by Calia Read
Sighing, I bend down to pick them up, flipping through them as though they’re a deck of cards. Just as I guessed, they’re bills that can wait until tomorrow. I’m halfway through the pile when I stop short.
It’s not the letter being addressed to me that catches my attention. No, it’s the return address that makes my blood pound in my ears.
It’s the private detective I used nearly two years ago after Serene left. Russell Duncan searched for Serene but found no trace of her. Once the months began to tick by, I waited for him to come back with information regarding Old Serene. I even gave him Old Serene’s parents’ names, Frederick and Delia Quentin. I anticipated for him to come back empty-handed, but he found the Quentins yet no sign of Old Serene. Soon after, I accepted that Old Serene would never come back because my Serene replaced her.
But this letter might have new information. As I tear open the envelope, I remind myself that this could be a courtesy letter. Russell could merely be checking in and seeing how everything is going.
The room is deathly quiet as I grab the letter, allowing the envelope to softly fall to the floor. The letter was dated February 12, 1914. One day after Serene went back to her time. How has this letter been sitting here for approximately two months without me noticing? Something tells me that’s not a coincidence.
“Dear Mr. Lacroix,” I read aloud although my voice fades away as my eyes quickly scan the letter.
It starts out friendly but quickly moves straight to the point.
“I’m writing to discuss your past interest in Serene Quentin. While my previous investigations have come up short, I have heard from a fellow colleague regarding Ms. Quentin. He had been traveling through Columbia, South Carolina, when he saw a woman fitting your description. He sent word to me, and I promptly checked into his claims. I visited Frederick and Delia once again. They confirmed their daughter was traveling to South Carolina with her aunt to visit friends.
She is unmarried. Continues to live with her parents and leads a very active social life in Boston.
I hope my findings can put your mind at ease. If there is anything more I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to get in contact with me.”
Slowly, I lift my head from the letter. Old Serene is alive. She is alive.
My mind cannot wrap around this new information. It’s not plausible. Although nothing in my life has made any logic since Serene came into my life and pushed the old one out.
“What have we done?” someone whispers behind me.
Abruptly, I whip my body around. I recognize the sound of that voice and fully expect Serene to be standing behind me, but she’s nowhere in sight. I didn’t imagine it. I heard her. Hell, I smell her, too.
Closing my eyes, I ignore the headache building around my temples. Laying my palms on the surface of my desk, I take a deep breath, and my shoulders become hunched.
The letter slips from my hands as the room begins to tilt. The pain building around my temples grows stronger until it’s spreading in my body, rushing throughout my bloodstream. My limbs start to feel as though they’re being torn apart. I attempt to open my eyes, to stay present in this moment, but the surroundings of light building behind my eyes grow. It pulls me in, making me immobile.
My body feels as if it’s on fire. I try to remain on my feet, yet the torment is too much. My legs collapse and wait for the floor to break my fall. My knees never make contact with the floor. Instead, they slip through the floor and break through the soil beneath Belgrave. I’m falling at such a quick speed, the wind rushes past me, molding my shirt against my skin. The pain doesn’t abate. My mind is screaming at me to fight and attempt to grab onto something around me, but my legs and arms are frozen.
I’ve never felt a fear quite like this because I’ve always been in control of every aspect of my life. But that option has been stripped away from me. The light I saw behind my eyes is gone, and I’m enveloped in darkness.
The pullback to the present day is the most painful I’ve ever experienced because I fight it with everything I have. Physically and emotionally. I know it’s futile, and I know I’m trying to win in a losing game, but I don’t want this. I don’t belong in the present. I didn’t toy with time, yet it still made me its plaything.
The emotions whirling inside me are so forceful that when I land back in the present, back on solid ground, I promptly throw up. My eyes stay closed and tears roll down my cheeks as I empty my stomach. Panting and feeling nauseous, I roll onto my back and try to take a deep breath. I feel as though I have the world’s worst hangover. My skull feels like it’s been cracked in half. My head lolls to the side, and I welcome the cold surface against my cheek. My eyes snap open. In front of me is a slight incline, and spikes of grass and leaves are inches away from me. Tentatively, I sit up and realize I’m somewhere familiar. I’m in such a daze, though, that nothing’s really clicking into place.
In the trees, birds are chirping. Somewhere in the neighborhood, someone is burning leaves. The wind picks up, causing some leaves to skip around me and hurry down the street. It’s almost as if they’ve seen my arrival and are guiding me in the direction I should take. It’s a frivolous thought, but what other options do I have?
Standing up, I notice I’m wearing the dress I had on when I was with Étienne. I brush flecks of dirt from the silky material. I look around the neighborhood. Did anyone see me sprawled out on the sidewalk? No cars have passed. Nobody seems to be peeking from their blinds. My shoes play peekaboo with the hem of my dress, and with my arms tightly folded across my stomach, I begin to move down the sidewalk. As I walk against the wind, I’m tempted to keep my head down, but I have no clue where I’m going. My hair whips across my eyes as I lift my head and look forward. Tucking the tangled strands behind both ears, I scan my surroundings. It’s only when I glance to my left do I realize why this area felt familiar. I’m standing in front of Langley House. Although it looks vastly different from the last time I saw it. In front of the fence is a freestanding plaque for all passersby to read. I hurry over to it and read the inscription.
THE HAMBLETON HOUSE
On this property sits the home of Mrs. Emmeline Hambleton-McLaren, founder of the successful department store, Hambleton’s. The mansion was built in 1861 for a local doctor before Hambleton-McLaren purchased the home in August 1914.
While buildings and homes became lost in history, the Hambleton House has remained a surviving example of Kreischer and Pike’s signature aesthetic and has remained in the Hambleton family throughout the years.
This home was declared a historical landmark by the Illinois Historic Preservation Agency in 2017.
My eyes flick in the direction of the house. Goose bumps appear on my arms. No longer is this home called Langley Hall. No longer is it slated to be demolished. It is standing tall and proud and well preserved. More importantly, the plaque gives away a key element that has me stepping forward and reading the sign all over again. My eyes haven’t deceived me. The words haven’t changed. Emmeline lived here, and she lived here with Matthew and Henry.
I glance at the front door. The steps of the porch are level. The porch railing is painted a fresh white. A porch swing hangs on the left side of the porch, swaying gently in the wind. Two white wicker rocking chairs flank the navy front door. Leaves that have fallen from the trees pepper across the lawn in shades of burnt orange, yellow, and red. Some have been pushed against the shrubs lining the house, probably from strong gusts of wind. Others litter the ground. The rest fiercely cling to the branches. The scene paints a picture of warmth and welcome and invites the eye to take a closer look at this mansion.
It’s a far cry from the over-the-top home my family lives in. I cling to the desperate hope this is their home. This is where they belong.
Then the front doors open and out steps my mom, wearing jeans and a lavender oxford shirt. Her makeup is at a bare minimum and hair frames her face. She looks like the mom I knew from McLean. The one who raised me.
&
nbsp; She hasn’t spoken a word to me yet. But I can tell from her posture and the smile on her face that she’s back.
“Serene, what are you doing out here?”
“Mom?” I croak.
She laughs and walks down the steps with only her socks on. She rubs her hands up and down her arms. “Of course, sweetie. Who else would it be?”
Wearily, I smile at her. “I don’t know.”
She cups my face between her hands. “Are you feeling all right? You’re looking kind of pale.”
The mom I knew and love is back. To achieve that, though, I was once again ripped away from my soul mate. The thought is enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Mom’s smile fades. Her brows become furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
She’ll never understand that my tears are happy and sad tears mixed. I never thought I would see the day when my old mother was standing in front of me. However, I thought my days of being apart from Étienne were over with, too.
All I can do is fall into her arms. “Whatever is wrong, we’ll figure it out. Okay?”
I nod, and the two of us walk toward my new home. I don’t know if I fully believe her. But I have to because believing is far easier than denying.
“When we’re done figuring this out, maybe you can explain to me what you’re wearing?” Mom asks.
I glance at my dress and sigh. “It’s a long, long story.”
Two Weeks Later
Nervously, I hide the package in my purse and close my car door. I feel like a thief with eyes watching me everywhere. In the houses around us, the trees, even in Hambleton House. But it’s impossible. No one knows what’s happening.
Nonetheless, I feel the box in my purse as though it’s a bomb ready to go off at any second. Like a criminal on the lam, I hurry up the front steps of the porch. My fingers shake as I open the front door.
Warm air greets me as I take off my jacket and hurriedly hang it on the coatrack. In the kitchen, I can hear pots and pans moving around and my parents’ voices.
My dad peeks his head out into the long narrow corridor and smiles at me. “I wondered if that was you. Where did you go?”
“Had to run to the store,” I reply as I kick off my shoes.
“For what?”
I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice nonchalant. “Uhh...tampons.”
“Oh,” my dad says, quickly backtracking.
I snatch my purse from the floor and clutch it tightly to my chest.
Yep. Nothing suspicious about me.
“Yeah, um, I’m gonna go upstairs, and I’ll be right down to have supper with you guys.”
Mom stands next to Dad in the doorway. “Sounds good, honey.”
With my right hand gripping the banister, I take the steps two at a time. This beautiful mansion has traveled back to its former glory days. Unlike me, though, the chances of it ever moving back and forth between different eras is incredibly slim. In my heart, I know it will remain this way. Light fixtures won’t be missing from the ceiling or walls. There will be no burst pipes. Every surface of wood is polished until it shines. The restoration of the now re-named Hambleton House is not the only thing I’ve had to adjust to.
Fourteen days have passed since I’ve been back in my own time or saw Étienne’s face. It’s been a whirlwind of untangling fact from fiction. The one aspect that’s been hard to swallow is accepting Étienne’s not by my side. I’m not giving up. Far from it. I’ve found my way to him not just once but four times. We’ll find our way back to each other a fifth time. Of that, I’m sure.
It’s merely a matter of when and learning to have patience. That’s something I’ve never been good at.
So I keep myself busy by going over all the things I’ll say to Étienne when I see him again. The first thing I’ll do is thank him. He saved my great-great-grandma. He fixed my family and inadvertently saved the Hambleton House.
Bradley is still married to Myen although they have no children. From the hints Myen dropped, it seemed she wanted to start a family immediately. It appeared we were still friends who met in high school, which is how Bradley met her.
Ian didn’t entirely go back to being the carefree brother I knew and loved, but he wasn’t as withdrawn. He wasn’t in law school but instead was an IT tech. He wasn’t married or dating anyone. Out of everyone in my family, I think my heart is the most upset he’s not the Ian I once remembered.
My dad is not the president of Hambleton’s. Instead, he’s a professor at U of I, a job I find far more fitting to his personality. The wrinkles around his lips and eyes are still etched into his skin, but they’re there now thanks to laughter and smiles rather than stress and exhaustion from working long nights at the office. His love for history is back. Gone are the days of asking questions about Emmeline and receiving tight-lipped answers from my family. My dad tells me everything he knows. His information is voracious.
I wonder how he’d react if I told him that he and the rest of the family had once attempted to ignore her very existence? He’d vehemently deny it, and I couldn’t blame him; not only were Étienne and I time’s plaything, but so was my family.
Like all the times before, I had to glean information carefully so I wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. It took me some time, but I gradually learned I was staying at Hambleton House with my parents because I quit my job at Hambleton’s and wanted to open my own antique store in Champaign. The interesting part was my parents were supportive. My trip to Charleston? It happened. Or as my family has called it, I “traveled to clear my head.” I’ll never truly know what events led up to me traveling to Charleston. I’ve searched this house upside down, but I can’t find Emmeline and Asa’s letters. Or the letters from Margo that Allie gave me. The pictures are nowhere to be found either. Either way, I’m positive the motive for going to Charleston remained the same: discovering the truth and a way back to Étienne.
One way to conveniently gather information about my family was from the pictures in my father’s office. Especially the black and white photos of the Hambleton’s stores. I remember walking through the hallway when I first came back to my new family and seeing the same pictures. There were no traces of Emmeline in those photos. Knowing the real story behind her lack of presence in those pictures causes a chill to sweep through me. But now that Uriah’s dead? She’s in every single one. I’ve Googled her, and multiple photos of her pop up. Her newfound notoriety gave me cause for pause. Did that mean Johnathan saw her? Did his date of death change? I looked him up, and it was the same.
Emmeline’s divorce from Uriah never changed. Neither did her marriage to Matthew McLaren. Through research, I was able to discover they had two main residencies—one in New Orleans, and one in Chicago before they sold that home and purchased this home.
However, there were two significant changes to Emmeline’s life. The death of Uriah. Instead of Emmeline tragically falling to her death, Uriah took her place. It was deemed accidental. When I looked it up, I found newspaper articles calling it an unfortunate suicide. No newspaper listed Étienne at the hotel. But Emmeline and Uriah’s acrimonious divorce was mentioned, along with the success of Hambleton’s. It wasn’t said, but it was skillfully implied that Uriah simply couldn’t handle the pressures that came along with running a business with his ex-wife.
Henry lived with Emmeline and his stepfather, Matthew, while Emmeline expanded her empire. I always wondered during my searching for the truth whether Emmeline was simply in love with love, or if her marriage with Matthew McLaren could genuinely stand the test of the time.
I was pleasantly surprised to see that it lasted. Matthew and Emmeline didn’t have any children of their own. Matthew never formally adopted Henry although I found a multitude of photos in the house of Henry, Matthew, and Emmeline. They looked happy. A party of three.
The second change was Emmeline’s date of death. It went from March 26, 1914, to Aug 12, 1966. Dying at seventy-nine years old is far more comforting to my soul than reading abo
ut someone who passed away at the age of twenty-nine.
Because Emmeline lived, my last name changed. Again. Although it wasn’t McLaren. Henry kept Hambleton and had a family of his own. Through the years, the last name became synonymous with wealth and success. But I knew the real story behind the surname. I felt a sense of pride being Serene Hambleton.
I expected Langley Hall, now Hambleton House, to never come into existence. This home was something that Uriah purchased after he killed Emmeline. You can choose to call it fate, happenstance, or destiny, and it may be all three of those things.
I firmly believe that some course of events are meant to happen. It doesn’t matter how you try to stop them; they will find another way to connect.
It’s much like love. If it is pure and honest, it will find a way to survive no matter how impossible the circumstances are.
The second floor is scarce. My shoulders relax a fraction as I enter the guest bedroom. I close the door. I snatch the bag out of my purse before I blindly throw my purse in the direction of my bed and begin to read the instructions on the box. My footsteps echo on the wood floors as I rush to the bathroom. Once inside, I make sure to turn the lock behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I walk to the granite counter, look at my reflection in the mirror, and open the box. I feel ridiculous. This is a long shot.
“You’re just sick, Serene,” I whisper as I read the directions. “You’re just sick.”
I rip open the plastic and grab the small wand that seems so innocuous yet holds my fate in its hand.
My fingers fumble with the button on my jeans as I sit on the toilet. With my legs open as wide as possible, I awkwardly pee on the stick. It’s not as if I’ve ever done this before. Once I’m done, I place the cap back on, gently place it on the edge of the bathtub, and slide my underwear and pants back up.
