beneath his eyes that sleep has evaded him, he’s never looked more like my Étienne. His stubble is starting to become a beard, and his hair continues the slow process of growing out. Slowly, but surely, it’s getting there.
Seeing Étienne unkept while the untamable energy swirls around him is the most refreshing sight I’ve seen in a long, long time. There were times I doubted whether I would see this side again.
At a slow pace, Étienne makes his way toward me. It’s a lazy prowl. A stranger would take one look at him and turn the other way and run because he looks like a predator zeroing in on his prey. Not once do his eyes stray from mine, and because of that, I can see the shock and disbelief there.
When he’s standing in front of me, with only an inch separating the two of us, I swallow loudly. I lace my fingers together in front of me. My mouth opens. I want to say so much. Starting with, I’m sorry for being a bitch. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate my time with you.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I want to ask the most pressing question: where is Scarlett?
However, none of those questions receive answers, let alone slip from my lips because Étienne cradles my face in his large hands, and does what we should’ve done the moment I arrived in January. He kisses me senseless.
Étienne begs entrance with his tongue gliding along my lips. The second I open my mouth, the air is sucked out of my lungs. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back as my hands slide along his narrow waist to his lower back. His warm skin against my fingertips and his body pressed against mine isn’t a cure-all. Everything doesn’t become perfect, but why I’m here does become clear.
