Karen MH Kersting

 Welcome to Foolishly Free! Here, I’m sharing unpublished works, all for free. Enjoy! PS: you will need to scroll to the bottom of this section for later works as they are in an arrangement where the oldest posts are at the beginning

A Christmas Toy to Mend a Broken Heart

(submitted to The Times-Picayune in 2018 for their Memorable Holiday Toy writing competition; was accepted that year)

by Karen Kersting

My most treasured toy arrived when my childhood expectations for Christmas gifts were many years in the past, and when a particular holiday season only filled me with dread. At that time, I was raising my young son – mostly- alone. It was a busy, content household.  Yet, I had hoped that it would, soon, be even busier. Would the man I had been dating for a few years, perhaps this year, ask The Question? Instead, he informed me the week before Thanksgiving that I was no one he wanted to marry. Though mortified and heartbroken, I hid those emotions from my son; determined to give my child a happy holiday season. We baked cookies, opened the little doors on the Advent calendar and drove through neighborhoods to look at the holiday lights. My son was having a great time, and I was pleased he was unaware of my sadness.

One day, while shopping for holiday gifts, I decided to buy something time-consuming and distracting for me: a small, unassembled dollhouse. It seemed the perfect project for all the future evenings I would be spending at home. The box was wrapped and stowed away with all the other gifts. And most importantly, I decided it would be a gift “from Santa” – for at my house, Santa’s gifts were wrapped in distinctive paper and the gift tag was signed (in gold ink, no less) from Santa himself. Santa Claus had not given me a gift in years. It was an amusing thought to consider how my son would react to seeing that box under the tree.

 But for the moment, my son was excited with a different holiday milestone: this year, he was old enough to purchase Christmas gifts. He was earning an allowance for completing small tasks, and he now had a few dollars to spend. We went to a dollar store, so he could easily find items and gift bags within his budget. I was instructed NOT to follow him about the store, but to wait by the entrance.  Soon enough, he proudly walked through the checkout lane with his small bag of purchases. Once home, he insisted on wrapping the gifts himself, then placed the small bundles under our tree.

 On Christmas morning, his small bundles had been joined by a large collection of wrapped presents, Christmas stockings and packages still sporting mailing labels. I had placed my gift “from Santa” beneath all the other presents, hoping it would be a memorable surprise for a child already questioning Santa’s existence. But before any of the other presents were opened, my son wanted me to, first, open the gift he had purchased for me. Tucked inside the small gift bag was a little chair – the perfect size for my soon-to-be-unwrapped dollhouse.

 “Why this is lovely!” I said. “What gave you this idea?”

 “Oh, I thought it would be something you might like,” he replied.

 Placing the little chair on the mantle, I watched my son eagerly dive into the pile of gifts. My mind was dizzy from this amazing coincidence and desperate to compose a response when the doll house would, eventually, be unwrapped. When he pulled that last box out from under the tree and read the tag, his eyes widened. “It’s for you…from Santa.”

 I was determined to act surprised. “For me?” I said, taking the package onto my lap. “Why would Santa bring me something this year?”

 As the wrapping paper was removed, and the contents revealed, my son gasped. “Oh, my gosh,” he whispered. “Santa must have been in the store when I bought your chair!” His expression, a mixture of awe and glee, confirmed that the legend of Santa had at least one more year of credulity in our household. And in that moment, I embraced a warm sense of peace and healing; grateful for the unusual blending of events to create this sweet holiday story.

 The little chair now resides inside that dollhouse. Though more than two decades have past, this special toy is my constant reminder of the unexpected, magical and sometimes mysterious joys of the Christmas season.

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 Lap Swimming at the Natatorium

 (an unpublished work of flash fiction)

by Karen MH Kersting, Oct. 2023

“May I share the lane with you?”

It was the widest swim lane and could easily accommodate two people. Scanning me, her expression a mix of brief annoyance and disdain, she said “I’ll go to the next lane. She knows me.”

Her tone and abrupt dive under the lane markers prompted me to pivot towards the woman already in the adjoining swim lane. Her reply to my obvious confusion wasn’t friendly, either. “She prefers to swim with people who are swimming swimmers…not surface swimmers.”

Now informed of this petty hierarchy - those with swim boards (me) versus those who employ both legs and arms to propel themselves through the water - I descended the ladder into the shallow end of the pool. With a firm grip on the swim board I began the watery journey along the pool’s length. On the return lap, I got a better view of these “swimming swimmers” still gathered at the shallow end.

The trio resembled manatees more than women; the resemblance further reinforced as they donned goggles, swim mitts, flippers and snorkels. The largest of the three (the one who did not want to share a lane), made a great show of flinging herself into a highly energized front crawl. The swim fins and mitts certainly enhanced the impression she was a powerful and fast swimmer. Amused by this performance, but more focused upon my own progress back-and-forth within my lane, I had completed several additional laps before becoming aware of odd sounds emanating from that adjoining lane. The larger woman was vocalizing a series of grunts and groans through her snorkel as she briefly swam alongside me. I was reminded of sounds recorded from humpback whales. It was soon apparent that she only would make these sounds when near me, prompting me to wonder: do actual fish and aquatic mammals employ such passive-aggressive behaviors in the water world?

Images of bullied crustaceans scuttling below sneering porpoises; schools of fish taunting other schools of fish and pods of whales hosting a version of AGT provided an amusing theory to consider as I completed my thirty minutes of swimming. Now, ascending the ladder to the firmness of the pool deck, to the transition from buoyancy to unfiltered gravitational pull, to the sensation of air against wet skin, I began to understand why some primordial creatures abandoned prehistoric oceans for the pleasanter possibilities of dry land.

**************************

Self-Reliance

(an unpublished work of non-fiction)

by Karen MH Kersting, 2017

“I will pray for you.”

Cautious concern tempered that lilting accent. While I was certain the Pakistani man had seen all sorts of strange customers, perhaps I was the first teary-eyed woman to arrive at his service station behind the wheel of a 35-foot long rental truck, towing a SUV on a flat-bed trailer. He and I were alone in the garishly-lit store; the rain, whipping against the windows, provided the only sound for several seconds. Finally, I handed him my credit card.

“Thanks, I’ll need as many prayers as possible.” After signing the receipt for the purchase of fifty gallons of fuel, I dashed back to the truck. The storm’s one gift – intimidating most other travelers from using the highway – meant I had less trouble steering 50-plus feet of vehicle across the service station’s paved frontage, onto the feeder road, and back to Interstate 10. Reactivating the radio, the first act of “Carmen” was ending; the swelling music an odd compliment to the monotone swish-clack of the windshield wipers and the soggy rumble of water churning within the wheel wells.

Against this mild cacophony, I mentally reviewed the surreal drama which had dominated this weekend. Surely, my recent journey was worthy of a musical score, too. But the relentless cadence of rain pounding the truck cab and echoing inside the empty cargo hold, I decided, would have to suffice.

Twilight, three days earlier, had been so pleasantly unremarkable. The harvested cane fields of southwest Louisiana expectedly transitioned into the plowed fields and open grazing land of east Texas. I had driven this route many times. A ruddy-orange sunset was draining from the horizon, promising a cloudless night sky. The new-moon phase, combined with the chill of February and scant light-clutter, brought a spectacular display of stars.   

First star I see tonight, wish I may… Wish for what? Solve a complicated family problem in one weekend? I was driving to Houston to give my parents a respite from the challenges of caring for my beloved grandmother.  Now struggling within the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, Grandma’s erratic behavior had intensified. My parents were emotionally ill-equipped to provide the patience and selflessness such care-giving would require – yet too stubborn to seek trained help. I, at least, had several years’ experience as a volunteer in geriatric care. I intended to show my parents the benefits of having additional help. Their present household situation (I had been warned by my sister) was an emotional powder keg.

Or should I wish for a better year than the previous one? In quick succession I had lost my job due to a company-wide downsizing, then, learned that the man I had been dating for two years felt I was, now, “no one worth marrying”. My self-confidence had been terribly bruised. In the months since the lay-off, I had also accrued significant credit card debt to keep my household afloat. My 14-year old SUV, alone, had needed tires, a battery and an alternator. Still, I had been recently hired by a local firm and that was a positive bit of promise. I twisted the radio’s volume knob a few levels louder.

Focused upon ideas and schedules for the coming months, I had driven past several highway signs without taking any notice of that information. Yes, I was somewhere beyond the Texas border, but with no idea if I was near Beaumont or Bay City. My inner voice scolded me to pay attention.

Rounding a bend in the highway, a wide sign listed all the information I needed: I was several exits east of Beaumont, with the nearest exit only a few miles away. Content with my progress, I sang along with the radio’s music. Then, my SUV lurched unevenly.

I glanced into the rear view mirror. I was alone on this stretch of desolate interstate. From the glow of my tail lights, the pavement behind me appeared to be unobstructed. The SUV lurched again, harder; but this time, a syncopated clanking noise emanated from beneath the floorboards and the engine was losing power.

Steering my vehicle towards the far edge of the shoulder of the highway, my heartbeats were outpacing the engine’s off-rhythms. With the engine and radio, now, off, I sat in the silence, numbly staring into the flat dark of the dashboard. An 18-wheeler zoomed past. The concussion of air from its passing demonstrated yet, another, worrisome condition only several feet from my door. However, walking along the highway to get help seemed less vulnerable than staying, here, at the side of the road.

Thankfully, the car interior was boringly empty and clean – nothing to tempt a roadside thief. Still, I stowed my weekend luggage behind the front seats. Next, on a plain scrap of paper, I printed:                                   

engine failure

walking to the next exit 

As an afterthought, I added the date and time before placing the note on the dashboard. Grateful I had decided to bring a small shoulder bag, instead of a larger purse, I slung it across my torso so it would be hidden under my coat. The baseball cap I kept in the glove box would keep my shoulder-length hair out of sight while I walked to the next exit. Turning up my coat collar and stuffing my hands into my pockets, I maintained a sure pace, keeping to the far edge of the shoulder. I prayed I did not look like a woman.

By this time, traffic was intermittently steady. The headlights from those speeding vehicles offered sporadic illumination to the pavement ahead. Dank, earthy smells from the fields clashed with the sharp tang of exhaust fumes. I was prepared to run into those dark fields, should a vehicle slow down. My bigger fear, though, was whether a service station or diner would be open at this next exit. The year was 1997 – I did not, yet, own a cell phone. I couldn’t presume an operable pay phone would be installed outside those businesses, if they had already closed for the evening.

I walked for almost two miles. At the exit ramp, the pavement veered towards a cluster of buildings alongside a 2-lane municipal road. I could see a well-lit, busy, gas station. The man behind the service counter allowed me to use his office phone – once he learned I would be able to pay for the long-distance call to my sister – and sold me a beer and some chips.

I sat on a bench outside the service station. I’m not, particularly, a beer drinker, but the situation seemed to warrant an adult beverage.  I thought about my disabled vehicle and how I was facing, yet another, unexpected expense. So much for wishing on stars. I did not make eye-contact with the other customers. My frustration was too raw for conversation. The temperature was noticeably dropping, too. I hunched into my jacket and looked at my watch. My sister wouldn’t arrive for another 45 minutes.

“Hey, I’m closing.”

My expression caused the station owner to look away. He added, in a gruff tone, “If I was to stay open for every person with a broke-down car, I’d never get home.” He glanced around the now-empty parking lot. “Look, you can wait in our BBQ stand ‘til your sister comes along. Just put the lock back on, OK?”

I followed him to an adjoining, nondescript, metal building. An operable window, above a narrow counter, faced the road. It was little more than an enhanced shed; the interior carried the faint scent of cardboard and stale food, but appeared tidy. Through the open door, I watched him turn off the exterior lights, then lock the service station doors. He never looked back, towards the BBQ stand; he simply crawled into his pickup truck, then, drove west.

For several minutes I leaned on the edge of the now-open window, watching the distant trucks and cars speed along I-10. But then, a sedan slowly drove along the municipal road. I realized, with no slight grip of panic, that I was, quite, visibly alone in the well-lit interior of this flimsy building. But, that car continued east. I turned off the lights, then, closed the window and door.  

Within seconds, dry, scuttling sounds warned that I was not alone inside this mostly-dark structure. Tentatively, I reached, again, for the light switch. Cockroaches – in all sizes – were scampering along the walls and floor… and across my shoes. A calming, inner voice convinced me I was safer inside this shed, than out in the gloomy parking lot. Scuffing my shoes along the floor created enough noise to frighten the roaches away from me. I turned off the light, once more.

Thankfully, my cheap, glow-in-the-dark Timex claimed my sister could be here in 20 minutes. Not the best circumstances, but I was more concerned about the vehicles now driving up to the service station’s pumps, than the insects drawn to my warmth.

A small moving van – obviously a decommissioned rental truck- was towing a dust-coated compact sedan. The driver had turned off his headlights before leaving the municipal road. A man, now exiting the passenger side of the van, appraised the property before lighting a cigarette. From my vantage point, I could only see him walk towards the service station. But, I heard him shake the storefront doors in an irritated way. For several minutes, he paced alongside the van. Stopping, he now stared towards my hiding place.

I had remembered to bring the unlocked padlock inside, with me, but the doorknob also had a lock. I stepped forward and twisted that latch. A few seconds later, he was testing the door knob. The door was hinged to swing outward. Scenarios, requiring me to shove the door open, then run- somewhere- spun through my mind while I watched the knob jiggle again and again. Pressed against a pile of boxes, I hoped I was sufficiently shielded from view (should the man peer through the window), and that I would not feel a roach squirm between my back and the wall.

Finally, I heard him walk away. He, and the man who had driven the van, now paced back and forth next to the gas pumps. The van, I noticed, sat heavily over the tires. All these odd details only added to my fear that I was witnessing the start of something illegal. Minutes passed. If Sally had left her apartment directly after my call, she might arrive while the men were still here! Looking out, towards the highway exit, I was relieved to not see any vehicles on the exit ramp. The men had stopped their pacing to engage in a discussion. They stared at their watches, then, at the landscape around the service station. Soon afterwards, they returned to the van, started the engine and slowly drove towards the interstate on-ramp.

I stood in the darkness, realizing I was, literally, panting from fear. From the window, I only saw vehicles traveling along the highway. Finally, a vehicle was steered to the ext. The headlights from a large pick-up truck swung wide beams of light towards the service station. I recognized that truck. With the padlock now threaded into the hasp, I waved and started towards Sally’s truck at a slow jog.

The staccato yelp from a police siren brayed from a point behind me. I spun around. A state trooper, exiting his car with gun drawn, was now training a search light on me.

“What’s going on here?”

“I...my car broke down on the highway.” I gestured east. “I’ve been waiting, here, for my sister.” I pointed towards the truck. Thankfully, he holstered his gun.

“We’ve been looking for you…figured you might be along the side of the road.”

I know a lie when I hear it, but also wanted to learn if my theories about the men and the van were accurate. “Oh. Well, I’ve been here for the past hour or so.  After the service station closed, some men, driving a van, showed up…”

“We know about them.” He paused. “Will you be able to get your SUV towed?”

Satisfied that I wasn’t going to abandon my SUV to the Texas Highway Department, his demeanor softened, but he did not get back into his car. “You girls have a safe trip home,” he said.

Sally, silent and wide-eyed, watched me cross the parking lot and open her passenger door. “What in the hell is going on?”

###

The next morning, the man answering the AAA emergency number put me on hold to calculate the towing charge from Beaumont to New Orleans. It was equal to my mortgage payment. Declining the quote, I searched the Yellow Pages for a Penske rental center. My mechanic also ran a Penske franchise, so the return wouldn’t be too difficult. Besides, the color of my SUV matched the sunny-yellow paint color of their vehicles: it would certainly be a warning to other drivers.

At the rental yard, there were only flat-bed trailers; not the simple, front-wheel tow-dollies I had wanted. And, I learned, those trailers required a larger truck to pull it. Sally waited until we had reached my disabled SUV to ask how I planned to get it up onto the trailer.

I wasn’t certain my idea would work, but spoke as assuredly as possible. “I think I can restart the engine and get enough momentum so that it will roll up the ramp.” I had parked the trailer almost four car-lengths ahead of the SUV, which seemed a decent distance for this plan. I got two-thirds of the way up the trailer ramp before the engine stalled. I contemplated a Plan B, while hoping a compassionate truck driver would stop to help two women on the side of a highway with a disabled vehicle and a trailer. Apparently, we appeared too competent.

My Plan B was to repurpose the hold-down chains to temporarily secure the SUV. I fastened the chains in such a way, that, the SUV couldn’t roll backwards, but there was sufficient slack to move the SUV forward. I cranked the engine. The noise was horrific, but the engine had enough remaining power to propel the vehicle to the front of the trailer. Sally stood near the truck, crying.

“Metal and oil were flying everywhere,” she sobbed.

Indeed: a steady drip of oil oozed from the underside of my SUV. But it was, now, late afternoon. There was, still, time for a short visit with my grandmother. Tomorrow, I would return to New Orleans.

##

Rain fell in steady sheets, as I drove back to Louisiana. As a performance of “Carmen” was being broadcast on NPR, my inner voice ranted against this latest twist of bad luck and the many failures from this weekend. It would be years later – after Hurricane Katrina - before I could appreciate and trust my determination and ingenuity when faced with difficult situations.

Now, with less than a quarter tank of fuel, I steered my mega-vehicle towards a grimy service station. The cashier smiled as I approached the counter. “Why didn’t your husband come in to pay?”

He gasped at my teary reply.

*********************************

The Signet Ring (more unpublished, fan fiction, inspired by the characters in Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice)

by Karen MH Kersting; Sept. 2023

Chapter 1

“I never meant a word of it, you know.” Mr. Bennet took in a panoramic view about the room, not really meeting the sympathetic expressions of the people seated nearby, pausing for a moment to notice the clouds from the closest window before resuming his commentary. “I always told her she would be spared from facing the entail in that I would outlive her… but now, that my jests have come true…”

As his voice faltered, Jane quickly leaned forward to place one hand upon his forearm. “Father, do not worry yourself. Mama allowed her nerves to weaken her constitution. She, I think, enjoyed your jests and teasing comments. She knew she did not have to worry about any terms of the entail.” Jane glanced at Elizabeth for affirmation. “Don’t you agree, Lizzie?”

“Yes, Father. Jane is correct. But, this has been another long day and perhaps you should rest before supper. Shall I ring for Harris?” But before Elizabeth could reach for the bell rope to summon her father’s valet, Jane’s eldest son had waddled towards Mr. Bennet’s knees.

“Ol’ Fool,” the little boy said as his grandfather lifted him onto his lap. “I’m here. Don’t be ‘fraid of a tail.”

The child’s earnest tone, combined with the gentle manner with which he placed his little hand upon Mr. Bennet’s cheek, brought a smile to many in the room. “Your Old Fool is just a bit sad today, Charlie, not afraid. Sit with me a while and then, we will go into the garden to look for the turtles.” As the child nestled against his waistcoat, Mr. Bennet absentmindedly, stroked the child’s back. “Such a blessing, Jane, is this little one. Innocence and sunshine.” He gasped as he attempted to straighten the child’s sleeve. “Well, look at that: he wears the mark of Bennet.” Pointing to the three faint marks along Charlie’s left arm, he pushed back his own cuff to reveal three similar (though much more prominent) marks on his own arm. “My father, brother, and my grandfather also had these odd blemishes. All the same.” He sighed. “Well, I guess this is now the mark of Bingley, eh Jane?” With a soft pat he now encouraged the child to crawl off his lap. “Come along, Charlie, let’s search for the big turtle.”

Jane, Elizabeth, Mary and Kitty; along with their spouses, and with Mr. and Mrs. Philips, remained silent as Mr. Bennet and Charlie exit the room. Bingley was the first to speak.

“He dearly loves our boy, Jane, but we really shouldn’t encourage this Old Fool nickname.”

Jane shook her head. “I have had many a discussion with Father about the nickname, yet he is highly amused by it, and insists upon Charlie saying it.” Motioning to the nanny seated in a far corner, she said “Nell, let the children have their tea upstairs and a nap before you return them to Netherfield. I’ll have Hill bring Charlie to the nursery in a few minutes.” She now addressed Elizabeth. “What about your little one?”

Elizabeth smiled at the sleeping face of her youngest daughter, nestled in her lap. “Yes, it’s probably a good idea for her, too, to spend some time in the nursery.”

With the help of one of the housemaids, the other children were soon removed to the upstairs nursery. Elizabeth was the first to sigh with some relief. “Father may enjoy having all the grandchildren about the house when we visit, but I must admit: a few hours without them underfoot is quite civilized.”

Kitty, however, frowned at this comment. “Lizzie, Father is just so lonely. Remember how we used to fill these rooms with conversation and music and…”

“…Silly arguments.” Elizabeth laughed at her sister’s expression. “It certainly made for a lively household, but I’m just not prepared to continue that tradition with my own girls.” Smoothing her skirt, she added “But, more importantly, is whether father should stay at Longbourn. This is quite a large house for one person.”

Amid the reactions of the other Bennet sisters, Darcy stood and motioned for silence. “I’m certain it is no surprise to anyone here,” he began, “that I have already received letters from Reverend Collins. This arrived yesterday.” Extracting the pages from an inner pocket of his coat, he held up the packet for illustration. “It seems that while he is quite happy at his new parish in Dover, he is quite…eager…” Here, Darcy paused to locate the page in question. “To initiate, he claims, the mutually beneficial collaboration of knowledge and consideration towards the future of Longbourn Estate.”

“The presumption,” exclaimed Elizabeth, standing away from her chair in an agitation that combined both her irritation at her husband for not alerting her to this latest letter and her long-standing displeasure with Reverend Collins’ correspondence. “Our mother has been interred in the family mausoleum only two days and yet, within this sad time, he can only think of the entail.” She had begun pacing the room, now reaching the window that faced the small park and the pond where the turtles resided. For several seconds, she watched her father and Charlie slowly inspect the pond’s banks before speaking again. “Father loves this estate. Surely, there must be some way to keep Mr. Collins from interfering with matters… at least until we are out of mourning.” She returned to her chair while saying “What may be our options?”

Now, it was Mr. Philips who spoke. “Why don’t we retire to my home in Meryton. I do not want to imply that the walls, here, have ears, but, perhaps a brief change of venue will be helpful to this conversation?”

With no dissent from any of the party, the carriages were called for and Hill was instructed to alert Mr. Bennet to their plans.

##

Mr. Bennet, from many years of walking along the pond’s banks, knew the turtles would most likely be found along the side of the pond bathed in afternoon sun. He directed Charlie, though, along the shady path, in an opposite direction – as much to give the child some exercise as to extend the time he could spend with his grandson. Charlie’s delight in the simple details of nature brought both a smile and a tear to Mr. Bennet’s face.

“Look! I see fish in the water!”

Charlie, hands clutching his knees, leaned perilously close to the water’s edge. Mr. Bennet quickly stepped closer to rest a hand upon Charlie’s shoulder. He, too, now peered into the water, searching for ripples between the lily pads. “Fish? Well, well. Perhaps, when you grow a little more, I’ll have the steward provide us some poles and we may catch those fish for supper. Would you like that?”

“Oh yes, Ol’ Fool. That would be fun.” Charlie’s voice barely said the last word before he pointed towards a nearby gate. “Who is that?”

The young man standing in the lane that ran alongside the property, now stepped towards the gate providing access from the lane into this garden. He touched the brim of his hat.

Taking Charlie’s hand, Mr. Bennet advanced a few feet closer. Squinting slightly, he said “Hallo, are you looking for the steward? His cottage is further down this lane,” he continued, as he pointed to the left, “I believe he is still taking applications for the gardener’s apprentice.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’ve been asked to deliver these papers to, to…you,” the young man stammered. “The hall boy said I could find you, here. It’s from my uncle, Jack McLear.”

“Really?” Mr. Bennet approached the gate, while scrutinizing the young man’s face. “I don’t recall Jack ever mentioning a nephew. But then, our conversations at his pub never dwelt upon family.” He accepted the leather-wrapped parcel, while still studying the young man’s profile. “Forgive me for saying this, but: have we met before?”

“Not until this moment, sir.” He smiled. “Uncle apologizes for not delivering this personally. He’s traveled to little town in Suffolk…a family matter.” He tipped his hat. “And my condolences, sir, at this sad time.” After a small wave to Charlie, he took a single step back, pivoted, then set his pace towards the village.

“Is he a friend?” asked Charlie.

“I’m not certain, my boy, but he was a very polite messenger.” Mr. Bennet watched McLear’s nephew stride down the lane until the bend in the road hid his progress. “Now, Charlie, let’s see if we can find the big turtle. Hill is heading our way, so we haven’t much time.”

Thankfully, the turtle was immediately discovered to be basking atop a half-submerged log. Charlie, content that he had seen the creature and watched it dive into the pond, was easily coaxed back into the house and up to the nursery. Mr. Bennet, however, retired to his library to stare at the leather-wrapped packet. The strings securing the bundle were further reinforced with a generous application of sealing wax and the imprint of a London-based secretarial firm.

“Obviously something of great importance for Jack to invest in this much care,” he whispered. “Still, I will wait until other eyes are available to advise me on this mystery.” Sliding the packet into a desk drawer, he was pleased he was able to complete the task before a knock at the door, and the face of one of the hall boys, would know of this action.

“The Honorable Mr. Webster has arrived, sir.” The hall boy was visibly excited with his good fortune to deliver the calling card on the silver tray. “Shall I send him in here, or to the parlor, sir?”

“Please send him in here, and tell Harris to attend to his suitcases.” Mr. Bennet hurriedly stood away from his desk, reaching the doorway just as his guest stepped inside. “My dear Howard,” began Mr. Bennet. “We weren’t expecting you for at least another hour. Otherwise, I would have met you.” He smiled. “My house staff may never recover from having an MP arrive at my front door without a proper welcome. How was the trip from London?”

The gentleman entering the library carried an essence of importance and tobacco smoke, which further complimented his embroidered waistcoat, gold watch chain and smooth features. Grasping Mr. Bennet’s outstretched hand in the most unaffected way, his manner spoke of a long and devoted friendship. His deep, bass-toned laugh a friendly, comfortable sound filling the room and the immediate hallway, as well.

 “I decided to travel with Lord Richards in his carriage, which allowed us to privately discuss several bills to be brought forward in Parliament, thereby avoiding any interaction with the landed locals…if you understand my meaning,” winked the MP. “Quite a comfortable way to travel, I may add, and not much time wasted at those posting houses along the way.” His expression shifted. “But now, Thomas, about you: such a difficult, sad time. I have so many happy memories of Mrs. Bennet’s lively spirit and her enjoyment of Balls and Society. She and my late wife made quite a pair at those galas hosted by my in-laws, did they not? So now, here we are: two widowers, children grown, with a happy past to console us.” Cupping one hand under Mr. Bennet’s elbow, he added “I was unable to leave London until this morning, and regret missing the funeral, but I am here for you, now, my old friend.”

“Your arrival is most timely,” began Mr. Bennet. Motioning towards the fireplace, where a diminutive table, its top obscured by the silver tray holding a decanter and two crystal glasses, was flanked by two armchairs, he waited as Howard Webster decided which chair to occupy. “I already had a fine claret prepared for your arrival. I think you will like it.”

Settling into a chair, Howard Webster accepted a glass of the deep-colored liquor as he said “The house is so quiet. I expected to see, at least, your eldest daughter and her family here. Doesn’t she and her husband reside a mile or so from Longbourn?”

“Ah,” began Mr. Bennet, “Jane and her husband reside at Netherfield; they have been hosting three of my five daughters, plus the spouses and children, for several days. At the moment, the grandchildren are napping in the nursery upstairs and the adults have convened at the home of my brother-in-law. No doubt to privately confer upon my latest inconvenience.” He took a small sip from his own glass before continuing. “The entail.”

Howard peered at his friend, gauging from his tone and the lack of a wry smile that this was a topic of importance and annoyance. He chose his words carefully. “Always a tricky business, when there has been so many unusual circumstances. But, what could your distant cousin possibly want – especially at this sad time?”

Mr. Bennet refilled his glass before replying. “I suspect he views the death of Mrs. Bennet as an excuse to become more involved in the estate. To be honest, I haven’t read any of his correspondence, merely handing it to my brother-in-law – he’s an attorney, you’ll recall – for review and counsel.” He sighed, “And thankfully, my son-in-law, Darcy, seems to have a fine eye to such matters, too. Have I told you how he is Trustee for both his sister and a distant niece’s great fortunes? Two heiresses and each secure in their inheritances, thanks to his involvement. I must say: it is a comfort to have such relatives, at this time.”

“But you are no stranger to the nuances of these legal matters,” began Howard. “Why, you were a senior clerk at Crispin and Holt before the death of your eldest brother.”

“A lifetime ago, and I wasn’t completely focused upon that specialty…as you surely remember.” Mr. Bennet now stood away from his chair to pace the room. “At that time, I had presumed a quieter, less grand life than helming Longbourn: as a country solicitor with a small annuity from the estate…certainly, not a disagreeable destiny for the youngest son.” He dragged one finger along the back of a chair as he continued his pacing and his comments. “A life that could have included a certain young woman who shared my dreams. My brother’s death was also the death of those dreams…you knew my father and his inflexible belief in maintaining certain societal standards.” He paused. “My marriage to Mrs. Bennet was, initially, a way of appeasing father. Yet, it was a good marriage…despite the absence of an heir…and in my struggles to be a worthy gentleman of this estate and protector of my family, I fear much of that legal training was forgotten.” His pacing brought him to his desk. “And, ironically, I received an unusual package from someone which touches upon that idealistic past and begs your review.” Opening the desk drawer, he retrieved the leather-wrapped-and-tied bundled. Handing it to Howard he said “it’s from Jack McLear…of the Three Swans Pub.”

“You haven’t opened it?”

“At the time of its arrival, I was in the garden with my grandson – he’s almost five years old and a bit of a handful. By the time I came into the library, and was debating what to do, you had arrived.”

“Interesting.” Howard squinted at the seal. “Writmore and White. A very well-known stationery and secretarial business near the Temple. Jack spared no expense.” As Mr. Bennet resumed his seat, Howard broke the seal and undid the knot gathering the red ribbon. He quickly scanned the first page within the bundle before bringing his gaze back to Mr. Bennet. “Shall I read aloud this first page…at least?”

“If you would. For some reason, I’d rather hear the words from a voice I trust.”

Clearly his throat, he assumed a tone that was familiar within the halls of Parliament when a serious matter was in presentment.

“To Mr. Thomas Bennet, Longbourn, Hertfordshire; Sir: The firm of Abel and Davidson have been retained by Messrs. Jonas and John McLear in regards to verifying and documenting certain incidents and personages which affect the entail of your estate. The enclosed pages present a partial catalogue of the evidence supporting the circumstances compiled by our clients. We advise a meeting with you in our London office, prior to the month of August, to proceed with those actions deemed most prudent in amending the terms of the entail. Yours Sincerely, George Abel.”

Howard, lowering the letter away from his face, stared at his friend. Thomas Bennet’s face had frozen into an expression of deep surprise, his hand momentarily in danger of tipping the contents of the glass onto his lap. “Careful, Thomas,” he said. “Finish your claret before we examine the other pages.”

Chapter 2

The household of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips was a comfortable residence that, to Elizabeth, always seemed prepared for visitors and entertainment. No sooner had they entered the foyer than servants were setting up tables in the front parlor for tea; trays of biscuits and small sandwiches arrived soon afterwards. Her aunt smiled triumphantly.

“Our new housekeeper,” she said to no one in particular, “is just as efficient as Mrs. Bell ever was…and perhaps even better. How she manages to anticipate our arrivals and needs is, well… extraordinary.”

Elizabeth heard her aunt’s tone and was immediately reminded how her mother had been equally amazed at the ability of the house staff to organize and run a household with a fairly predictable routine. Despite this humorous insight, Elizabeth also felt a twinge of sadness. Still, not desiring to distract the intent of this visit, she offered a brief compliment, then followed Jane into the parlor.

Mr. Phillips, comfortable in his present role as senior family member to his nieces and their spouses, and drawing upon his career as an attorney, assumed a pose near the fireplace that, he imagined, favorably reflected his self-imaginings. “Thank you for indulging me in this request for a meeting outside of Longbourn,” he said as an introduction. “It’s important for you to know that, besides the letter sent to Darcy, Reverend Collins has also written to Mr. Bennet. Several times, in fact, since your late mother became ill.” Gesturing for restraint from the many voices now exclaiming outrage, he continued. “The content of those letters parallel the letter sent to Darcy, but with a…shall we say…more direct approach. I have already sent a reply to him, stating that, on my professional advice, your father would not address the entail for, at least, a year.” He angled his head towards Darcy. “No doubt, he wrote to you in the hope of finding an ally to his plans.”

“But Uncle,” said Jane, preventing Darcy to reply. “Do you truly believe father should stay at Longbourn?”

“My dearest Jane,” he began, “your father, as you may not know, was never intended to inherit the estate. When his brother, Edwin, died from fever while abroad, he set aside his plans for a law career to assume the role of landowner. While he may not have been eager for the task, I believe he is now content in his destiny. Though, I remember, fondly, our plans to form a partnership.”

“Father? An attorney?” Elizabeth was very surprised with this revelation. Her parents had never mentioned this chapter to the entail story, let alone the late Uncle Edwin. She also realized there was no plaque or memorial mentioning Edwin in the family mausoleum. Odd.

“An attorney, my dear.” He smiled. “He was a little more than a year into his clerkship, but had great promise. However, in matters of estate management, I fear, he was less…inclined.” Shaking his head, he continued. “Still, Longbourn has survived this far, but, I have already suggested to your father that…perhaps…the services of a secretary would be useful.”

“A secretary?” Darcy frowned as he leaned forward. “Who in this area would be qualified? Meryton is a village of scant professional men: if I understand correctly they are mostly farmers – some of them are even tenants to the estate – not including the shopkeepers and the garrison workers. Hardly anyone with the business experience needed. Unless you are proposing yourself for the task?” He wasn’t expecting Mr. Philips to laugh.

“My dear Darcy, my hat is not in that ring. However, you underestimate the merits of our little village. Just last week, I was introduced to a young man of promise. He’s not originally from Meryton, but has a family connection that, for me, is a satisfactory reference.” He held up his hands, again, to stem the questions from his nieces and their spouses. “Now, I have not interviewed this young man…not even mentioned him to your father, but, had planned to meet with him in the next few days.”

A lively discussion ensued. Both Darcy and Bingley saw the potential for improving the estate if such a secretary had the skills to advise Mr. Bennet and thereby provide for their father-in-law’s continued comfort. Jane gently questioned what qualifications their uncle thought would be sufficient. Elizabeth and Kitty voiced doubts about every detail. Finally, Aunt Phillips reminded her family that they were expected back at Longbourn for supper within the hour.

“My dears,” concluded Uncle Phillips. “Allow me to meet with this young man and search out both his character and abilities. If, and only if, I believe he will be of assistance to your father will I recommend him. Now, let us not keep the carriages waiting.”

##

Their return to Longbourn was a noisy and confusing event. An afternoon thunderstorm had prevented nanny and the children from returning to Netherfield; the children were still running back-and-forth in the entrance hall when the adults arrived. Between the happy shrieks of the children; the surprise of the Bennet sisters to see Howard Webster, MP exit their father’s library; and the resultant necessity to make introductions with the MP and their spouses, the rooms echoed with the sounds of laughter and conversation. Finally, order was restored with the announcement that the supper was ready to be served.

Howard felt a twinge of nostalgia watching the domestic felicity gathered around the Bennet table. Once the first course was served, and the staff had retired to the adjoining pantry, he gently tapped his water goblet. Raising his glass, he cleared his throat. “Please allow me to toast the memory of Mrs. Bennet and the comfort those happy memories bring to her family.” With a slight wink to Mr. Bennet, he added “and to my dear friend, Thomas, for the future.”

“Father’s future seems to be a popular subject,” Kitty whispered to Elizabeth. “Do you suppose that’s why Uncle Howard made the trip from Westminster?”

Elizabeth, impressed with Kitty’s perception, nevertheless collected her own thoughts before speaking. “They have been friends since they were schoolmates and Mama once mentioned that Uncle Howard was instrumental in carrying…messages,” Elizabeth swallowed a giggle, “between her and father. And later…” But, she did not finish her reply; the conversation engaging her husband, Uncle Howard and Uncle Phillips had caught her ear.

“…curious coincidence: the arrival of these documents and your inquiries, Mr. Phillips,” said Howard. “Thomas and I sent messages to the involved parties this afternoon. We travel to London the day after next. Perhaps you should accompany us?”

“My townhouse in Grosvenor Square is at your disposal,” offered Darcy. “I’ll send an express letter, tonight, if that meets with your approval.” With the offer accepted only upon Darcy agreeing joining their party, the arrival of the next course suspended that conversation; other topics were soon pursued.

Elizabeth, however, observed that her husband kept a close eye upon the M.P. He was particularly interested, she noted, with Howard’s humorous recounting of an incident in the House: involving Members insulting two particular men’s claim to wear their signet rings on the left hand. “Are the debates usually so… personal?” she said.

“Ah Lizzie,” laughed the M.P., “Given that neither of the insulted men’s family had accomplished anything other than the amassing of wealth and buying their way into Parliament, it made their indignation more amusing as they challenged the Bill presented for vote.”

“And what was this Bill?”

“A proposal to aid the poor.”

Once the meal had concluded, and the party had retired to the parlor, Elizabeth again observed Darcy: this time taking great efforts to maneuver MP Webster to a quieter corner. Selecting a chair near this corner, she feigned interest in a slight book of verse as Darcy spoke.

“…and while he avoided mentioning a ring in his later correspondence to me, he was quite insistent in a – thankfully brief – note sent before the funeral, that a particular ring would be part of the legacy of the estate. Naturally, I would not consider bothering my father-in-law with this inquiry, but with your familiarity with the family, is it possible there is a signet ring?”

Howard cleared his throat. “A matter we will discuss, only, once we are in London.”

Elizabeth conquered an impulse to comment on this conversation. Her father had a particular aversion to jewelry; refusing to wear a wedding band or even carry his watch on a chain, he claimed such adornments were solely for women. But a signet ring? Their family did not own a crest or any of the heraldic symbols of peerage. In her contemplation, she was startled when a hand covered one of her own.

“Lizzie. Lizzie, dear, what is the matter?” Jane peered into her sister’s eyes. “You dropped your book and didn’t even notice its fall.”

“Oh. I read a phrase that reminded me of Mama, and my thoughts took me far away.” Elizabeth gave a small smile as she accepted the return of the book. “Perhaps I have read enough poetry and verse, for now.”

“Perhaps we should retire for the evening.” Jane smiled. “I asked Charles to send for the carriage.” She angled her head towards the far corner of the room where Darcy and Howard were still in earnest conversation. “Darcy can borrow a horse, and join us later.”

Darcy did not return to Netherfield for several hours. The hall boy, assigned watch at the front door, stifled a yawn as he reported that only Mr. Bingley remained in the library; the ladies had retired soon upon their return. Darcy found his friend staring at the fire. “Bingley? Worried about the quality of your firewood?” Smiling as he sat in a chair opposite Bingley, he was not expecting his brother-in-law to maintain his focus upon the dwindling flames. “Bingley?”

“Sorry. Today’s conversations have given me much to consider.” He shook his head. “Jane and I have avoided discussing the Bennet family…intrigue, I mean, the entail, since our engagement.” Meeting Darcy’s gaze, he paused to run his hands though his hair before continuing. “Since living here, and becoming more familiar with Meryton and the local lore,” he added with a smile, “I’m convinced there is more to Mr. Bennet than meets the eye.”

“Astounding,” said Darcy, in a tone that didn’t match the word. He stretched his legs towards the fire. “Enlighten me.”

“I know your skeptical nature, Darcy, but I’m quite in earnest. He is held in remarkably high esteem by many of the merchants and especially the owner of the local pub.”

“No doubt fueled by his efforts to settle Wickham’s debts.”

“It’s a respect much older than that, Darcy. I attempted to learn more, during a supper party with Sir William Lucas, but he would only hint that Mr. Bennet had certain connections with the townsfolk that stretch back not just to his youth, but involving his father, as well.”   

Darcy adjusted his posture so that he could drape one leg atop the other. “And why does this worry you?” He was surprised when Bingley sprang from his chair to pace the room.

“Somehow, Meryton, that pub, and the entail are intertwined. Darcy, since marrying Jane and becoming more familiar with our father-in-law, I’ve become quite fond of the old boy. I don’t want him to be hurt or compromised. The correspondence from Reverend Collins also gives me unease.” Bingley, now standing near the fireplace, placed one hand on the mantle. “He is far too ambitious for a man of the cloth.” He did not match Darcy’s laugh.

“My dear Bingley, that man won’t be satisfied until he is Bishop of Westminster, and, the heir of Longbourn. Still: have no fear. The meeting scheduled in London seems to hold great promise for Mr. Bennet,” said Darcy. “I will send you any information from that meeting… unless you want to be the fifth member of the party?”

“Alas,” smiled Bingley. “Jane and I are leaving tomorrow for York. My sister and her husband are hosting a party…something involving his own attempt to run for public office through the purchase of a borough. Dreadful timing, with the funeral and all, but Jane assures me our attendance won’t be disrespectful to her mother’s memory.” He attempted to suppressed a yawn. “Forgive me, this long day has overcome my manners. If you want to linger, please, let the hall boy know if you need anything. I’ll wish you a good night.”

Darcy bade his friend good night, then sat in front of the fire for another half hour. He reflected upon other evenings he and Bingley had sat here: in the days when they were single men, in a new county, debating the merits of both the village of Meryton and the Bennet sisters. “Had I known, then, what I know now,” he said softly.

Chapter 3

The offices of Abel & Davidson were remarkably light-filled and comfortable. The partners, two slightly-built men who, in appearances, suggested a determination to arrest the progress of Time and Aging, presented a rich opportunity for Mr. Bennet’s favorite pastime: the observation of the human condition. Mr. Davidson was pale and bald, immaculately dressed in an impersonation of a man fifteen years his junior, and curating a neatly-trimmed moustache. He was also eager to not be part of the meeting: scurrying to another private office at the end of a hallway, once introductions were completed. Abel, on the other hand, preferred a less flamboyant wardrobe; perhaps, Mr. Bennet surmised, in order to assign his discretionary shillings upon the bear grease that was failing in its attempt to wrangle his thick curls into an arrangement more suitable to his profession and age. Amused with these thoughts, Mr. Bennet now recalled the dank, murky rooms where he had toiled as a clerk for Crispin and Holt. Unable to resist, he said “quite a pleasant arrangement you have here, Mr. Abel. Such cheerful accommodations for a business not known for cheerful topics.”

George Abel, smiled as he acknowledged the potted plants lining the window sills by stroking the leaves of the nearest specimen. “Both my partner and I enjoy growing orchids, so these rooms allow us to bring our plants, here. I can’t begin to explain how spending a few minutes, in-between appointments, with these blooms, more than compensates for the many long hours we spend within these walls.” Adjusting his tone, he smoothed a wayward curl as he continued. “Now, we have a potentially complicated matter to discuss with you, Mr. Bennet. I trust your companions can be counted upon for discretion?”

“Darcy and Phillips are related to me through marriage,” said Mr. Bennet. “Our honored Member of Parliament has been a good friend since our school days at Eton. I trust them completely.” While the expression on Abel’s face hinted some skepticism, Mr. Bennet was pleased that the middle-aged attorney maintained a genial composure as he directed them towards a table close to one of the windows. The mid-morning sunlight angled gently across the table’s dark wood surface, revealing the faint impressions from its many years of use in legal pursuits. Scratches, ink stains and not a small number of indistinct indentations - which could be the resultant damage from hands firmly applying signatures or sentences or even ancient runes upon flimsy paper- encircled much of the table top’s outer edge as an embossed, almost, decorative design. Mr. Bennett was reminded of his school desk at Eton; however, he decided this was not the time to point out that comparison.

George Abel removed a folder from a desk drawer before joining them at the table. Clearing his throat, he shuffled through several pages before selecting one page. “The package delivered to Longbourn provided you with pages summarizing the reasons for this meeting. However, this document, delivered to Mr. John McLear two years ago, restarted the task assigned to us by his father, Jonas McLear. He has confirmed it is his sister’s hand. Are you in agreement?” He angled the sheaf towards Thomas Bennet.

Bennet stared at the back-slanted script. He hadn’t seen Robin’s handwriting for three decades, yet there was no doubt she had written this testament. He nodded.

“Very well. Now, according to Miss Robin McLear, you and she had an…understanding. That you had made a proposal of marriage to her, in the summer before your brother’s death, and she had accepted you.” George paused, glancing frequently towards the page until Bennet met his gaze. “You agree?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” He now placed a second page in front of Bennet. The paper, though now, mostly flat, had once been oddly folded and creased. “Does this letter look familiar to you?”

The gasp, transitioning to a deep sob, shook Bennet’s entire frame. “The most difficult letter I have ever had to compose. I…am ashamed to admit I had not the courage to even deliver it myself. Paid my father’s valet half a crown to carry the letter…and its contents to The Three Swans.” Rubbing his face with one hand, he met the expressions of his brother-in-law and Darcy. “Howard knows the contents of my letter. For everyone to understand how this letter brings us to this table, perhaps, Mr. Abel, you could read it aloud?”

With a deep inhale, Gregory Abel began:

“My dearest Robin, The death of my brother, Edwin, has placed me in a position which brings me little happiness or hope for the future you and I have planned with such anticipation. Father has insisted I end my clerkship at Crispin and Holt and return to Longbourn to learn the business of managing this estate. I have little doubt my days will be closely monitored and the freedom I once enjoyed - freedom that provided time to meet with you - will be no more. There is no need to explain how this change also requires me to state an awkward expectation expressed by my father. With a broken heart, I must withdraw my proposal to you.  While the enclosed in no way compensates you, please accept this ring as a symbol of my respect and unending desire for your future happiness. Yours sincerely, Thomas L. Bennet.”

Pushing himself away from the table, George now approached a safe embedded in the wall next to the fireplace. From that safe, he brought out a small velvet bag. Returning to the table, while untying the cords securing the top of the bag, he extracted a gold ring. Holding the ring so that the flat face was directed towards the sunbeams flowing across the table top, he allowed the three small diamonds studding that surface to sparkle. “Is this the ring you sent to Robin McLear?”

“Y…Yes.”

As Abel began to slip the ring back into the pouch, Howard Webster extended his hand. “Forgive me, but…may I examine it?” Resting within his dimpled palm, he prodded it with the finger of the other hand. “Remarkable. I never imagined I would see it, again.” He held it towards Darcy and Mr. Phillips. “Note the pattern of the stones’ setting; matches the pattern of the blemishes on the left arms of all the Bennet men. Thomas’ father had three of these made…”

“Father’s capricious nature,” Mr. Bennet interjected, more as a groan than a sentence. “Anticipating that his speculating in the colonies would result in an elevation in rank…ignoring Edwin’s frail health…” He sighed. “At least the other two are buried with their owners. Please, Howard, let Mr. Abel return it to that pouch.”

Once the pouch was firmly secured with the ties, and replaced into the safe, George pulled another document from the folder. He glanced at the content before speaking. “Now, more than twenty years ago, I was initially contacted by Mr. Jonas McLear. From this statement…by him, dictated to my clerk, in my presence, a month before his death, I ask you, Mr. Bennet: were you aware Miss McLear was with child…your child, at the time you sent her that letter?” The expression on Bennet’s face was a sufficient reply.

“I wish to heavens I had known,” Mr. Bennet finally said, in a wavering voice, as he ran his gaze across the words carefully scripted across the page. “It would have provided me with the fortitude, the strength, to defy Father.” He sighed, sliding the page towards Howard. “I vaguely recall Mr. Jonas telling me, a few weeks after I sent my letter, that Robin had left Meryton. She was to be helping her mother’s sister…a woman I understood with an ever-growing family and a busy boarding house. It seemed a tidy conclusion: we were each following a new life path with little chance for awkward encounters. And two years ago…when I heard Robin had died…”

Howard extended a hand to gently pat Bennet’s shoulder. “The McLear family has shown a remarkable respect and consideration for you and your family, Thomas. As Jonas wrote, he was willing to conceal this secret out of loyalty to your father. They served together, in the war, if I recall?”

Nodding, Mr. Bennet said “Mr. Jonas attended father and, during one battle, saved his life. Later, Father helped him establish the Three Swans.” He smiled. “They were friends until Father’s last days. A remarkable friendship.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” interposed George, determined to maintain the focus of the meeting, as he drew several more documents from the folder. “Now, regarding the child…who, as you must guess, is now a male adult: I was able to obtain a copy of the church register, his school application and his apprentice agreement with the firm of Weatherly Trading.”

“The import company?” Darcy, realizing his voice tone betrayed a familiarity with the firm, shrugged. “I have a small interest in Weatherly…it’s a growing company with a good reputation. He will be receiving training most beneficial to…to business matters.”

Howard Webster grunted an indistinct sound of acknowledgement as he reviewed the next batch of documents Thomas Bennet handed to him. He had his own opinions of the firm. Perusing the third column of the church register he said “She was somehow allowed to not name a father for this child. Most unusual.” Returning the copy of the church registry to George, he added, “probably some money changed hands for that omission…but her son’s name is also suspect… don’t you agree, Thomas?”

Thomas Bennet was too stunned to coherently reply. He mouthed the name “Lindell Thomas McLear.” Few people knew his middle name; to see it associated with Robin’s son was more than a shock. After a few seconds, he slowly began to speak. “Lindell was my mother’s maiden name,” he sighed. “She always insisted that it was a name to bring luck and prosperity…I suppose referencing the Linden tree symbolism and lore… but I doubt this particular matter meets those qualifications.” His brother-in-law’s sharp inhale brought all attention to that gentleman’s flushed face.

“Ahem…Don’t be too hasty, Thomas.” Mr. Phillips had his gaze, now, upon George Abel. “I’m guessing this young man has no idea of the situation we are reviewing?” Accepting the attorney’s nod as a reply, he continued. “It appears I may have some other, curiously-connected details to add to this matter. A few days ago, I had an unusual conversation with Jack McLear. His nephew, he informed me, would be visiting for a week or so. Seems Jack had to attend to some family business in another town and had asked young Dell…that’s the name Jack used…to manage the pub. Jack also hinted that his nephew was quietly looking for another position. Young Dell’s employers, who Jack described as an import company, had promoted a family member over Jack’s nephew and, well, I need not explain that any further.” Mr. Phillips offered a wry smile to Darcy before continuing. “I mentioned to Jack that I had a client,” he paused to imply that names were not revealed, “who may be in need of a business secretary; someone to handle correspondence and small matters involving leases. Ironically, I am supposed to meet this young man in a few days to see if he would be suitable.” Swiveling his face to meet the gaze of each man seated at the table, he ended that scan by holding the gaze of his brother-in-law. “May I suggest I keep that appointment, while maintaining this cloak of secrecy in this probable family tie, until Thomas is ready to acknowledge Lindell McLear is his son?”

Howard Webster slapped the table top and roared a laugh of approval. “Upon my word! Your talents are wasted in Meryton, Mr. Phillips: a masterful approach. Don’t you agree, Mr. Abel?” The attorney’s silence and immediate smoothing of another drooping curl, was not expected; Howard offered a slight cough as a continuance to the conversation. “Naturally a delicate matter, yet surely we can agree to the prudence in examining all angles?  In verifying that this Dell McLear has the temperament and skills to assist Mr. Bennet – before acknowledging this probably paternity – a plan can be formed that avoids unpleasantness.” Observing the attorney’s continued silence while reexamining the documents he had shown Mr. Bennet, Howard adjusted his tone, again. “I detect you have a differing opinion, Mr. Abel?”

Undaunted by the mannerisms and deportment of the M.P., George Abel waited a few seconds longer before replying. “Mr. John, or Jack (as you have so informally named him) McLear’s intent in collecting these documents, and bringing them to the attention of Mr. Bennet, was to advance the legal steps for Lindell McLear to be recognized as Mr. Bennet’s rightful heir. It strikes me as a needless deception: these ideas involving a pretext of interviewing the young man for a position, while the actual purpose is to learn if he is worthy…” George drew out the pronunciation of the last word for effect, “to be acknowledged as Mr. Bennet’s son.”

Darcy quickly spoke as he gestured to include his companions. “Mr. Abel, no one here doubts the sincerity of Mr. McLear and the authenticity of the documents your firm has presented. However, consider this: perhaps Dell McLear has no interest in Longbourn or a connection with the Bennet family? Perhaps he would prefer to accept an annuity from the estate to pursue travel or education, rather than become the heir to Longbourn?”  

“You seem to speak from experience.” George Abel sat further back into his chair.

“Alas, I do,” said Darcy. “An unpleasant episode for myself, but one that revealed the true character of the person involved. If a few days of additional investigation resolves any concerns on the part of Mr. Bennet, I suggest it is a worthy delay.”

With a sigh, George shook his head in defeat. An action which dislodged yet another greasy curl to droop in front of one eye. Impatiently he tucked the strand behind his ear. “A logical perspective, Mr. Darcy. I will agree to no more than a fortnight’s delay, but know that I will need to notify Mr. John McLear.”

“Mr. Abel,” began Mr. Bennet, “Please include in your correspondence to Jack my gratitude for his discretion in this matter. The death of my wife has created such a turmoil…I hope he will understand why we are taking these actions.” An idea flashed. “And…please find the words to convey that, regardless of the outcome, I will find a way to provide something for Dell, in memory of his good mother.”

 Chapter 4

The three Bennet sisters paused in their conversations during the butler’s preparations for tea. Jane had insisted her sisters remain at Netherfield while she and Charles were away and their father was in London; an invitation which allowed Elizabeth, Mary and Kitty to indulge in convoluted discussions about the entail, Reverend Collins, Lydia’s latest letter from Canada and the gossip from Meryton. They also agreed that the absence of their husbands was an enjoyable change, too. Elizabeth noted Mary’s eager expression as a tray of biscuits was placed next to the arrangement of sandwiches.

“Mary, Jane wouldn’t mind if her cook prepared a tin of those biscuits for you to take back to Kent.”

“Oh, Lizzie, don’t tease me so,” Mary began, half laughing. “Our household can’t –quite - afford a cook for all but twice a week and Sunday suppers. My poor husband bravely endures my cooking, but baking is beyond my comprehension and skill.”

“Really? I imagined you dined at Rosings Park several times a week, so why bother with a cook of your own?” Kitty said with a sly grin.

Mary, feeling her face warm, was nevertheless determined to demonstrate she had matured past her solemn, youthful days as a rigid, humorless girl. She attempted to match her sister’s grin. “Only twice a week, Kitty, and sometimes that’s only for luncheon. At the present, however, Lady Anne & Mr. Gregory are traveling the continent, so we are very much left to our own devices for nourishment. You may imagine our distress.” She maintained eye contact with Kitty as she bit into a treacle tart.

It was a clever action that kept the sisters laughing for several minutes. Finally, the chiming of the mantle clock prompted Elizabeth to say “Well, by this time tomorrow, I hope we will know more about this mysterious meeting in London. I must say: this whole business of secret letters and attorneys vexes me exceedingly. Almost as much as my husband concealing the purpose of that meeting from me.”

“Careful, Lizzie: you may shatter your teacup if you continue stirring that spoon with such a firm hand,” Mary said softly. “I’m just disappointed Kitty and I will already be on our way home before they return. You must promise us to write immediately with all the details.”

“Yes, ALL the details,” laughed Kitty.   

###

The four men in the carriage had said so much over the past two days they were content within these recent hours to silently observe the views from each of their windows. They had left London, with its crowded streets, dirt, and noise to the gradual transition of views offering pastoral landscapes, villages, open fields and dense forests. The glow of the Spring sun tinged the cottages and trees of the modest village through which the carriage now passed with a welcoming warmth. A glow, finding its way past two scrawny pines, now splashed across the façade of a posting house. Darcy rapped against the wall; the driver slowed the horses before opening the small panel that gave him a view into the carriage.

“Sir?”

“Let’s stop here, Morton. I recall this establishment offers a decent private dining room.” Darcy shifted his gaze towards his travelling companions. “I trust I’m not the only one who would benefit from a reprieve from all this jostling?”

The private dining room of the Lazy Pony was reached by a creaky staircase leading to an upper floor. From the faint sounds of plates & cookware in determined use, while various aromas were wafting from the service stairs, it was an easy assumption that the room was situated directly above the kitchen. Darcy surveyed the room with satisfaction. “Bingley and I discovered this pub during our first trip to Meryton. They roast a fine fowl and their pudding is also worth ordering for lunch. Mr. Bennet, perhaps some refreshment?”

Thomas Bennet had approached the bay window that overlooked the yard. Watching the stable boys, some laughing as they lounged against the fence separating the stable yard from a small paddock; others pretending to ignore their companions’ mirth as they tended to Darcy’s horses caused him to sigh. Enjoy your reckless youth, my boys, and hope it only brings you memories to amuse you in your later years. At Darcy’s repetition of the question, he stepped away. “Yes, yes, a glass of wine is an excellent idea.” Selecting a chair next to Howard, he watched his friend’s preparations with his cigar. “Mrs. Bennet claimed cigar smoke aggravated her nerves, but…I…ah, admit, I find the ritual quite exotic.”

Howard smiled. “It’s what first attracted me to this harmless vice. Normally, I indulge in a cigar after a meal, but after bumping along that road for the past four hours, my nerves may benefit from a slight change in my routine. Perhaps, I will introduce you to the art of cigar smoking when we return to Longbourn? Much more civilized than snuff, don’t you agree?”

The meal passed most enjoyably, in spite of a few melancholy moments when Mr. Bennet lapsed into a distracted silence. Mr. Philips and Howard Webster, noting these lapses, employed a variety of gentle reminiscences to regain the atmosphere of gentlemanly relaxation. Upon the arrival of some port, Darcy, consulting his watch, advised his companions “By leaving within the half hour, we should arrive at Meryton close to tea time.”

The carriage arrived at Longbourn, only to discover that Mary and Kitty had left for their respective homes and Elizabeth was still at Netherfield. Once the gentlemen and their luggage were in the foyer, Darcy directed the carriage driver to Netherfield. A happy reunion ensued when Jane and Bingley unexpected exited the carriage with Elizabeth. The party gathered in the larger sitting room, as the house staff scurried to assemble a respectable tea table. Elizabeth chose a chair next to Mr. Bennet.

“So, Father,” began Elizabeth, arching one brow, “your daughters are more than curious about this mysterious trip to London. Since my own husband had refused to share any details with me, perhaps you will indulge me with a complete report?” Her father’s flushing face hinted to quite a story.

“Ah, Lizzie,” sighed Mr. Bennet, with a shake of his head. “Allow the others to select a chair and then, wait for the staff to leave the room.” He dragged his hands over his knees. “There is much to discuss.”

In due time, the table was set and the staff dismissed. As Mr. Bennet stood to address his family, Mr. Phillips locked the doors and even stuffed the edge of his handkerchief into the keyhole of the lock of the door connecting the staff passageway to the parlor. With a nod to his thorough brother-in-law, Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “I wish Kitty and Mary were also here, but trust that Lizzie and Jane will relay an accurate account of what I am about to say.” With a slight smile, he said “First, I take great pleasure in announcing that the information revealed during our meeting in London most likely will dash the expectations of Reverend Collins. Yes: it appears there is another gentleman who could be the rightful heir of Longbourn, although he is presently unaware of his connection to our family.” As Jane and Elizabeth attempted to comment, he asked for their patience. “During that meeting, documents and testaments were presented that support this claim. In a few days, Mr. Phillips and I will interview this gentleman; in order to gauge his character and temperament; to determine how we will approach this…revelation.” Before he could continue, Howard Webster stood.

“My friend, allow me to also assure your daughters…and Mr. Bingley…that we,” here, he waved his plump hand towards Mr. Phillips and Darcy, “also attended that meeting and agree with this plan. Certainly an unexpected twist in the Bennet family history, yet with a promise of an arrangement that could bring much happiness to everyone. Now,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I recommend we say no more of this matter until after the interview and, meanwhile, allow the staff to bring in more tea.”

Elizabeth, however, was not so easily persuaded. “Forgive me, Uncle Howard, but a few days ago, there were discussions of employing a secretary to assist Father with running the estate. Should that plan be abandoned? What if this new heir has no experience in managing an estate? What if he has other interests…”

 “Lizzie,” Mr. Bennet interjected, “please do not trouble yourself with the tiresome details of business and the law. Suffice to say, we are considering many paths towards a satisfactory resolution.”

Bingley, familiar with that petulant expression clouding his sister-in-law’s countenance, seized this moment to say “Extraordinary: I’m rather disappointed that a report of our trip to York can’t eclipse this news. Mr. Hurst’s dinner party had a guest list that included several members of Parliament, a banker and a fascinating old man who, I believe, is a cousin to His Majesty. I had hoped to entertain you all with some observations. Still, it was an exceedingly dull evening…though the meal was quite noteworthy.”

Jane laughed. “My love, Louisa will not be pleased with such gossip. And besides, I understand the dinner was quite a success. Mr. Hurst hinted the next election will be his for the asking.”

##

After the Bingleys and Darcys had returned to Netherfield, Thomas Bennet and Howard Webster had retired to the library and, hours later, remained there, still. By the glow of the flames now dwindling within the fireplace, their conversation had dwindled, too: to their own thoughts and ruminations. As a log settled into the grate, announcing its descent with a spray of sparks and a sound not quite unlike a sigh, Thomas spoke.

“A son, Howard: even after several days, I can scarce settle my mind to this concept.”

“Indeed, a remarkable revelation at the most opportune time.” Howard glanced at the half-consumed cigar clenched between Bennet’s fingers. “And what is your opinion of cigars?”

Bennet laughed softly. “Despite my earlier huffing and choking, I may learn to enjoy this harmless diversion.” Cautiously, he brought the cigar to his mouth and inhaled. Exhaling a thin stream of smoke, he was able to suppress a slight urge to cough. “Yes, perhaps I will.”

“Then let this be the beginning of many more, new, and enjoyable, adventures for you, my friend.”

 Chapter 5 

From the level of noise exploding from the foyer, there was no doubt that Jane and her children had arrived. Mr. Bennet shook his head as he handed a ledger book to his secretary. “I’m afraid our work will be temporarily suspended, Mr. McLear, so that I may attend to the demands of grandchildren. Come: let me introduce you.”

However, the library door unexpected blew open under the efforts of little Charlie and his cries of “Ol’ Fool, I’ve missed you terribly,” followed by the sounds of Jane’s gentle entreaties for restraint and control as she hurried after her eldest son.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Father,” Jane began as she took in the scene. “Charlie, my sweet: Grandfather is working; you must be polite and remember to, first, knock on the door before entering a room.”

“But he isn’t working,” the child said firmly. “He’s talking with the, the messenger man…from the pond.” Pausing for a moment to gauge the smile on the stranger’s face, he added “Are you visiting Ol’ Fool to see the turtles?”

The round of awkward laughter allowed Jane to steer Charlie towards a nearby chair, with a softly spoken admonition for the child to sit upon the chair and pretend to be a statue. Turning away from her son, she said, “Goodness, please forgive this unplanned visit. We were returning from Meryton when I thought Father might enjoy seeing the children. I quite forgot that you would be here today, Mr. McLear.” Her father chuckled as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Nothing to fret about, my dear. Now,” he began, as he removed one hand from a pocket to accentuate his introductions, “Mr. McLear, allow me to present my eldest daughter, Jane Bingley, and her son Charlie. Jane: my secretary, Lindell McLear; who, in the past three days, has opened my eyes to the mysteries of tenant leases and the nefarious terms of the contract with that man who buys our chickens.”

“It is an honor, ma’am,” said Mr. McLear with a slight bow. “I have heard so much about the family from my uncle…it is no small complement to say the praise is highly deserved.”

Jane heard the sincerity in his tone, yet also had a small recollection of a similar sentiment from Reverend Collins. A slight wink from her father confirmed this observation. Still, she smiled as she said, “I must say that my sisters and I are quite amazed at the circumstances which brought you to Longbourn, Mr. McLear. Have you had a chance to walk the estate?”

“Mr. Bennet and I have been carefully examining so many documents and maps that we haven’t ventured past the house.” McLear returned her smile while pointing towards the windows. “Judging from the prospects provided here, though, I’m very much looking forward to an outdoor excursion.”

Little Charlie, desperately attempting to follow his mother’s instructions, was failing in the effort. Statues, he had discovered, suffered a boring existence. His foot could not stop jiggling; his nose required a covert rub with his sleeve; the very hairs on his head felt a need for movement. Comprehending that the conversation debated a possible walk outdoors, he had reached the breaking point. “Oh, please, Mama,” he whispered “may we please show Mr. McLear the turtles?”  His grandfather, though, spoke first.

“An excellent suggestion, my boy. I’m feeling rather confined, myself, surrounded with only ledger books and documents. Some fresh air may be just the ticket! Jane, why don’t you accompany us? Charlie, why don’t you show Mr. McLear the path to the pond?”

After a brief visit with the other Bingley children and a promise of jellies in the kitchen, Mr. Bennet took Jane’s arm and led the way into the garden. “Now, Jane, I suspect your visit today was not an impulse, but a cleverly planned ruse to gain insight for your sisters?” Her knowing smiled brought a soft chuckle from Mr. Bennet.

“While I will admit to nothing so mischievous, Father, I will ask: are you pleased with this secretary?” Jane studied her father’s expression as she peripherally monitored Charlie’s skipping gait alongside Mr. McLear’s easy stride.

“He’s not an ungrateful fellow,” began Mr. Bennet. “Though I suspect his former employer insisted upon a level of obsequiousness that borders upon ridiculous.” With a slight laugh he added, “Still: he has a fine mind for business and a pleasant way of explaining unpleasant facts. Once he settles into his assignments, I believe he will do quite well, here.”

“And the efforts addressing the confirmation of the newly-discovered heir?”

Before Mr. Bennet could reply, though, Jane had slipped her arm from his embrace to hurry towards the pond and her child. “No, Charlie! You are too close to the water! Oh, Mr. McLear, please, catch him!”

But Charlie’s excitement upon seeing turtles not only in the pond, but strolling along the banks, propelled his little legs to engage in an unprecedented burst of speed. He reached the pond with no understanding on how to slow his progress, and well before McLear could stretch out a hand to clutch the child’s arm. Stumbling within brambles and soft earth at the pond’s edge, Charlie’s unchecked momentum pitched him headlong into the algae-coated water. When his little head did not immediately surface, Jane fell to her knees screaming “Charlie!”.

McLear, without pausing to even remove his coat, waded into the pond, surprised to discover the water depth soon encircled his chest. There were also branches and tree roots, marsh grasses and rocks impeding his search. Carefully and slowly, he felt his way amid these objects, finally touching upon a tiny shoe, attached to an active leg. Charlie, wedged between a tangle of tree roots, was struggling to wriggle away from this entrapment. Ducking below the scum of algae, and applying a series of tugs and pulls, McLear was able to free Charlie and push him up and beyond the water’s surface. Now, hoisting the child into his embrace, he made his way towards dry land and the frantic people urging him onward.

Choking and sputtering, the drenched pair were guided by many hands to sit upon a grassy patch close to the shoreline. Jane’s screams had roused several yard workers to run towards the pond. One man pulled off his work apron to wrap around the child; another volunteered to go to the house for blankets. He quickly returned, along with most of the house staff. Jane, still weeping, had pulled the crying child into her lap. Mr. Bennet, with trembling hands, helped McLear to his feet.

“My most worthy fellow,” he said in a wavering voice. “We owe you an eternal debt for saving our Charlie. I have never witnessed such, such bravery and selflessness. Here: wrap this blanket about your shoulders.” In a louder voice he said “Let’s bring them into the house.”

The procession entered the kitchen, with the house maids instructed to prepare hot water for baths. Charlie was carried up to the nursery; Mr. Bennet suggested McLear follow him into a smaller storage room to change out of his wet clothes.

“I fear there is little to salvage,” said Mr. Bennet, eying the sodden jacket and stained waistcoat as the items were tossed into a basket. “But Harris noted you and I share a similar physique; as we speak, he’s assembling a suitable, temporary, ensemble until I can have my tailor replace these articles.”

“Oh, no, my watch.” McLear sighed as he placed a simple chronometer, tethered to a small-linked chain, upon a shelf. Dark water pooled behind the crystal and seeped from the case.

“There’s a clock man at the garrison who seems quite clever. I understand the officers have presented him with all sorts of challenging repairs,” said Mr. Bennet. “And if he isn’t up to the task, I’ll go as far as London to fix this for you, since….” At the sight of McLear removing his shirt, however, Mr. Bennet grasped McLear’s left wrist. “The mark of Bennet! Extraordinary! All the proof I need. My boy, my boy!”

Dell McLear was both confused and wary of this emotional outburst and vulgar assault. Wresting his arm away from the man, he stepped closer to the door; debating whether he should call for help. Mr. Bennet had impressed him as a rather aloof, genial gentleman with a droll sense of humor; not this wild-eyed man now shrugging off his own coat and struggling with the cuff of his own sleeve. Instead, he said “Sir, what is the meaning of this outrageous behavior?”

“Forgive me, the shock… Please, see: I, too, have those same three blemishes on my left arm...in the same pattern.” Mr. Bennet held out his limb. “My grandfather, my father, my brother and I all were born with these marks. Even little Charlie has them. You, Dell McLear, by virtue of those blemishes, share a connection to the Bennet family.” He waved his hand to prevent McLear from speaking. “The package you delivered a few weeks ago, contained documents about you…your mother gave a sworn testament that confirmed some other details. Specifics deserving a more formal discussion than within a pantry and requiring you to be more comfortably attired,” he smiled. “Suffice to say, sir, your life changes this very day.” Harris, with impeccable timing, rapped at the door.

“If I may, sirs,” Harris said as he entered the room, “Mr. McLear’s bath is ready; I’ve brought a dressing robe and some slippers.” He added “Mrs. Bingley has sent for the doctor to inspect a gash on Master Charlie’s knee. He should be here, shortly.”

##

Was there ever a household in such an uproar? Express messengers arriving and departing as if Longbourn had transformed itself into a place of business. Workers, instructed to repaint and refurnish an upstairs bedroom, reported to their friends and families of visitors from London arriving by private coach, holding secretive meetings in the library, then departing just as mysteriously. The villagers of Meryton held council for days upon the meaning of the McLear family’s invitation to dine at Longbourn – not once, but several times, over the course of a month.

In early summer, invitations for a celebratory dinner at Longbourn were delivered to several addresses. The same day, the London papers reported a legal proceeding which became the focus of much speculation and discussion in more households than need be listed, with the exception of a certain parsonage in Dover.

“How is this possible?” Reverend Collins handed the newspaper to his wife. “A bastard son to advance ahead of me? I did not believe the letter from Mr. Bennet’s solicitor, but here is the proof! I must write to my bishop; explaining how I was completely unaware of the depth of the degenerate and unseemly ways of the Bennet family.” Noting the expression on his wife’s face, he reassembled himself, adopting a softer, more philosophical tone. “Yes, I will tell the bishop that I rejoice in a distancing from such people. That my situation in Dover provides ample opportunity for a clergyman to promote God’s Word and mission.”

And the increased stipend from Lady Anne de Bourgh is certainly well-timed, too, thought Charlotte. “But my dear, should we not attend this dinner party? My parents will be there, and it’s been months since I’ve seen my sister.”

“Certainly not. I’ve already accepted a request from the Mayor to preside at his daughter’s wedding on that same day.”

##

Charlie did not quite comprehend the reason Nanny was fussing over his collar and jacket. “We aren’t going to church, Nell, we are going to see Ol’ Fool.”

“This is a special day, Master Charles,” said Nell. “Your mother wats you to look smart and tidy…and since you will be the only child there, I do not want anyone to say I didn’t try my best.” With a firm twist, she finally wrangled Charlie’s arm into the jacket. “Now, let’s address these buttons, then get you downstairs.”

They arrived at Longbourn shortly past dusk. Charlie and Nell sat in Mr. Bennet’s library, at a front-facing window, where Charlie enjoyed a light supper while watching the many carriages, with their prancing horses, make their way up the drive towards the front door. Torches were soon lit to illuminate the front of the house, the flames throwing dramatic shadows across the gravel driveway. Shadows that inspired Nell to entertain Charlie with tales of dragons and fairies and brave knights. From further into the house, however, the sounds of music, laughter and conversation increasingly became a distraction to Charlie.

“I don’t want to know where the dragon hid, Nell. Mama said I could eat cake at Ol’ Fool’s party.”

“We must wait until the cake is ready,” Nell said, as innocently as possible. “Your mama will knock on the door, soon.”

And soon, there was a knock on the library door. Jane Bingley clasped Charlie’s hand within her own and led him into the dining room. Charlie, mesmerized by the many candelabras, the colorful dresses worn by the ladies and, most impressively, the towering cake occupying the center of the table, barely noticed his father lifting him atop a wooden stool, situated near the table and to the left of his grandfather. Now, noticing his grandfather, Charlie found his voice.

“Ol’ Fool, a cake! The most loveliest cake, ever!”

“Yes, my boy, a most delicious cake, too. But, first,” Mr. Bennet now whispered, “allow your Ol’ Fool to make an announcement.” With a wink to Charlie, he faced his guests.

“My friends, on this momentous, and somewhat unorthodox, occasion, I am honored you are here tonight to share my joy in celebrating that I am father to a son. May I introduce you to Lindell Thomas McLear…Bennet.” With a nod to the staff, a side door was opened. Dell hesitantly entered the room to a welcoming applause, taking his place to Mr. Bennet’s right. Clapping Dell on his shoulder, Mr. Bennet continued. “Despite the circumstances which hid his identity from me, I now fully acknowledge Dell as my rightful heir and, as a further expression of this acknowledgement, present him with this family ring.” Pulling the velvet pouch from a side pocket, Mr. Bennet placed the gold ring in Dell’s upturned palm. Dell paused for a moment before slipping the ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. Mr. Bennet gave a soft laugh as he whispered “Probably the best choice, for now. Wear it well, my boy.”

Turning to his left, where Charlie remained standing atop the stool, Mr. Bennet now patted Charlie’s head. “And we are especially grateful to our little Charlie for creating a most dramatic opportunity to confirm his uncle’s identity.” As the guests politely laughed, for the tale of Charlie’s rescue was, by this time, well-known, Mr. Bennet, again, motioning to one of the staff. Taking the wrapped package from the footman, and placing it upon the table directly in front of Charlie, he said “Your Uncle Dell and I had this brought from London… just for you, Charlie. We think you will like it very much.”

Without hesitation, the wrappings were torn away to reveal a plain box. Charlie’s eyes widened as he removed the lid and saw the contents. “Oh, it is alive?”

“No, but much better, Charlie,” laughed Dell. “This one can stay in the house with you, and even move. Let me show you.” He lifted the realistically-painted wooden turtle from the box and set it on the floor. “See: he has wheels and a leash so that he can walk with you.” Dell, helping Charlie off the stool, handed Charlie the thin leather strap. “Pull the leash and watch what happens.”

The cleverly-constructed toy hid a mechanism which, when the wheels turned, would allow the head to bob up and down and the stubby tail to swish back-and-forth. With a cry of delight, Charlie led the turtle around the room – to the enjoyment of the adults. Once he had navigated the circumference of the dining table, Charlie hugged Mr. Bennet’s knees.

“Oh, thank you, Ol’ Fool…”and peering past those trousers, he added “and thank you, Uncle Dell. This is much nicer than going to the pond and falling into the water!”

Once the laughter subsided, Mr. Bennet said “Your turtle will need a name, Charlie. What would be a good name for such a creature?”

Charlie frowned in concentration; mentally considering the words and names within his limited vocabulary. Finally, one word seemed the best. “I think I’ll call him Lucky,” said Charlie. “Doctor said I was lucky; Papa said Uncle Dell was lucky and Mama said our family was lucky…so, I want my turtle to be lucky, too.”

“A very wise decision, Charlie,” laughed Mr. Bennet. “That we should all be grateful for Luck and the happiness it has brought to us all!”

*****************************************

IRREVERENT INSPIRATION

an unpublished work of creative non-fiction

by Karen MH Kersting; July 2023

Arguably, one of my most surreal, and yet, amusingly endearing memories began as an appointment at a funeral home. My four siblings and I had been assigned this sad mission by our mother: to complete the arrangements for my father’s funeral and burial. As a group, we were despondent, sleep deprived from the multi-day vigil alongside Dad’s hospital bed and struggling to avoid the testy family dynamics such circumstances inevitably seem to intensify. It was with no small shock of sensory overload, then, that we entered the labyrinth of brightly-lit caskets, urns, plaques and assorted memorial trinkets arranged for our perusal.

The young woman who greeted us – a demure, yet perky creature who later pursued a romantic relationship with one of my brothers – guided us to a conference area where the Business of her trade could be discussed, approved and implemented. One would have thought we were considering the investment in a timeshare what with the options, upgrades, special features and cringe-worthy marketing ploys displayed along the tabletop. One by one, selections were made until we arrived at the options for prayer cards. A requirement in traditional Catholic funerals, our mother had given detailed instructions for this particular item. I do not believe I was the only one amazed at the sight of several thick binders, filled with samples of both illustrations and printed material. Most unexpected, though, were the tabs organizing said illustrations. Along with the ubiquitous “Jesus”, “Mary”, “Holy Trinity” and “Floral” were two others: “For Children” and “Pastel Catholic”.

My state of mind focused upon the last tab. True enough: the illustrations were of a softer hue, with plenty of delicate sunbeams and wispy clouds framing the representations of religious figures. However, it occurred to me that The Pastel Catholics would be quite a name for a rock band. Mine was hardly the intended response. The perky funeral rep was not amused with my idea (as weren’t my siblings) and the suggestion was quickly eclipsed by the actual task. In the years since, I’ve recalled my dad’s humorous perspective towards religion (veering towards blasphemous, according to mother), so perhaps it is a fitting memory to my complicated relationship with my father that I cherish this odd moment in the funeral home, and mentally hear his chuckle at my daydream to front a regional, yet popular band named after a particular style of prayer card.

**************************************************************

TO SAVE SAMMY

an unpublished work of non-fiction

by Karen MH Kersting; 2023

According to the directions, and the sign bolted to the gate, our destination would be at the end of this rural lane. Edged with ragged underbrush, derelict fencing and several trees harboring only remnants of autumnal foliage, the unpaved track veered lazily away from my idling SUV and the two-lane blacktop we had traveled upon for the past hour. My sister and I did not speak, but I could sense we both were surprised. The website for this equestrian farm had photos of well-maintained pastures, glossy-coat colts and spirited geldings. The cattle grazing at the far end of the open land bordering this lane suggested nothing equine, much less equestrian. Nevertheless, with a short laugh, my sister stepped out of my vehicle to unlatch the gate.

The next task, of navigating my SUV through ruts and over a weed-choked cattle guard, was no small mission. However, it gave us time to discuss this latest episode in my sister’s search. The previous year, she had retired her beloved gelding from show competitions. Now, ready to invest in another horse to train and ride, the past few months had been a real test of her patience. She had already visited several breeders in several states; been out-bid for one colt, unconvinced with the lineage of another animal, and had expressed constant frustration from the ritual haggling over price, transportation costs and paperwork. We had hoped our trip to this farm, boasting valuable, old bloodlines of American Saddlebreds and a well-documented history of champion stock, would live up to its latest advertisement of having quality prospects and yearlings for sale. We had even booked an overnight stay in one of the town’s better hotels in anticipation of needing additional time to secure transportation for the colt she hoped to buy. Despite the condition of the lane, we kept our conversation on a positive outcome.

Eventually, the lane widened into a sort-of circular, packed-earth farmyard. I parked my SUV near the closest building: a small bungalow with a sagging porch, peeling paint and piles of dog-sized travel crates arranged on either side of the front door. Now, standing outside, I took a moment to get my bearings. The house sat on the eastern edge of this open farmyard. To my right, a huge barn and an ancient round pen were situated to the west. Angled farther back into the property, and to the barn’s right, I could see the roofs of outbuildings and a wide, open-front equipment shed. A chilly winter breeze blew from the North, effectively directing any sounds from the barn or outbuildings away from us. In that wide silence, we kept our voices soft.

“Doesn’t she live here?”

“Thought so… but, maybe not. Let me call her.”

My sister activated her phone and was soon conversing with the woman who had agreed to this meeting. Curious, I approached the bungalow and peered through the nearest dirty window. The interior appeared to be used only as a messy storage space. Puzzled, I now scanned the property, looking for another house. Among some scrub trees, a mobile home sat more than fifty yards behind the bungalow, but it too, appeared abandoned. As I debated whether I should investigate this other dwelling, my sister started waving at me.

“She’s just a few minutes away.”

Soon, a late model pick-up rolled into the yard towards us. The woman exiting the truck was dressed in worn work clothes, but her patrician features and refined poise hinted to Old Money. I guessed her age to be within the mid-seventies. Arthritis had crippled her knuckles, yet her handshake was firm.  Her gaze was direct, yet friendly. We three immediately seemed to bond. My sister and I shared a brief grin of hope when the woman looked away.

She led us to the large barn, refusing our offers to push open the wide doors. And all the while, as she struggled to pull one door along its track, then motioned for us to proceed her inside, she chatted about the promise of the colt we had travelled across several states to inspect, his sire, and vague references to other offers already under consideration for this animal. With a smile to the woman, I followed my sister through that narrow door opening with no small amount of cautious excitement.

Walking into that barn, though, was nothing short of entering into a nightmare. In its prime, the building had probably operated as a professional brood mare barn: the ample stalls on either side of a wide center aisle could have housed more than two dozen mares, along with their foals. The iconic, beamed framework, arching more than two stories over us, embodied a sturdy stoicism that was a jarring contrast to the spectacle surrounding us.

Thick clouds of chaff floated on the sunbeams shafting through gaps in the wall planking. To our right, slightly in front of a wall pegged with several brittle possum hides, a chain link kennel housed a bitch and her litter of puppies. Their half-hearted barking seemed unusual, given that the woman had just boasted about their lively personalities, but I was too distracted with the scene facing us to give this detail much thought. Several of the nearby stalls housed pieces of farm equipment, haphazardly buried under mounds of straw. Mid-way into the barn, blocking a portion of the center aisle, sat a twenty-foot flatbed trailer filled with moldering sweet potatoes.

As the dogs continued their sporadic barking and our eyes adjusted to the minimal lighting, my sister and I, again, shared a glance. The barn interior, we could now see, was overrun with poultry. Chickens, ducks, pea hens, geese and assorted chicks, apparently startled by both the barking and the sunlight streaming through the open door, now began to move about the barn. They were in the stalls, under the trailer, and even roosting on the overhead beams. And everywhere, eggs: of all sizes and in astounding quantities. All had been laid, then abandoned, by the hens. Mindful of these potentially gooey stink-bombs, I began to monitor the barn floor near my boots. A soft snort, however, redirected our attention to the left. Partially blocked from view by a collection of shelves and office furniture stacked to the left of the barn door, we hadn’t noticed the pale grey stallion eying us from the far corner of his stall.

He had paced a deep rut into the stall’s soft dirt; the rut encircled the stall interior like a dry moat. At the moment, though, the stallion was perched atop a portion of the narrow ridge of soil between the stall walls and this rut. As I approached the stall gate, my sister covertly grabbed my arm and motioned for me to not get any closer. The woman, however, confidently opened the stall gate and stepped inside, all the while praising the animal’s lineage and show abilities. Even I, a rookie horse admirer, could see that this stallion hadn’t stepped outside this barn, much less into a show ring, for some time. My sister’s expression and posture indicated she feared this animal would explode into a violent whirl of hooves and teeth at any moment. She visibly relaxed once the woman stepped out of the stall and the stall gate was, again, latched.

“Now his latest foal doesn’t have that lovely dappled-grey coloring,” the woman warned, as she motioned for us to follow her towards the other end of the barn. “Takes more after his dam; she is a gorgeous bay. But once he sheds his foal coat, who knows?” She smiled. “If you’re lucky, you might be able to see her out in the pasture.” She gestured vaguely towards the partially open, upper half of a Dutch door situated within the barn’s back wall. Now, stepping a few paces to the right of that door, she patted the top rail of an enclosed corner. “Here we are: Samson’s Pride. We call him Sam.”

We were not expecting to find this much-anticipated colt cowering in a darkened corner of this over-sized stall. He ignored the woman’s attempts to lure him towards us. He swung his head away from her happy-sounding words. But he did peer at my sister with timid curiosity – which didn’t surprise me, as she has that gift of instant connectedness with most horses. Still, he was not ready to budge from that corner. In hindsight, I should have noticed that the woman was not eager to go into that stall. Apparently, she assigned that task to a stableman named Rudy.

“Rudy should be here in a few,” she assured us. “Meanwhile, why don’t you walk up to the house with me for some tea?”

Given the way she was managing this barn could we trust her with brewing tea? And was she taking us to that bungalow or the trailer? But at the moment, an aggressive goose was attempting to block our path away from Sam’s stall. The woman now turned her attention towards the goose, laughing as she shooed the large bird towards the center aisle and the trailer. Behind her back, my sister and I gestured our concerns. With a palatably shared dread, we now followed her through a side doorway that led us away from the barn and into a dingy, low-ceiling structure. This structure, we soon learned, served as a sort of connecting corridor to, what I earlier thought to be, an outbuilding. Lining this corridor were stacks of grime-coated poultry cages, their doors ajar; many were still occupied by hens. Midway, I noticed a narrow doorway in between these stacks of cages. It opened to a tiny room, lit with a single, dust-covered bulb. That room’s prominent feature was a filthy, wall-mounted enameled sink filled, almost to overflowing, with eggs.  I did not linger, fearful that at any moment, the mound of eggs would topple onto the guano-coated concrete floor. The resulting odor, I was certain, could asphyxiate every living creature on the property.

Our next surprise was the true identity of the outbuilding beyond this corridor. The woman made no acknowledgement to the emptiness of what had surely been – many years ago - a quality show barn. My sister mouthed the word “Wow” as we traversed the length of that building. We passed rows and rows of dozens-upon-dozens of silent, empty stalls, to finally exit near, what I had earlier thought to be, an open-front equipment shed. Perhaps, several years ago, tractors and pasture-maintenance equipment had been parked there. Now, we could see that sections of chain link fencing had been cobbled together to create two pens within that shed. Each pen housed a massive sow, wallowing in fetid, algae-filled muck. The woman cheerily reported that she had made a good profit on the sale of the piglets. My sister’s eyes could not bulge any wider.

We were spared any tea, with the sound and sight of a well-worn sedan chugging into the yard. The driver was introduced to us as Rudy. In short time, he entered the brood mare barn and quickly exited with Sam. The fuzzy lead rope clipped to Sam’s halter looked as neglected as the surrounding property. Sam was released into the round pen, but Rudy stayed on the other side of its closed gate to whistle and slap the lead rope against the rails. His voice was stern.

“Hi, Sam…git up!”

In the fading afternoon light, Sam’s coat reminded me of a shabby plush toy. He was thin, too thin for his age, but at Rudy’s urging, demonstrated a determined bit of trotting around two-thirds of the pen. There was a glimmer of champion lineage in his movements and motion, but there was also a sense –from the way he eyed Rudy – that he was profoundly scared.

I waited for a comment from my sister. She, however, had activated her phone, again.

“Hey. I have been here for almost two hours,” she said into the device. “Where are you?” She sighed. “OK…they just put him in the round pen, so hurry up.” To my puzzled expression she replied “A local vet. Jerk was supposed to meet us to do a health assessment. I’ve already paid him a deposit on this visit, and he says he’s running late. Unbelievable.”

The woman had stepped away during this phone call, but returned to ask if my sister was interested in Sam.

“Maybe, but not until the vet sees him.”

My sister is no push-over and that tenacity was a good match against the woman’s efforts to change the subject back to a possible sale. While they continued this multi-layered conversation, I strolled over to the fence enclosing the pasture on the other side of the brood mare barn. Earlier, through that partially-opened Dutch door, I thought I had seen several horses under a copse of maples. Now, three of them slowly plodded up a knoll situated about half an acre away from me. What I had initially suspected to be their cautious approach was now revealed to be something much more disturbing. Their hooves were so badly outgrown, that any chance of natural, comfortable movement was impossible. The mares gazed dully at me. A rush of anger, loathing and, eventually, mercenary wariness kept me at that fence. I began committing details to memory. I wondered if the vet was aware of this farm and its population of ill-kept livestock. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Rudy watching me. I pretended not to notice him.

When a shiny conversion van arrived, emblazoned with the logo of a local vet service, I imagined the vet would soon share my concerns. Stepping into the pen, and with Rudy’s help, the vet attached a different lead rope to Sam’s halter, then, tied that sturdier rope to a fence rail. The vet made no eye contact with the woman or with Rudy. Now, he methodically ran his hands across Sam’s withers, flanks and legs. He peered into Sam’s ears and mouth. Next, he instructed Rudy to lead Sam, slowly, around the pen’s perimeter. The vet stood in the middle of the round pen, observing Sam’s gait for several minutes.

Finally, the vet took the lead rope from Rudy. As the stableman exited the round pen, the vet now waved for my sister to enter the enclosure. When my sister took the lead rope, Sam immediately stepped towards her. My throat tightened as the colt rested his head against her chest and she, in response, gently cupped her hand under his jaw.

Once the vet began to speak, my sister pulled her sunglasses over her eyes. They kept their voices low. From my spot along the pasture fence, I could only hear an unevenly pitched hum of conversation. Sam never moved away from my sister, and she never paused in stroking his cheek during the length of this impromptu meeting. The set of my sister’s mouth, though, was a clue all was not well. I walked closer to the round pen. After a few more minutes, the vet, my sister and Sam approached the gate. Rudy exchanged the lead ropes and retied the fuzzy one to a rail.

“Five hundred dollars, cash. Right now,” I heard my sister say to the woman. “I’ll have a trailer here in about an hour.”

The woman smiled. “Well, that’s not quite the price I had advertised for Sam. May I think about it, and call you, tomorrow?”

My chin should have touched the weedy ground at my feet. I knew my sister had a substantial budget for this purchase, and several thousand dollars of cash in her purse. Five hundred dollars was a remarkably low offer. I waited. The vet, meanwhile, was rapidly walking towards his van. He made no acknowledgement of the negotiations, nor of the people involved.

“Nine hundred,” my sister countered.

“Oh my,” laughed the woman. “I’m just not used to making fast decisions. Couldn’t I call you, tomorrow?”

On a hunch, I jogged towards the van. “What is going on here?” I asked the vet. “This farm needs to be shut down, and these animals given proper care.”  But the vet kept his attention upon the tasks of removing his boots, slipping on a pair of running shoes and tying the laces. In a lower tone, I persisted. “What did you tell my sister about the colt?”

He stared at the ground, his voice barely audible. “If you were from here, you would know that this is one of the oldest, most well-connected families in the county. No one,” he said firmly, “will cross her. Frankly, I don’t know how that colt is still alive. His dam had no veterinary care while she carried him, and that’s evident in a series of issues with his joints and failure to thrive.” He glanced towards my sister and the woman, still deep into their negotiations. “I advised your sister not to invest in Sam, and not mention to her anything I said about Sam’s poor health. I can’t criticize this farm, officially. They have ways that would insure I would lose my practice. Your sister hopes to rehabilitate the colt, but sadly, I think it’s too late.”

Stunned, all I could do was stare at him. There was a nervous quality to way he stored his boots in a crate, then, liberally applied one of those waterless cleansers to his hands. He scrubbed at his palms as if he wanted to eliminate the layer of skin that had touched Sam, but I quickly realized he was also monitoring the woman and my sister.

“Gotta go,” he announced abruptly. “Tell your sister her deposit will cover this assessment. If she still needs that trailer, give me a call on my cell. Good Luck.”

He offered me those last words as he practically jumped towards the driver’s side door. To me, it seemed as if he was able to settle himself into the driver’s seat, start the engine, then, steer the van onto the unpaved lane in a matter of seconds. My sister finally joined me on the patch of hard, bare earth where the van’s tires had only left a faint impression.

“Coward.”

I faced the open pasture, to insure the woman couldn’t hear my voice. “He has to live here. We don’t. He’s worried about his practice, because she, supposedly, is well-connected.” I waited for my sister to reply. She was watching Rudy lead Sam back into the barn. “So…did you buy Sam?”

“Not yet.” My sister exhaled loudly. “Let’s get out of here before I say something I’ll regret.”

Later, sitting in the most remote corner of the hotel’s restaurant, my sister and I reviewed the events at the farm and discussed how Sammy (for we had modified his name to something more in keeping with his frail condition) could be rehabilitated. Remembering the vet’s comments, we were careful not to say anything when the wait staff was nearby. However, after our third round of stiff drinks was brought to the table, I jokingly said to the waitress “Rough day. Glad we aren’t driving anywhere tonight.”

The young woman only said “Well, the bar closes in fifteen minutes, so let me know if you want anything else.”

My sister ignored the insincerity to smile, and then order one more round. Slouching against the back of the upholstered banquette, she sighed. “Poor Sammy. I keep thinking of him stuck in that stall, in the dark, with all those chickens and those dogs…”

“Do you think she will call you tomorrow?”

My sister, first, took a deep swallow of scotch. “Hope so…I told her my flight leaves at 10AM.” She paused, spinning the narrow straw within her drink. “Would you be able to stay here…‘til at least the afternoon? If, you know…in case she dawdles and decides, at the last minute, to accept my offer?”

Overlooking my sister’s slightly slurred speech, I tried to keep the wobble out of my own voice. “No problem. Check-out is at noon, and we passed several antique stores right before the intersection to this hotel. I can keep myself busy, in those stores, for more than a day.” Her half-hearted smile confirmed she didn’t believe my cheerfulness, either.

The next morning came and went. I had walked through two of the larger antique stores when my phone finally sounded the alert for an incoming text message.

Won’t sell Sammy to me. Sez she got a better offer. Liar!

My five-hour drive home felt like five days. From the interstate, the wide vistas of farm land dotted with livestock and farm buildings no longer impressed me as “scenic”. At sixty-five miles an hour, how could I know if those farms weren’t, also, ill-managed? Were those barns places of shelter or squalor? Had a vet ever looked at the flock of sheep clustered atop that far ridge? I would be lying if I didn’t admit to bouts of crying and whispered prayers for Sammy on that return trip. Yet, despite my blue mood, I was scheming.

The following morning, I began an on-line search for animal rescue organizations within that county. There were only two, and both expressed minimal interest in investigating my claim - especially after they learned the name of the farm. Still, one promised me that a staffer would be sent out to evaluate the health of the animals. Unconvinced, I then searched for a local newspaper. There was one; the switchboard connected me to a young male voice. He took a more professional approach to my concerns and seemed unfazed by the names involved. Still, he warned me that the paper had recently printed a similar story involving a farm at the other end of the county. There was little public outcry and even less efforts to save those animals, he reported.

“It’s a bigger problem than most city-folk can imagine,” he said. “No offense.”

I didn’t take offense, but felt the first stab of despair from his honesty. My sister, soon afterwards, also called to share some news: she had received a call from Sammy’s owner. The woman now reported she had decided she wanted to train Sammy, herself; claiming he had too much potential to be sold at this time.

“She hasn’t been on a horse in at least seven years.” My sister did not conceal her contempt. “I’ve been making some inquiries, too.”

Accessing the right gossip within the Show Horse Universe requires asking the right people the right questions. My sister had spent her morning contacting a variety of trainers and owners. She learned the woman was married to a wealthy husband who was more willing to fund his wife’s delusions than face facts; there were rumors about an illness, about business problems involving the stable and anecdotal stories confirming the long reach of a prominent family determined to smooth over any unpleasantness. Despite this update, I hoped the journalist would be beyond such a reach. But at the end of that week, he called with more predictable news.

“I spoke with the county’s animal control office” he began. “They told me they did send an officer out to that farm. He reported that all the animals had sufficient water and food…they won’t be pursuing any further action.”

“And the stallion in the stall? All those eggs lying around the barn? The pigs?” I couldn’t imagine anyone, after seeing that sink filled with eggs, would be able to declare this farm was a perfect model of good animal husbandry.

“I’m sorry,” the journalist said. “This appears to be small town politics at its worst. These animal control agencies are underfunded and rely on a good deal of private donations. But if anything changes, I’ll call you.”

Memories of the barn interior, of Sammy, of the horses on the knoll, haunted my sleep and the quiet moments when I was not at work or focused on other tasks. I spent a great deal of time staring at the photos I had secretly snapped of the barn, the derelict bungalow, of Sammy leaning against my sister.  The raw unfairness was as appalling to me as the neglect itself: I couldn’t accept that there were no reasonable options or methods to save this poor horse, let alone all the other livestock on that property. Then, about two weeks later, my phone rang.

“I hope you are sitting down.” My sister uses that phrase, in that tone, for only bad news. “I got a call from her.”

I waited, listening to my sister take a deep pull on her cigarette.

“At first, she made small talk,” my sister began. “Then, she said ‘I thought you’d like to know that Sam is dead. Somehow got himself tangled up in the lead rope, in the round pen. Such a shame.’ My sister’s voice tone shifted. “Like for me to know? Then, that Bitch had the nerve to ask me if I would be interested in the stallion.”

The fury in my sister’s voice could have split open a tree. I could not speak. Even I knew not to leave a horse, let alone a young colt, unattended while tied to the rails of a round pen. This was neglect at its worst. Sammy undoubtedly died in pain and alone; facts that, even today, are difficult for me to fully accept without revulsion and profound sadness.

Many years have passed since that phone call. My sister, eventually, purchased a young gelding that had his own brush with neglect and abuse before finding a safe haven in her care. The woman eventually sold her horses through a questionably-operated auction house; she now claims to be breeding goats. We never speak of that trip, that woman, or of Sammy.

Yet, I carry lingering grief: both for Sammy and from the circumstances that worked so unfairly against him. In the years since, I’ve made choices and support organizations that would benefit other animals as a way to balance the wrongs against Sammy. But many nights, especially on the nights when I see the Pegasus constellation in the southeast sky, I send a thought to the heavens for that frightened, frail colt we could not rescue.

*****************************************************

Second To Last Day

(by Karen MH Kersting, from my collection of Car Poems; 2011)

The eve of Eves, the air now warm

from reticent sunshine tempering the damp.

Sickly shadows scuttle and fade

Crushed beneath tires and footsteps.

Atop the sidewalk

a young man travels

        clothed in versions of black;

shouldering thoughts and belongings

against the rushing traffic,

against the urban hard edges,

ignoring the little dog with a curly tail

trotting

obediently alongside.

At Esplanade they paused;

the little dog in excitement

twirled

and nipped

at the leash

as his companion

gently

placed

a skateboard alongside the curb.

With a mighty heave

the little dog pushes

against his harness,

against the drag of the young man’s rolling weight,

across the cold dank pavement

he proudly scampers:

a little dog

racing the cars.

But the young man simply lifts his face towards the thin solar warmth.

The breeze

from the little dog’s efforts

tussling with his dirty hair.

Confident in the little dog’s strength

Confident in his sense of balance

towards the river

they fly.

Cars and buildings

the unsettling angst of

anger and hunger and neglect

now blur and melt

in the rush of winter air,

in the grinding cadence of

  the skateboards’ wheels,

in the anticipation of what waits

for them

at the river’s edge.

*********************************************

DECISIONS (an unpublished, fan-fiction short story, based upon the characters in Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice)

by Karen MH Kersting 2023

Chapter 1

“…later, the butler and I plan to run away to Gretna Green.”

“If you think it best, my dear.” His wife’s laughter prompted him to set aside the letter that had been delivered minutes earlier. Elizabeth’s arched eyebrow was a familiar hint that he had not been paying attention to her conversation. “Forgive me, my dear: what are your plans for the day?”

Elizabeth smiled as she sighed. “Fitz, I was reminding you that my sister, Mary, will be arriving before tea. We do not have any guests coming to dinner, and I was wondering if we should invite my Uncle and Aunt Gardiner.” When he stayed silent, but returned his gaze at the letter, she added “Is that another letter from your steward? Please tell me Georgianna’s horse hasn’t escaped, again.”

She watched her husband’s expression subtly shift. Their decision to spend a fortnight at their townhouse in London had been anything but a brief holiday. Livestock issues at Pemberley, the abrupt departure of their cook at their London townhouse and, now, this mysterious letter – Elizabeth half-expected her mother to frantically burst into the room with her own lamentations to complete the unsettling atmosphere now brewing in this sun-filled room. “My dear, what is wrong?”

“Not, exactly wrong, but…astonishing. My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has been summoned to Rosings Park to advise Lady Catherine on some confidential matters. He refuses to elaborate, other than to say he will be arriving in London, tomorrow, to discuss how these matters affect…us.” Fitzwilliam Darcy stared at his cousin’s slanted handwriting, and the cryptic postscript. Folding the letter, to then bundle it within the other correspondence he stored in a folio, he now smiled at his wife. “Do you suppose Lady Catherine has finally decided to acknowledge our marriage?”

More than two years had passed since Lady Catherine had confronted Elizabeth about engagement rumors. She had refused to attend her nephew’s marriage to Elizabeth Bennett and, reportedly, had instructed her staff to never mention their names in her presence. The notion that Lady Catherine was warming to her connection to the Bennett clan was amusing. Elizabeth set aside her needlework and a desire to say an unkind remark, to stand away from her work table.

“I’ll alert Burns to these changes. Let’s hope the new cook won’t panic,” she said.

##

Mary’s arrival was not as Elizabeth expected. She eyed the incredible amount of luggage and Mary’s expression of extreme exhaustion. “Goodness, Mary, how long have you been traveling?”

“Oh, Lizzy, I left Longbourn with only two cases. Mr. Bingley’s aunt insisted that she give me three new dresses and two hats for playing the piano-forte at her daughter’s wedding. Then, Jane took me to her dressmaker and gave me two more dresses as a special gift. It’s such an extravagance…do you think I should sell them and give the money to Reverend Collins for his missionary work?”

“Certainly not. They were gifts, and while we are in London, you may want to wear something…new.” Elizabeth grinned as she threaded her hand around Mary’s elbow. “Now, let’s have some tea while you tell me all about the wedding and Jane’s baby.”

##

Mary’s demeanor softened after two cups of tea and several small pastries. “…And while I normally find weddings, well, less than enjoyable, playing such lovely etudes for this couple gave me pause.” She leaned closer to her sister. “Lizzy, I’m not a romantic, but something about that wedding got me wondering if I should consider marriage.”

Her sister’s earnest tone was the only reason Elizabeth didn’t laugh. She did smile, recalling Charlotte’s similarly stated views before she accepted Reverend Collins’ proposal.  “Mary, considering marriage is only reasonable if one has gained the attention of an eligible partner…or two. Let’s first provide you with some opportunities.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manner of arrival was no less surprising. He arrived, that evening, as Elizabeth, Darcy and Mary were crossing the foyer, towards the dining room. He brought no luggage, was wearing a mud-splattered cape over his civilian clothes and an expression of deep concern.

“Cousin!” exclaimed Mr. Darcy. “We understood you were to arrive tomorrow! And now, you say you rode directly from Rosings Park? Why, the distance from Kent to London must be more than fifty miles.”

“Indeed” sighed Fitzwilliam, as he handed his cape to a servant. “I left Kent only hours after my letter was posted, but I am no express rider nor cavalry messenger. Circumstances…” he paused when he realized Darcy and Elizabeth were not the only people in the room. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have been so hasty to relay my information.”

“It is no need for concern, Cousin,” Elizabeth quickly said. “This is my sister, Mary. You met her at our wedding.”

“Oh, of course. How careless of me,” Fitzwilliam said, with a slight bow. “How good to make your acquaintance, again, Miss Bennett.” He paused, again, intrigued at the physical similarity between Miss Mary Bennett and the young woman residing at Rosings Park. “Uhm, as I was saying: circumstances changed rapidly. I had hoped to, actually, intercept my letter, but a rain storm was my undoing.” Acknowledging the arrival of the butler, he now said “But here I am, and we shouldn’t delay the first course. We can speak of this matter, later.”

Elizabeth was relieved that the dinner did not betray any adaptations to accommodate an unexpected guest. The lax housekeeping routines at Longbourn had not prepared her for the demands of managing Pemberley and this townhouse. Thankfully, the kindly guidance of Mrs. Reynolds had smoothed-over and filled-in any lapses in her knowledge.  Even now, she secretly monitored the progress of the meal, mentally checking the list that good housekeeper had prepared for her. Once the dessert dishes were removed, she made a point to send her regards to the kitchen via Burns, the butler.

They retired to the library, where the fire crackled warm and inviting, and the candle flames filled the cozy room with enough of a warm glow to keep any shadows deep into the farthest corners. Colonel Fitzwilliam opted to stand close to the fireplace mantle. He motioned for Darcy, Elizabeth and Mary to be seated. Gently tracing the edge of the mantle shelf with one finger, he gathered his thoughts before speaking.

“About a year ago, Lady Catherine suffered a mild heart-stroke.” With the expected reaction from his audience, he bade for them to stay silent and calm. “Naturally, she demanded that as few people as possible be notified of this malady. Those who were aware of this information were sworn to secrecy… including myself. Realizing the impact her illness would inflict upon the management of her estate, her holdings, and several other matters, she asked me to assist her. With the help of her solicitor, steward, and even Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said with a smile, “I have been able to keep her business interests profitable and to put her personal affairs in proper order…and probably, not a moment too soon.”

He allowed those last words to linger on the air as he extracted an envelope from within his jacket. He cleared his throat. “Three days ago, her condition slightly worsened, and I was summoned to her rooms. She dictated this letter to me and, despite her state at that time, I had every hope to keep this letter in a desk drawer, for some while. Still, a day ago, I wrote to you, Darcy: hoping to intrude upon your visit to London; to alert you with an abbreviated version of the situation at Rosings.” He tapped the letter against his palm. “At that time, I only wanted to, discretely, alert you to her condition. On the advice of her physician, however, it now appears the contents of this letter must be read.”

“Heavens,” Elizabeth breathed. “This sounds quite serious.”

“My dear,” sighed Darcy, “have no doubt about it, if my poor cousin endured a rainstorm to reach London in almost one day.”

Unfolding the letter, the Colonel now selected a chair next to Darcy. The brief tension between his cousin and his wife amused him, given Darcy’s initial infatuation with Elizabeth, but not enough to distract him from this task. With a quick glance to the face of each audience member, he began to read:

To my nephew and his wife:

The circumstances which brought about this rift in our family do not need to be cataloged here. Yet, I must admit, it has brought me great unease. My daughter, Anne - a most devoted, yet frail, daughter- will suffer greatly from the void of companionship and familial solicitude resulting with my passing. I must concede, that she could benefit from a cordial friendship with her nearest relatives and request that you will extend such kindnesses to Anne, should that time arrive. I trust my suggestion –relayed to Colonel Fitzwilliam with the utmost confidence and faith-- will be favorably received.

Sincerely,

Lady Catherine de Bourgh

“And, are we to presume that Lady Catherine is…”

The Colonel nodded. “The physician was certain she would not last the day. I’m surprised an express has not already arrived with that sad confirmation.”

He glanced towards the door, Elizabeth noted, as if he expected the butler to appear with the announcement on a platter. Slightly adjusting her posture, she said “But what is your opinion of this suggestion, CF? I would think we are the last people Anne would want to visit Rosings at such a time.” She was expecting his broad smile at her use of her nickname for him, but not the shake of his head to hint she was mistaken.

“Over the past several months, Cousin Elizabeth, I have had the opportunity to observe a… a change in Miss Anne. With her mother confined to her rooms, Anne has found the courage to make decisions and choices that Lady Catherine would never have allowed. Mrs. Jenkinson has, similarly, become more decisive and outspoken with Anne: insisting she spend more time outdoors, abandon the tonics and treatments Lady Catherine insisted were necessary and even encouraged her to start learning to play the piano-forte.” He laughed slightly at Elizabeth’s surprise. “She also took me into her confidence regarding a most extraordinary secret…one that will only have a resolution after Lady Catherine is buried. I am quite certain you will be well received.”

Darcy now stood away from his chair to pace the room. “An amazing report, Cousin, and also quite distressing. I had hoped that, with time, Lady Catherine and I could have reached some level of understanding, of mutual agreement that would retire the notion that Anne and I would have been well-matched marriage partners. While I have never regretted one moment of my decision to marry Elizabeth, the truth is: I abandoned Anne to a spinsterhood most undeserving of a woman of her rank in society.” Stopping now, behind Elizabeth’s chair, he placed one hand atop her shoulder as a way to confirm his declaration. “Truly, Cousin, why are you so certain Anne would welcome us to Hertfordshire, let alone Rosings Park?”

“Would it ease your conscience, Darcy, to learn that Anne, also, dreaded that idea: of a marriage to you?” The Colonel leaned forward. “Anne has her own reasons to resume a connection with you both; reasons which are only hers to explain.”

“I see,” Darcy frowned as he retook his chair. “Should we prepare to leave the day after tomorrow? Such a journey requires more than an hour’s effort, if it, indeed, must occur.”

There was no need to answer that question, as Burns had entered the room with a letter set atop a small tray. “An express for the Colonel, if you please.” 

##

Elizabeth and Mary soon withdrew from the library to begin preparations for the trip to Kent. Halfway up the staircase, though, Mary stayed Elizabeth’s arm; prompting Elizabeth to pause on the step above her and turn around. “Lizzy, should I remain here, in London, or return to Longbourn? After all, Miss Anne will not be expecting me.”

This was a detail Elizabeth had not considered. “If it is any sort of inconvenience to her, Mary, then you and I will stay at the village inn. I’m not certain, myself, if I want to stay in that house!”

Chapter 2

The carriage ride to Rosings Park took an entire day. Darcy and the Colonel did their best to amuse Elizabeth and Mary with stories from their youth and an accident-filled trip to Scotland during a visit to a distant relative’s estate. But the Spring weather this day was windy and dreary; the uneven sway of the carriage from the wind gusts created an uncomfortable sensation that often felt as though the countryside, too, was not pleased with their return to Kent.

At one point, Mary clutched Elizabeth’s hand in fright. “Oh, help! Are you not worried, Lizzy, that the carriage will be blown over?”

Mary’s tone bore a strong resemblance to their mother’s penchant for dramatic assertions. Elizabeth sighed; with all the other Bennett daughters married and living away from Longbourn, Mary now had only the full strength of their mother’s personality to influence her perspectives. She made a mental note to allow Mary to stay with her a little longer than the original plan – if only to provide Mary with an opportunity to observe that every small event was not cause for alarm and distress. Still, she offered a reassuring pat to Mary’s hand. “Mary, between the weight of all our luggage and the people in and outside this carriage, I would think our bigger worry is tiring the horses too quickly!”

They arrived at Rosings Park shortly before sunset, but, even in the overcast gloom, the swags of black crepe at the entrance gate and atop the doorway to the house was sufficiently over-applied to leave no hint that the house was in mourning. Once they were relieved of their cloaks and hats, they were ushered into a receiving room, to the right of the entrance hallway; a room Elizabeth recalled from her first visit: opulent in artwork and embellishments, but meager in places to sit. A room designed to put the visitor at little ease. When the door opened, Elizabeth found herself struggling to contain her surprise at the appearance of the person entering the room.

Even in the severe cut of her mourning clothes, Anne de Bourgh was no longer the meek creature Elizabeth had met more than three years earlier. She carried herself with a stately grace, her gaze direct and assured; despite her pale complexion, Elizabeth could see that Anne was transforming into a handsome young woman. Anne approached Colonel Fitzwilliam, first, with both hands extended.

“My dear Cousin, you must be exhausted from the constant travels of these past days, but I am so grateful for the results.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam continued to clasp her hands as he said “Any assignment, when it’s for you, Anne, is never a burden. Now, I hope the inclusion of another member to our party will not be an inconvenience to you. May I introduce Miss Mary Bennett?”

Anne’s happy gasp of surprise startled her guests. “Oh, Miss Bennett! I have heard so much about you from Mrs. Collins. She has told me, many times, how beautifully you play the piano-forte. You are most welcome, here – despite the unhappy circumstances – and, if it is agreeable to you, I hope you will stay in the room next to mine.”

Mary exchanged a glance with her sister. She had never been the center of such attention. That distinction had normally been the particular honor of Jane and the questionable talent of her two younger sisters. Still, she had not forgotten her manners. With a curtsey, she said “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Anne, and to accept your generous hospitality.”  

Anne now made a sight curtsey to the others. “I am so grateful, Cousins, that you have agreed to this unusual journey. Won’t you please join me in the sitting room for some small refreshments?”

Anne led them past the front parlor, where the partially-closed door and swags of black crepe hinted to the current purpose of that room. In the sitting room, a chair placed at the prominent position was draped in black fabric. Elizabeth eyed the display, recalling how Lady Catherine had once sat there: a commanding presence with absolute opinions and a withering eye. Elizabeth selected a chair at the other end of the room, close to a table covered with a lace cloth. Two servants were arranging a tea service and a tray of food atop the table. Anne encouraged her guests, several times, to partake in the offerings.

After several minutes of gentle conversation, Anne set her tea cup and saucer upon a side table and motioned for the staff to leave the room. Once the door was closed, she smiled at her guests. “I am, again, so pleased that you have made the trip to Rosings Park at this difficult time. During the past year, my mother’s illness and, now, her death, have resulted in many changes…and revelations. I would be remiss if I didn’t first express my deepest thanks to Colonel Fitzwilliam for his assistance and sensibilities.” She maintained her gaze towards Colonel Fitzwilliam as she took a deep inhale. “Now, I am aware of the letter Mother dictated to him on the day she died, and have a general idea as to its contents. I trust you will not believe I am speaking disrespectfully of the dead when I say: that letter hardly atones for the many ways Mother attempted to manipulate all our lives to a design she insisted was in our best interests.”

Folding her hands, she stared at thick black lace encircling her wrists for several seconds before she continued. “More than five years ago, our vicar died. He was a kindly man, and I remember him fondly… still. After some querying, Mother agreed to appoint a young minister to the position. His name is Gregory Nichols.” She smiled. “He and I immediately discovered a mutual enjoyment of books and poetry; in short time, we realized we were attracted to each other. Mother, of course, was furious. We argued about her long-held plan to marry me off to you, Darcy.” Anne momentarily stared at the fabric-draped chair. “We argued in this very room.” She paused, again, before saying to Darcy “I hope I don’t shock you, Cousin, but surely you and I would never have been happy in such a marriage.” Returning Darcy’s smile, she continued. “After that argument, Mother insisted I must be suffering from a nervous condition that had addled my ability to reason. Since reaching the age of twelve, she had already insisted her physician prescribe tonics and powders to be added to my food. Those treatments were increased, and my general condition was reduced to what you saw, Cousin Elizabeth, when we first met. For the past several months, however, Mrs. Jenkinson and I have been carefully and diligently eliminating those tonics and medicines from my meals. I’m quite pleased with my progress. Don’t you agree?”

Mary, spell-bound by Anne’s story, had leaned forward to rest both elbows in her lap. She loudly whispered “But, what happened to Reverend Nichols?”

“Mary,” Elizabeth sighed, “please…”

But Anne, who had taken a chair close to Mary, reached out to rest one hand atop Mary’s forearm. She directed her next comments to Mary. “Reverend Nichols was reassigned to a parish near Dover, and Mother’s solicitor assisted in locating Mr. Collins as a suitable replacement.” She dared a glance at Elizabeth before saying “I suspect Mother had some other schemes regarding Mr. Collins, but she had to content herself with his choice of partner…at least, it seemed that way to me.” Patting Mary’s arm, she couldn’t stop her smile nor breathless tone. “But this, my friend, is the happiest part of my tale: Reverend Nichols still resides at the church in Wellsgate. Over the past six months, he and I have exchanged… letters. He is quite sensible to my present situation, yet, vows that his high regard for me has not changed.”  Anne, feeling the color rise to her face, quickly pulled her hand into her lap and set her gaze upon the carpet. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s slight cough broke the brief silence.

“If I may, Anne: allow me to use this moment to add a few other, important, details.” The Colonel stood away from his chair to, first, confirm no one was waiting outside the sitting room door. Now, he returned to his chair and crossed his arms. “Lady Catherine’s Will is, as you may imagine, a complex document. Anne inherits the title, the estate and the controlling interest in the import company her grandfather – your mother’s uncle, Darcy – had founded decades ago. However, the inheritance is monitored by two guardians for the next five years. I am one of the guardians…the other, is you, Darcy.”

Elizabeth quickly swiveled her face towards her husband. His wide-eyed expression lasted only a second, replaced with his characteristic habit of pressed lips and slight frown. She couldn’t suppress her wide smile as he attempted to adjust his posture as an obvious delay to his attempt to collect his thoughts.

“Well, Cousin Anne,” he began. “I trust this legal arrangement will be acceptable?” With her slight nod, he continued. “It seems, to me, that you and this Reverend may have already discussed a scheme of your own. I notice Mrs. Jenkinson is not here – may I presume she also has a part to play in this story?”

“Mrs. Jenkinson is running an errand for me,” Anne said quickly, having difficulty meeting anyone’s gaze at this point.

“I see,” said Darcy, pausing so that the tone of his voice was understood. “With tomorrow engaged for your mother’s funeral, perhaps in a few days, we may all travel to Wellsgate to meet this Reverend. I am the last person to attempt to interfere with the romantic interests of others…at least,” he said with a smile to Elizabeth, “since Mrs. Darcy has made some observations and suggestions to me in those matters. Still,” he said in a stronger tone, “you will be in mourning for a year, Anne, so that should allow us enough time to make any final decisions.” Anne’s change in demeanor was immediately noticeable to everyone in the room.

“Oh, I had hoped that would be a suggestion,” she said. “To be honest, Mrs. Jenkinson has been dispatched to Dover to make sure our, well, my townhouse is fit for company. You see,” she added, “Mother rarely went there, except for a business meeting twice annually. I’ve hoped we could travel to Dover in the next few days, and that the accommodations by then would be made…presentable.”

“I’m certain they will be more than adequate,” Elizabeth quickly replied. “We look forward to meeting this Reverend Nichols.”

A knock at the door preceded the butler’s arrival into the sitting room and his report that dinner was ready to be served.

Chapter 3

Hours after their dinner at Rosings, Elizabeth surveyed the well-appointed room, the generous blaze in the fireplace and the desk positioned near one of the windows. “So, this, was the place where you wrote me that infamous letter?” She laughed at her husband. “So much emotion poured out, along so many pages; I’m surprised you wouldn’t ask Anne if we could stay in another room.”

“My dear Elizabeth,” began Darcy, as he extinguished candle, after candle, as he crossed the room towards her. “After listening to Anne’s story, I do not want any room in this house to carry an unhappy memory. Let us do our best, tonight, to bring some happy memories into this one, particular, place.”

With a soft laugh, Elizabeth stepped into his embrace.

##

From her position next to the piano-forte, Elizabeth was certain her father would have enjoyed the spectacle which was the funeral for Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Anne had insisted that Mary play a series of dirges, hymns and deep-toned melodies during the parade of people who came to Rosings Park for the viewing, and then, both before and after Reverend Collins’ effluent eulogy. Several people, she was certain, had only arrived for the sole purpose of seeing the house interior; the decedent was rarely the subject of those whispered comments and one visitor had to be escorted away from the staircase. “Mary, I think they are preparing to take the coffin out, now,” Elizabeth said softly, while turning the page of the current piece. “Perhaps, you should end at the coda.”

Mary, solemnly nodded. Last night, after the rest of the party had retired to their rooms, she and Anne had spent several hours sharing stories and opinions about their lives and the future. They had discovered a kindred outlook that had immediately sealed their friendship. When Anne had asked her to provide music during the funeral, Mary felt the importance of this request; pouring every fiber of her attention towards each note. Elizabeth’s suggestion, though, also made sense. She was developing a better appreciation of her older sister’s perspectives, so she focused upon a graceful adaptation of the remaining stanzas.

The temporary Death’s Door, fitted into the space where a window had once faced the terrace, had now been opened. A solemn group of men approached the casket and in short time, lifted it away from the support frame. Elizabeth and Mary walked several paces behind Darcy & Fitzwilliam, who were flanking Anne. The procession eventually arrived at the cemetery and, within its grounds, the de Bourgh crypt. Upon this arrival, the last bit of cloud cover, which had, since dawn, presented an appropriately dreary day, drifted to the North.

The clear sunlight and soft breeze, Elizabeth considered, seemed to be Nature’s way of cleansing the last vestige of Lady Catherine’s scheming intrusions from among the living. As Elizabeth turned her face into the breeze – for there was a lilac in full bloom between her and the direction of that breeze, and the perfume from those blooms was tempting her to enjoy its full fragrance– she noticed a lone man, standing next to the elm at the entrance to the cemetery. He had dismounted from a dust-coated bay; the animal now eagerly nibbling the tufts of grass near the fence. He patted the horse’s neck, yet kept his gaze on the people clustered in front of the crypt. Anne, Elizabeth now realized, had begun to address the mourners.

“…I am so grateful for your support and kindness during this time. Thank you for honoring my mother with your attendance here today. It is…an immense comfort to me.”

Elizabeth noticed Anne’s extended pause, when her gaze had momentarily slid towards the cemetery gate, and following her gaze, Elizabeth discovered the man had mounted the horse and was gesturing a slight wave. Anne had now lowered the veil, from atop her hat to over her face, but not before Elizabeth noted a slight flush to Anne’s cheeks.  

During the return to Rosings, Elizabeth found an opportunity to walk next to Anne for a few moments. “And was that a certain friend from Wellsgate standing at the entrance to the cemetery?” she said softly.

“Oh, Cousin,” began Anne, as she hesitantly took Elizabeth’s arm. “I fear my eyesight may not be as fine as yours…but, wouldn’t that be a thoughtful gesture, if true?”

“A very thoughtful gesture, indeed, Cousin Anne.”

##

The next three days passed very quickly. The morning after the funeral, Anne stayed in her room. Elizabeth and Mary, deciding to respect Anne’s desire for some solitude, called upon Charlotte Collins. Charlotte had stayed home from the funeral, as her second child had been born only the day before Lady Catherine had died. Charlotte, appearing pale and tired, was never-the-less quite happy to greet them. She led them into the parlor, where her older child was determinedly trying to escape the attention of the young woman introduced as Nanny Lewis. Within this noisy bustle: of the little boy’s giggles, Nanny’s soft-spoken admonishments and the thin whimpers of the newborn, Mary and Elizabeth admired the baby and complimented Charlotte on her successes in motherhood. Charlotte smiled at these kind words, but was more interested in sharing some other information.  

“Mr. Collins had suggested we name our girl Catherine,” said Charlotte, “until I reminded him that he had promised his own mother that, if the baby was a girl, we would name her Deliverance.”

“Uhm, after his mother?” prompted Elizabeth, after a slight pause.

“Yes, a family name; one that will bring his mother great comfort.” Charlotte gazed upon the infant in her arms and smiled. “For now, though, it seems a rather large name for one so tiny. I admit: I have been calling her Little Del as an endearment. Perhaps, it will become her nickname.”

“This is such a cheerful family scene,” began Mary, monitoring the activity about them; wanting to say something complimentary, but not in a way that implied her actual jealousy. “It must bring you great contentment.”

“Contentment and some… concern,” began Charlotte, careful to modulate her tone to hint her next comments were not intended to be heard by Nanny Lewis. “Our little family has quickly filled this home. My husband believes we should petition Lady Anne for some assistance in constructing a small wing on the east side of the house. At present, there is not even a cupboard to offer as a room for guest.” She paused. “What do you think, Elizabeth? Should Lady Anne be approached? Isn’t the Colonel actually managing the estate?”

Elizabeth shifted her gaze to Mary before replying. “I understand the Colonel does have a role, in a limited sort of guardianship, Charlotte. But, perhaps it would be best to wait a few weeks…until the first month of mourning is past?” Elizabeth was pleased so see her advice was well-received. Charlotte nodded.

“An excellent idea, my dear friend. I will share your insight with my husband, tonight.”

The morning of the second day, Anne asked if Mary and Elizabeth would accompany her on a tour of the house. “Mother had a particular way of arranging the rooms,” she began. “Now that the carpenter has restored the window in the main parlor, it seems a perfect opportunity to begin in that room, with some of my own ideas.”

Mary, they quickly learned, had a keen eye for this type of aesthetic task. Trailed by a crew of house staff, her suggestions for rearranging the chairs, relocating certain paintings and removing some items entirely, continually pleased Anne. By tea-time, the transformation of the five main rooms of the house were evident even to the Colonel. He and Darcy had spent most of the day with Anne’s steward, exploring the estate as Anne’s guardians, rather than as merely guests. Now, both men wearily took chairs near the sitting room’s fireplace and accepted cups of tea.

“Am I overcome from five hours astride a horse, or weren’t these chairs in the library yesterday?” began the Colonel. He now brought his attention to the painting above the fireplace. “Agree with me Darcy: wasn’t that the painting your mother had given Lady Catherine? Upon my word, it never looked so pleasing in that upstairs hallway. Anne, you have been very busy, today.”    

“Yes, but the clever eye of Miss Bennett should be given most of the credit,” began Anne. “I’m glad you noticed and seem pleased with the results. As for me, I’m beginning to feel…more at home, in my own home.” Anne now addressed Mary. “My dear Mary: may I impose upon you to play that sonata you mentioned this afternoon? Before your arrival, I’ve been struggling to play just the first page and would dearly like to hear your interpretation. In fact, allow me to sit next to you, and turn the pages.”

Seated at a far corner, Elizabeth, Darcy and the Colonel softly reminisced on the occasion, years earlier, of Lady Catherine’s request to hear Elizabeth play. “And had I learnt…” Elizabeth whispered in imitation of that Lady’s long-ago assessment. She laughed at the reactions of Darcy and Fitzwilliam.

Later that evening, though, Elizabeth found herself seated alone with the Colonel. Taking advantage of the arrangement, she relayed the specifics from her conversation with Charlotte Collins the previous day. “Don’t you agree this is not a matter to be troubling Anne at this time? I trust my suggestion does not put too much of a burden upon you, CF.”

The Colonel leaned forward, and in a conspiratorial tone, whispered “My dear Cousin, not even Shakespeare could have contrived such an opportune bit of news. Be not concerned: I am confident we will be able to assist the Collins family in a most satisfactory way.”  

He refused to elaborate, leaving Elizabeth to wonder what other matters could be under consideration at Rosings Park.

The third day brought far more bustle and concentration, for it was agreed by letter from Reverend Nichols that they were expected at Wellsgate in two days. Luggage was packed, assembled in the main hallway and inventoried by the butler before being placed in the wagon. Mrs. Jenkinson had sent a letter the day before, listing several items needed at the townhouse and those hampers were also assembled and placed in the wagon, next to the luggage. Finally, by noon, the wagon was ready. The draft horses slowly, but determinedly pulled the wagon east; the Spring sun, at this hour, casting shadows as if to only point the way to Dover! 

While strolling the grounds later that afternoon, Elizabeth, Mary and Anne returned along the path that ran near the stables. An elaborate coach, with the de Bourgh crest painted on the doors, was being pulled from a building where they could see a phaeton, a small carriage and a wagon remained within the unlit interior. The stable hands immediately went to work sweeping out the interior and polishing the metal trim. Elizabeth could not resist asking “and where is the barouche-box?” She was pleased when Anne laughed.

“Mrs. Jenkinson took it to Dover. It’s almost a six-hour ride, so I wanted her to travel as comfortably as possible. I haven’t ridden in the coach in years; I hope there will be sufficient room for all of us.”

Mary, temporarily speechless from this display of wealth, now stammered “Goodness, it’s larger than the mail coach I took from Netherfield to London!”

Chapter 4

The Dover townhouse was located in a quiet, residential section populated with well-constructed, three-story dwellings. Situated not far from their patrons: the merchant buildings and warehouses crowding the quay, but far enough away to exude a genteel atmosphere of quiet wealth without alluding to its source. While most of the trip had taken them over open countryside and through small villages, Anne, embracing her role as hostess to this adventure, now mentioned several landmarks and historical facts to Elizabeth and Mary as the coach made its way through the city. Finally, the driver called to the horses. The coach lurched slightly as it slowed its approach towards a substantial gate fronting a small garden.

Mrs. Jenkinson had apparently instructed a houseboy to watch for the coach. The four horses had hardly been brought to a stop when she, and several servants hurried out the front door to greet them. A small crowd of pedestrians paused to watch this arrival, since it was well-known in the neighborhood who had owned the townhouse and who owned it, now. The scene temporarily resembled the closing act of a penny opera – without the musical crescendo.

Inside, it was evident Mrs. Jenkinson had made an impressive effort to present the house in the best possible condition. Chandeliers sparkled, the hearths were tidy, fires burned warm and bright, fresh flowers were strategically placed to catch the eye and the staff stood expectantly in their (obviously new) uniforms, awaiting inspection. Anne wasted no time in her praise.

“Why, I hardly recognize these rooms!” she began. “How cheerful they look with the draperies tied back and the sun allowed to peek inside.” She smiled at the staff. “I am very pleased, thank you.”

Elizabeth could not resist a slight smile. From the reactions of the servants, it was unlikely any such praise had touched the walls within this townhouse in years. Her words had an immediate effect on Mrs. Jenkinson, too, who burst into tears.

While Anne and Mary comforted Mrs. Jenkinson into calm, the butler announced that tea was ready in the sitting room. The entire party, including the still, somewhat-overwhelmed Mrs. Jenkinson, entered an austere room with walls of pale wood paneling interrupted at one point by a simple, white marble mantle and along an opposite wall, by a narrow window. A similarly pale rug provided an island for a collection of chairs upholstered in an uninteresting shade of blue damask. In a far corner, stood a library table, now under a short linen cloth, with a respectable arrangement of china, a tea service, and trays of food.

Upon reaching the middle of the room, Anne laughed as she slowly turned, scanning the interior from ceiling to floor. “Thank goodness you were able to remove all those horrid hunting trophies and dreary arrangements of weapons, Mrs. Jenkinson. Later, we will impose upon Miss Bennet for her advice on how to transform this into a proper sitting room.” To her guests she explained: “My grandfather lived here for many years and had filled the walls of this room with the stuffed heads of elk, boar and even a camel! As a child, I was terrified to sit in here, alone. Now, I believe, it has possibilities.”

It was Colonel Fitzwilliam’s turn to now laugh. “Anne, I do not believe I have seen such a decidedly amazing transformation in any breathing soul. It would appear the influence of those tonics and potions has, finally, been conquered. I am pleased to see you in this good health and this happy state.” His words set the tone for the rest of the day, as the conversation became lively and joyful from that point forward. He waited, though, until after dinner - when they had returned to the front parlor for a game of cards - to return their conversation to the reason for this trip.

“As tomorrow is Saturday, and Reverend Nichols won’t be focused upon services, we have been invited to the parsonage at St. Mark’s Church, at noon -- to meet with him, and enjoy a luncheon.” The Colonel, smiling broadly, continued. “I dare say, his household has been quite busy with preparations, once I confirmed all who would be in attendance. Thankfully, the journey is a scant five miles from this doorstep, so I believe that will provide the ladies with ample time to ready themselves?”

“Now, Colonel,” interjected Mary, who had seen Anne’s face redden at these words. “Please show some restraint! Anne is most sensitive about the reason for this trip – despite her improving health – and we must treat these matters… delicately.” She sat straighter and adjusted the spectacles atop her nose to emphasize her concern.

In the brief silence which followed, Anne quickly sought to restore the happier tone of the day. “My dearest Mary,” she began, “how grateful I am to know you are so attentive to my feelings! But, do not worry that the Colonel is upsetting me: yes, I am slightly anxious about tomorrow’s visit, but I am also… quite elated.” Smiling at Mary’s expression of astonishment, she added “Come, let me show you a particular book Mrs. Jenkinson found in the room my grandfather used as an office. It’s quite amusing.”

As the two young women exited the room, Darcy felt obliged to comment to his wife. “My dear, I believe Anne may be the best influence for your sister than anyone drawing breath.”

“And I must agree with you,” laughed Elizabeth.

 ##

Their arrival at the parsonage was, as Colonel Fitzwilliam had hinted, quite anticipated. St. Mark’s Church, a wide, stone structure of pleasing proportions and further enhanced with a bell tower, was separated from the parsonage by a landscaped half-acre of grass and flowering shrubs. The parsonage itself was a handsome stone building, well-kept and fronted by a sturdy arbor over which a climbing rose had taken control and was now bedecking itself in blooms of the palest pink. As they stepped from the coach, the bells were ringing a cascading trill of melodic notes.

“What do think, Anne: are the bells ringing to mark the noon hour, or to announce your arrival?” said the Colonel with a smile.

“I would hope, for both,” she replied softly, while taking his arm.

Elizabeth, impressed with this first glimpse of the parish, was just as curious about the three people who now approached. The tall man wearing the cleric’s collar was introduced as Reverend Nichols. The equally tall woman standing next to him was introduced as his sister, Miss Clara Nichols, and the slight-built man wearing spectacles was introduced as Mr. Arthur Grimm.

“My sister maintains the house and Mr. Grimm is our church organist,” explained Reverend Nichols, as he gestured for the party to enter the home. “Since Lady Anne is now our benefactress, I trust including one of our most important church members to this luncheon will provide her with a better understanding of the parish and its mission.”

“As if Anne needs any reassurance about this parish,” whispered Elizabeth to Darcy. “I’m beginning to suspect far more intrigue to this luncheon than even the Colonel has imagined.” Her husband offered her only a small sound of discontent.

The luncheon was a sumptuous meal; Miss Clara was soon blushing from the compliments. The conversation strayed nowhere near the purpose for the visit and Mary, seated next to Mr. Grimm, discovered that the man was proficient in playing a variety of musical instruments.

“The violin, you say,” she said. “You must be quite in demand at parties. I, myself, am usually asked to play the piano at most of the small parties within our circle of friends. My younger sisters, at one point, compiled a booklet of sheet music for all the reels they liked the best.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Grimm began with a slight stutter, “perhaps we may join talents and provide some music later this afternoon.” He hoped the wobble in his voice was not noticeable.

“Yes, perhaps,” Mary said, as she felt her face warm.

Mr. Grimm’s suggestion was well-received by all. As the music filled the parlor and spilled out past the open windows and into the walled garden, a sort of conference began. Anne and the Reverend had seated themselves side-by-side; Darcy and Elizabeth sat to their left, while the Colonel and Clara occupied the remaining chairs. Now seated in this square-ish arrangement, Anne asked to speak, first.

“I hope my cousins are…pleased with meeting Greg…, uhm, Reverend Nichols and his sister. As you have no doubt noticed, the parish thrives and is a central part of Wellsgate.” Anne ignored the expressions exhibited by her relatives as she now clasped Gregory’s hand. “Never-the-less, I am asking for your support and agreement on the plan we now propose.” She nodded towards the Reverend. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“I have already asked Anne to marry me…and she has accepted.” He paused at the slight gasp from Elizabeth before continuing. “Yet, because Anne will be in mourning for a year, we are sensible that such an announcement, and even the wedding, will require a considerable amount of delay…and planning.”

“Planning?” interjected the Colonel with a smile, “I suspect military campaigns require less maneuvering – don’t you agree, Darcy?” He had been –somewhat- prepared for this announcement, though he had not mentioned his suspicions to anyone else. He had hoped his jolly assessment would have brought smiles; he was not expecting Darcy to react, immediately, with a sound of indignation.

“You present quite a challenge, Anne,” Darcy began. “The Reverend will need to submit his resignation to the bishop, which will require us,” he now gestured to himself and the Colonel “to find someone to fill this position. Then, there is the whole matter of public opinion.” He raised his hands to request no remarks from his audience as he continued. “Anne is now Lady Anne: with responsibilities and expectations which must not be associated with any sort of scandal. How will her business interests react to this announcement? What will happen to your reputation, Reverend, if your parishioners mark your absence as you travel back-and-forth to court Anne? I am at a loss on how to implement such an idea without anticipating all manner of trouble.”

Anne immediately spoke. “Your opinions trouble me, Cousin, but I believe they are formed without all the facts.” With a nod from the Reverend, she continued. “We have also considered these aspects. I am proposing that we petition the bishop to agree to the transfer of Reverend Collins and his family to St. Mark’s parish…and for Reverend Nichols to be transferred to Hertfordshire. Mine is a smaller parish and the Collins, with their growing family, would benefit from a larger home such as here, in Wellsgate.”

And Mr. Collins will certainly enjoy helming such a congregation, thought Elizabeth.

Now, Reverend Nichols spoke. “Besides our happy news, my sister has just recently accepted a proposal from a local merchant. They plan to marry before the Feast Day of St. Luke, so before the end of this year, I will be quite alone in this large house. Anne and I thought my relocation near Rosings Park would, at that point, seem less obvious.”

“Possibly…” began Darcy.

But Elizabeth, noting that the piece Mary and Mr. Grimm were playing was now at the final few stanzas, felt compelled to add her own comments. She gently touched her husband’s sleeve. “My dear, we are in possession of such a large amount of information, that perhaps, no more needs to be said at this time regarding the specifics. Should we not, now, learn more about Miss Clara’s intended and her plans?”

##

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly, and even included a short stroll across the town square and along a scenic bluff with a view towards the ocean. The coach was soon brought forward and as the ladies were being helped into its interior, Mr. Grimm took particular pains to insure that Mary carefully ascended the steps.

Elizabeth, noting Mary’s flustered state, made no mention of his attentions during the ride back to Dover. Later, when she and Darcy had returned to their rooms, she asked him if he had noticed Mr. Grimm’s attentions. Darcy, presently gazing out the window, now faced his wife.

“To be honest, I did not. Anne’s engagement announcement has quite occupied my thoughts. But I did notice that she and Anne were in deep conversation from the moment we returned to this townhouse. You didn’t observe how they scurried to the sitting room as soon as they took off their cloaks? I suspect there are now several plans under consideration.”

“I did notice, but they have been in such each other’s confidence since we arrived at Rosings, I did not make that particular connection.” She contemplated these considerations before saying “While I am pleased if Mary has caught the attentions of a respectable man, I suppose I will have to apply myself in accepting that his last name is Grimm!”

##

During the walk back from services the following morning, Elizabeth made a point to position herself between Mary and Anne. The distance from the church to the townhouse was not far, so she composed her words carefully, since she had many thoughts to express. “Cousin Anne, please allow me to say how happy I am that you and I have been able to form a friendship. I hope that, as soon as is reasonable, you may travel to Pemberley and visit us.” She added “Mary will be staying there, with us, for several more weeks, so perhaps…” As Anne began to reply, though, Mary hurriedly clutched Elizabeth’s hand.

“Oh, Lizzy!” began Mary, “Anne and I were planning to speak with you about that very thing. You see, Anne has invited me to say with her at Rosings. She and I have discovered such a compatibility and a… well, several common interests…”

Elizabeth quickly understood and laughed. “And I suppose these common interests both reside in Wellsgate?” With a sigh she said “I must first speak to Mrs. Jenkinson and the Colonel so they are both prepared for and in agreement with this arrangement. And Mary,” she added, “do not write to Mother about the details regarding this change in plans, until you are certain of the intended results.”

Chapter 5

Mary remained at Rosings Park for the next five months. With considerable effort on the part of Mr. Bennett and Mr. Gardiner, Mrs. Bennett was restrained from visiting Rosings Park until late summer, and only after they were visited by Mr. Grimm. Elizabeth agreed to meet them at Rosings, as much to see her sister, as to offer emotional support to their father.

“Oh my dear girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennett upon stepping out from the carriage and rushing towards Mary. “I never thought I would see the day! To know that the last of my daughters will, finally, be married. And with the assistance of such a noble friend!” She peered expectantly about, but as it was obvious only Mary and Elizabeth stood along the steps to Rosings Park she continued. “Your father and I had quite accepted you would be a spinster, you know: caring for us in our old age, but, well...”

Mr. Bennett, however, was rendered almost speechless by the improved appearance of his middle daughter. The current attentions and embraces by Mrs. Bennett were graciously received; Mary was no longer the taciturn, rigid girl who had left Longbourn months before. Her mouth had softened and there was a more genial air to her posture. She had changed the way she wore her hair, too, he guessed; though, he couldn’t exactly be certain. Once Mrs. Bennett had fluttered towards Elizabeth, he took Mary’s hands. “You look remarkable happy, Mary. I am glad for you and all the good which has come your way.”

“Thank you, Papa,” said Mary, thrilling at his remarks. Indicating the young woman walking down the steps towards them she said “May I please introduce you to my dearest friend, Lady Anne de Bourgh. Anne, my parents Mr. and Mrs. Bennett.”

Anne, earlier forewarned and prepared for the possible manner in which Mrs. Bennett could conduct herself, was quick to say “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. You are most welcome at Rosings Park! Please, join me in the front parlor. I am certain you will enjoy some refreshments, especially after your long journey.”

“Indeed,” began Mrs. Bennett, stepping closer and in an earnest tone, “The weather was dreadful as we first set out, but…”

Elizabeth, however, did not proceed up the steps; she lingered at the gravel drive, as did her father. “I trust you are pleased with Mary’s intended?” Her father smiled, taking a great breath, as he admired the view of the landscaped grounds.

“My dear, the knowledge that our Mary has found a partner who is not as worthless as Wickham, nor as questionable as Kitty’s spouse, is a comfort. He seems an amiable man, and their shared interest in music should serve them well. Her extraordinary friendship with Lady Anne is also a great blessing. From what you have relayed in your letters, it appears both these young women are late-blooming roses… such compatibility will serve them well, as they plan for these weddings and a life within this estate. Though,” he warned with a quick wink, “your mother’s excitements will put all to a test.” He paused to watch the progress of a small flock of birds as they flew closer, then overhead. “My only concern is for me: now obliged to spend so many evenings with only your mother for company.” Laughing slightly, he took her arm. “Now, let us hurry inside, so I may experience those architectural details of Rosings which Mr. Collins has described, so many times, with such rapturous praise.”

*****************************************************

SLAM

an unpublished work of creative non-fiction Flash Prose for my “Anything But…” non-Valentine writing challenge

by Karen MH Kersting 2023

His twin sister had been teasing him - a childhood activity that should have been nothing more than the usual verbal tussle between siblings. And I had laughed at her and her twin: recalling the many times I and my siblings taunted each other until Mother sent us to our rooms. But my friend’s words had touched a new nerve or stepped past a new boundary, because he now lunged towards us; his face contorted into a mask of hate and anger.

“Run!...M-o-t-h-e-r!”  

Her terrified shrieks caught me by surprise. Now, only several steps separated each of us as we three raced through the house. She led the way, towards the kitchen and the back door promising access to the open backyards of 1960s suburbia, and so many places to hide.

But even at the age of ten, he was larger and stronger. And faster. His twin sister had left the back door open for me and now stood on the patio, monitoring my progress. Fearful of his outstretched hands, I leaned forward into my sprint as I reached the doorway. Instead of grabbing my arm, though, he pivoted to one side; ramming his palms against that door. I felt the uneven profile of the door frame against my right temple as the hard, even edge of that solid, wood door connected against the left side of my head. The explosion of pain and my own screams were one, awful, blended sensation. He continued to press against that door, until his mother slapped him away. Shoulders hunched, resembling a bull about to charge, his stare confirmed an inhuman, still-raging hate.

Clutching my face, my sobs were only a contributing sound within the cacophony of noise in that kitchen. The twins were, each, loudly pleading their innocence as their mother shrilly announced her own views and impending punishments. The kitchen walls seemed to pulse with these emotions. And yet, after he was banished to his room, I was merely sent home…as something of an afterthought.

In that era of new suburban communities, perhaps our mothers discussed his behavior and my injuries within one of their daily phone conversations. As I remember, no action was taken on my behalf, nor was there any rift between the adults. A doctor was never consulted, either. Our parents had lived through the Great Depression and World War II: undoubtedly, from their perspectives, this was little more than a spat between children. Within my limited life perspective, though, his actions were my horrifying introduction to Violence. Despite my young age, I innately understood his behavior was dangerous and hinted to a deeper problem – and that, had he pushed harder or had owned a little more strength, he would have killed me.

Before that afternoon, the concept of death was an enormous mystery to my nine-year old sensibilities. Now, my clearer understanding of that concept would eventually (and not always appropriately) steer many of my choices and decisions in the years to come. After all, I would calculate, what could possibly be worse than what he had inflicted upon me? Fearless risk-taking, however, carries its own consequences. Learning not to rely on that fearlessness, in every situation, has required considerable focus throughout my adult life.

And yet, as decades passed, I could almost forget about that afternoon. Dwelling on that memory, I soon decided, maintained a sadness that felt unhealthy and unnatural. So, it was suppressed and compressed into a manageable, rarely reviewed chapter of my life story. However, the evolutionary steps which endow the human skull with both strength and impact resistance could not spare me from the migraines and short-lived, “flash” headaches that have affected me since that afternoon. I now accept them; to me, they are a type of scar, if only an invisible one.

My friend and I eventually renewed our friendship, but it was a different sort of interaction from that point forward. Through our remaining years of school and in the decades since, we have never discussed that afternoon. But a few years ago, she hinted that her twin’s violent assaults both continued and intensified against her, until, she moved seven states away. I understood this was her attempt to apologize for exposing me to what was probably her family’s most-guarded secret.

It was an apology that was not her responsibility. More than half a century has passed since that afternoon. Her twin has never apologized to me and I have never spoken another word to him.

*********************************************

PURPLE, GREEN & GOLD: THREE NOVELLAS

an unpublished work by

Karen MH Kersting

2022

(This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people is purely a coincidence. While there IS a radio station WWTN, the call letters are used only as a detail to the story and not as an endorsement or promotion for that station. There is presently no Krewe of Arion or the Apex Club; the Municipal Auditorium is not, yet, restored but I remain hopeful!)

PURPLE: JUSTICE

FOR HOPES AND WISHES

I hope I’ll get on that plane, without seeing anyone I know.

She had mentally recited this phrase since leaving her apartment. Holiday travel brought enough stress; having to explain why she was leaving town, alone, in the first hours of Christmas Day, would only bring that stress to an explosive level.  Now, adjusting her grip on the luggage handle, she steered the wheeled case beyond the security checkpoint, towards the farthest corner of Gate 15. The other travelers, arranging themselves near the gangway entrance, created a hulking presence of winter clothing emitting sounds of uninspired conversation. Thankfully, no one looked familiar.  Now, curled into a chair facing east, the first glow of dawn blushed yellow-pink. She was grateful for the relative quiet, and her anonymity.

“Laurel?” He waited as she slowly turned away from the colorful sky, towards his voice.

“Oh. Hi, Martin. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too. Are you going to Denver? I’m with that bunch.”

Martin had shifted the balance of a flimsy cardboard tray along one arm, allowing him to point towards four people seated in another, far corner. Laurel glanced at them: their mildly perplexed expressions did not hint to any annoyance in Martin’s detour, only a friendly curiosity.  Nodding, she said “Yes, but my final stop is Breckenridge. My grandparents have a cabin there.”

“No way! We’re going there, too. We only have a timeshare, at the Western Star Lodge, but we’re going for the skiing, not the accommodations.” Martin laughed. “Com-on, sit with us.”

Well, I can’t say no, can I?  Laurel gazed, once more, towards the warm colors smearing the horizon as she extended the pull handle from her luggage, then stood away from her chair. Martin Rochelle’s broad back swayed with each step. Following him, Laurel decided with a smile, was like trailing behind a slow moving, over-sized vehicle.

“Mom, Dad, this is Laurel Sinclair. She works with me. She’s going to Breckenridge, too.” Martin used his elbow to assist with his introductions, while distributing coffee cups from the cardboard tray. “Laurel, my parents: Dr. Marcel and Claire Rochelle; this gal is my sister Natalie, and this heartbreaker is my older brother, Luke,” Martin held out the remaining cup towards Laurel. “Want it?”

“What about you?”

“The barista can make one more,” Martin said, adding an indifferent hand gesture. “’Be back in a sec.”

“OK, thanks.” Laurel smiled at Martin’s parents before taking a careful sip of the coffee. “Gosh, I needed that,” she said. Unsure of what to do next, she shifted her weight to one leg, then took another sip of coffee. When the Rochelle family stayed silent, she said “Martin told me you are staying at the Western Star Lodge. My grandparents have a cabin in the eastern hills, about a mile from that end of town.” She paused, hoping that would be enough information about her destination. In her nervousness, she asked “So…do all of you ski?” Now, inwardly cringing at this stupid question, she took another sip of coffee.

Natalie laughed. “You would think – given that our balcony faces the lift. But Dad and Luke claim professional restrictions.” She curled her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mom and I ski; Martin claims he skis, but I think he spends most of his time on Diamond Peak, checking out the après’ ski bunnies.”

Dr. Rochelle sighed. “Natalie, don’t be so judgmental. In my defense, a surgeon with his arm in a sling – or worse, both arms in slings – is a surgeon out of work. I may not ski, but I can maintain a great pace in my snow shoes.” He smiled at his daughter’s snort of annoyance.

“So, Laurel, are you an animal handler, too?” Natalie had no qualms asking direct questions. She didn’t recall her brother mentioning a female employee during any of the family dinners. She was quite curious about this brunette who spoke with a northern accent.

“No, I’m working at the zoo through a research grant. I’m a veterinarian surgeon.” Laurel laughed at their expressions. “I know… most people can’t believe it, either. I specialize in optometry; my grant is part of an investigation for treatments specific to large-animal eye health. One of the elephants in Martin’s care has been diagnosed with a cataract. She makes for a very good subject.”

“Finally, a kindred soul,” exclaimed Dr. Rochelle. “Please, tell me all about this research. I’m an eye surgeon, too. Only for humans, I’m afraid, but this research sounds fascinating.”  He stood away from his seat, gesturing towards another row.

Laurel allowed herself to be shepherded towards two empty chairs. She and Dr. Rochelle were deep in conversation by the time Martin returned. She glanced towards Martin and his unhappy expression. She hoped her smile would suffice.

“Dad, no. No shop talk on Christmas Day.” He felt helpless at Laurel’s obvious interest in whatever his dad was explaining; frowning at his mother he softly said “Really? Couldn’t you stop him?” But his mother only shrugged defeat. Slowly lowering himself into a chair between his brother and mother, he stared at the back of Laurel’s head. He sipped his coffee. So much for wishes.

 When he had noticed Laurel, sitting alone by the window, Martin thought his one wish had, truly, materialized. Laurel Sinclair had caught his attention since her arrival at the zoo. But his real interest began on that October day when an Eland buck had managed to tangle his antlers into a thick copse of wax myrtles. In his struggles to escape, he had injured an eye and Laurel had been called to evaluate the injury. Another handler had sedated the animal; Martin had set up a tent since rain had fallen sporadically throughout the day. The ground was mucky and fragrant with dung, Martin recalled, and his coworker had elbowed him in shared mirth when Laurel had arrived: wearing crisp, clean, medical scrubs and driving one of the zoo’s tiny electric carts in an overly cautious way. Martin’s coworker had quickly stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Instead of grabbing his hand, she had hooked the straps of her surgical kit across his palm.

“Thanks,” Martin recalled her saying, before she walked towards the tent. “Now, if you’ll stand at the Eland’s head, and hold that bag about one foot off the ground, I’ll be able to help this poor fellow.” Next, she had stared at Martin; one of her eyebrows shifting up to enhance an expression of mild amusement. “And would you get over there…” she had pointed to her left, “to help me get a sterile sheet under his head?”

They had knelt in that muddy filth for more than forty-five minutes; Martin silently followed her instructions while determined to keep his gaze from her work. After she had tossed her stethoscope into the kit, Laurel had rested one hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind,” she had said, as she pushed against him to leverage herself up. “I don’t want to fall on my patient.” He had wanted to reply, saying something witty, like, “Don’t worry, I’ll always catch you,” but at the time, he could only concentrate on the warmth of her hand, radiating through the fabric of his shirt, onto him. Today, was the first time he hadn’t been tongue-tied in her presence.

“Worried Dad might give you some competition?”

“Luke, shut up. She’s a vet; I’m just a handler. End of story.”

“She seems very nice,” his mother said softly, pretending to search for some object within her voluminous purse to minimize being overheard. “Do you know anything about her family?”

Martin groaned. Motherly interrogations were the worst. But, luckily, the airline desk attendant had activated the microphone. “We will begin boarding First Class passengers, now,” the attendant said. “Please approach the gangway with your boarding passes and IDs in-hand.”

Laurel watched the Rochelle family step towards the podium, where an airport employee, wearing an elf hat, was scanning passes. To her disappointment, only Natalie had offered her a slight wave before entering the bridge to the plane. She had been warned, by certain women at the zoo, that Martin was a nice guy, but merely another, low-on-ambition, trust-funder. But that hadn’t been her first impression, during that surgery on the Eland. She had felt a spark of something when she had touched his shoulder. But, even if she was intrigued with him, he apparently wasn’t that interested in her. She had forgotten, though, that other tidbit of workplace gossip: about Martin’s brother. Luke Rochelle, lead guitarist and singer of the chart-climbing rock band “Feral”, carried himself with a confident swagger that begged notice. Certainly a head-turner.  She stared at her own ticket. Row 20: too far into the plane for any chance to talk to Martin or Luke. Remember, this is supposed to be a soul-searching trip, nothing more, her inner voice scolded. Sighing, she now joined the throng of economy seat ticket-holders.

 “He left her, at the church?” Claire peeked past the seat blocking her view of the aisle to verify Laurel hadn’t, yet, entered the plane. “Poor girl… well, at least she will be with her family.”

“That’s the odd part,” Martin said. “I thought I overheard her talking about an annual family trip to Florida for the holidays. If she’s spending these next days in Breckenridge, alone, maybe we should invite her to join us for dinner… at least, for tonight.”

Claire considered her son’s suggestion. “Let me ask her, when we get to Denver.”

Luke, sprawled within his seat against the window, listened to his mother, sister and brother softly scheme this invitation. His eyes were closed - a trick against making eye-contact with passengers who may have recognized him- but in this instance, he also wanted to covertly learn more about the woman who had caught Martin’s interest. Martin had always been the kid bringing home the scrawny cat, the schoolmate no one else liked. Hell, he had even taken that terminally-ill girl to prom. But Laurel was a different class of damsel-in-distress. Luke fell into a light sleep, dreaming about her wide, dark blue eyes and the way her mouth had rested above the edge of that coffee cup.

#

“You should have said: no thank you.” She had been berating herself on this theme for the past thirty minutes, carefully keeping her rental car several vehicles behind the Rochelle’s rental SUV. “They must think you are the most pathetic loser. And no doubt, Martin has told them my whole, left-at-the-altar tale. And yet…” she sighed as she slowed her car in coordination with traffic, “I should be grateful for the invitation; I know the cabin’s pantry only has canned food.” That realization, also, nudged her conscience. “OK, enough self-loathing. I should, at least, show some manners.” She steered her sedan towards a small parking lot for ten minutes of on-line research and a phone call. Imagining the Rochelle family’s surprise to find the Lodge’s Holiday Cheer Welcome Basket waiting for them at the front desk, encouraged her to turn on the radio, and hum along with the holiday songs. It’s only one dinner, Laurel. Surely you can handle that.

The waitress at the Snow Goose Pub led Laurel past the bar, to the table situated near the rustic, fieldstone fireplace. There was an empty chair between Martin and Luke. Luke, Laurel noted with a giddy thrill, had quickly stood; pulling that empty chair away from the table. His wide grin lingered as she settled into the seat.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, keeping his voice at a low tone. “Martin was getting worried.”

But Claire was already talking over her son. “Honestly, Luke. No teasing.” To Laurel, she said “Oh, Laurel, the Welcome Basket was a lovely surprise. Thank you so much.”

“And I’m extra-glad there was a box of hot chocolate in that basket,” Natalie said, as she scanned the dinner menu. “Mom has been so worried I won’t fit into my gown she has me on a starvation diet.” Setting the menu aside, she frowned at Laurel. “I guess you’ve never been to a Carnival Ball, have you?”

Laurel laughed. “No, I’m afraid that tradition hasn’t caught-on in Cleveland. But I’m looking forward to seeing my first Mardi Gras parades.” She winced when all five Rochelles began speaking at once. She was vaguely aware of the pride New Orleanians carried for this celebration, but was unprepared to hear this pride expressed so exuberantly, and so loudly.

Finally, Dr. Rochelle tapped his water goblet with his spoon. “OK, I think we have all convinced Laurel she needs to see no less than ten parades. But I’d like to, first, invite her to our Twelfth Night Party. What do you say, Claire? One more name on the guest list?”

“A perfect idea.”  Claire, now, nudged her daughter. “Natalie, why don’t you explain our party to Laurel?”

Natalie was as eager to show off her knowledge, as to have a chance to tease Martin. The restaurant was not very busy, so she left her chair to wedge another between Martin and Laurel. She directed her most innocent smile at Martin’s frown, then faced Laurel.

“Twelfth Night, January sixth, is the official start of the Carnival Season. In our household, however, it’s celebrated with a huge cocktail party, complete with several King Cakes.” Natalie paused. “You’ve heard of them, right? They’re like a…uhm, a Bundt cake, with a plastic baby hidden inside. But,” she laughed, “no one wants to find it in their slice.” When Laurel nodded, she continued. “However, this year is even more exciting: it’s my debut year and I’m invited to participate as a maid in the Krewe of Arion’s Ball. It’s one of the City’s older Carnival Organizations and is named after some guy in a Greek myth...” Natalie waved one hand dismissively “…a poet who got thrown overboard and was rescued by dolphins. Very plausible.” She rolled her eyes, pleased though, that Laurel chuckled appreciatively. “Anyway, our party will double as one of my debut events. The Rochelle men, for about a century, have held memberships in this organization. I’ll only be the fourth Rochelle daughter to be invited to debut at their Ball! A local dressmaker has been working, since August, on my ball gown. My grandmother has promised that I could wear her pearl-encrusted, silver hair band that night, too. It’s something of a family heirloom, but, I think I can be trusted with it.” Natalie grinned at her mother.

Laurel had listened to Natalie’s fast-spoken monologue, conscious that her mouth was agape in surprise. The logistics and details seemed to be equal to the responsibilities of a full-time career. “Wow,” she finally said. “I had no idea it was so complicated.”

Natalie laughed. “It can be, but our party is fun. Mom has an event planner doing most of the drudge work.” She leaned closer. “The society columnist will be there, too, so wear something gorgeous if you want to get photographed.”

“Really?”

The waiter had been orbiting their table; Luke waited until Martin was giving his order to say “And if that’s not enough incentive, I’ll be wearing a tux.”

Luke’s battered leather vest, patched sweater and worn corduroys suited the shaggy-haired guitarist much better than a tuxedo. Laurel visually appraised Luke’s attire before saying with a laugh, “That would be worth seeing.” She returned his smile; she had almost forgotten the thrill of flirting.

#

“I can’t believe I left the cabin at 3AM to go to a day-after-Christmas sale,” Laurel said to the windshield, while she maneuvered her car away from the outlet mall. “But I had no choice. I didn’t own any dress worthy of that party. Well, not until now.” She had spent some time, after returning from the Pub, to check the on-line archived society pages from the Times-Picayune. The Rochelle’s party had been a featured story for more than a decade. Glancing at the wardrobe bag folded onto the passenger seat, she gripped the steering wheel to steady her excitement. The shimmering, beaded cocktail dress had fit her perfectly. “Honey, you must be going to quite an event,” the elderly salesclerk had praised. Laurel grinned in anticipation for Luke’s reaction. Her call to her mother, though, did not bring an enthusiastic response.

“Really, Laurel,” she sighed. “I can’t believe you paid that much for a dress. I thought you were going to Colorado to reflect upon what you wanted in life after that grant ends in the Spring, not getting involved with another Peter-Pan type. And are you sure it’s safe for you to be calling me while you’re driving on those snowy roads?”

“Mother, the roads are dry. It hasn’t snowed in two days. And I am not getting involved with anyone. The Rochelle family has been very gracious to me. And quite frankly, after last September’s fiasco, it’s just nice to be the recipient of some happy attention. That’s all.” Laurel could hear her mother sigh, again. “Let’s change the subject, OK? How’s the weather in St. Augustine? Tell me what dad said, when he opened my gift this morning.”

By the time she returned to the cabin, she had been able to have a quick conversation with both parents, her grandmother and several cousins. Their celebratory noise brought back both warm memories of past holidays and the awkward mental replay of showing everyone her engagement ring. Did that really happen two years ago?  Now, inside the cabin, Laurel hooked the dress hanger atop the closet door and surveyed her clothing options for the next part of the day. Claire and Natalie had invited her to lunch at the café atop Diamond Peak. She wanted to ski the easier slopes for a few hours, but still, wanted to look presentable - should Luke be there, too. Laurel selected a newer ski outfit.

The easier slopes were more crowded than she expected. Checking her map, she followed the signs for a trail leading to a slope farther up the mountain. She reached a ridge when the delicate snow flurries that had, for the past hour, been lazily falling from a darkening sky matured into a true, blustery, winter storm. Not wanting to become disoriented from the swirling snow, Laurel directed her skis towards a stand of yews. A faint aroma of conifer lingered under the snow-laden bows. Breathing in the fragrant, icy air, she released the clips on her skis.  Might as well wait out this storm comfortably, she decided, by sitting on my skis. Now, settled against a wide trunk, she watched snow sift through the branches; occasionally, it collected sufficiently in one area to create a small avalanche through the tree canopy. The steady whisper of falling snow was a soothing, peaceful sound. She slowed her breathing to focus on the small knot of tension which had lived at the back of her neck since September. It was approximately at the same spot where the clasp of that pearl necklace – a, supposed, wedding gift from her never-to-be-husband – had dug into her skin when she, in anger and shame, had torn off the necklace on that September Saturday. She idly wondered: what had happened to those sizeable pearls, abandoned to the vestibule floor of Holy Angels Church?  Tucking her chin deeper into her scarf, she closed her eyes, trying to mentally sweep away the last, lingering ache from that morning.

“Laurel?”

She jerked her head up. Martin stood no more than eight feet away, cradling something within a scarf. His wide, aluminum-framed snowshoes had allowed him to approach in silence. Laurel squinted. Had Martin been crying?

“Look…uhm, look what I found,” he said, stepping towards her at a semi-crouch. A young rabbit, its fur damp with blood, lay panting within Martin’s dark blue scarf. “I saw an eagle trying to carry him off, but he put up such a struggle, the eagle lost his grip. He fell at least forty feet.” Martin sniffed as he straightened his posture. “I’m taking him to the ranger station.”

“Martin, he’s in bad shape,” Laurel said gently; the animal’s breathing had slowed. “He may not make it to the station.”

“I know, but… I didn’t want him to die, alone, in the cold.” Martin cleared his throat as he stood straighter. “Well, I better get along.” He readjusted the scarf over the rabbit, then stared at Laurel. “Please don’t say anything to my mom or Natalie about this. They never understand.”

What does ‘never’ mean? Laurel, now attempting to gracefully stand away from her skis, realized too late that she had misjudged the depth of the snow. Flinging out her arm to adjust her balance, she wasn’t expecting Martin to smoothly slide closer to grab her elbow. Even through all those layers of clothes, his touch felt comfortably familiar and welcome. She blinked in surprise.

“I...I won’t…ever…let you fall.” Martin smiled. Once he was satisfied the clamps on her skis were secured, he took one step back. “Storm seems to be heading away from us. Maybe, I’ll see you later.”

Laurel watched him retreat through the tree line, then, down a ravine, until the falling snow obscured her view. Martin, she noted, was also carrying an over-sized knapsack. What in the world is he doing up here?  Sliding onto the fresh powder, she propelled herself away from Martin’s destination. She had less than fifteen minutes to get to the restaurant.

# 

Laurel mentally reviewed that mountaintop encounter throughout her four days in Breckenridge, and daily, since her return to New Orleans. Martin had walked into her lab, only once - on the second of January - to deliver the invitation to his parent’s party, but had not said anything about their forest meeting, or even the Christmas dinner. Now, on the day of the party, she waved to him as he led Bibi, the elephant, out of the barn.

Bibi extended her trunk towards Laurel; the elderly pachyderm liked the female human. She had a soft voice, and could be trusted to carry a piece of fruit.

“Your favorite patient is hoping for a treat,” Martin said.

“Then, her wish has come true,” Laurel laughed. She handed Bibi an apple. “How is she doing?”

“The eye drops don’t appear to be bothering her, now,” he said, patting Bibi’s wrinkled shoulder. “When do you want to re-scan her eye?”

“Not until next week, at least.” Laurel peered into Bibi’s eye and jotted a few comments into her notebook before stroking Bibi’s trunk. She looked past Bibi’s wide head, towards Martin. “Are you ready for tonight’s party?”

“As much as I ever will be. I try to stay out of Mom’s way two days before, and three days after that shin-dig,” Martin said with a short laugh. “It’s safer. But, uhm, I was wondering if…if, I could drive you over there.” He scuffed one of his work boots across the gravel pathway. “Natalie mentioned you’re wearing a dress that may not be… well-suited for driving.”

Laurel laughed. She and Natalie had been exchanging texts since their luncheon on Diamond Peak. “Your sister is something else. Sure, why not? Here’s my address.”

Martin took the section of notebook paper. “Nice handwriting for a medical professional,” he teased. “We need a code machine to decipher my dad’s scrawl.” Folding the paper, then slipping it into a pocket, he said, “I’ll be at your apartment for 7:30, OK?”

“Sure. Oops, let me get this.” Laurel stepped away from Martin and Bibi as her phone continued to hum. “Well, this will be interesting,” she said softly. She was looking at a text from Luke. He, too, had been texting her since she left Breckenridge. The band’s schedule had sent him to Chicago for the past three days; he was reporting that, if his plane arrived too late for the party, perhaps they could get together, afterwards, at the Apex Club?

Only if you are wearing a tux ;), she typed.

 Only for U, he replied.

Pocketing her phone, Laurel slowly strolled the sidewalk that led back to her lab. She was enjoying Luke’s long-distance, flirtatious messages, but, she had also perused his band’s website. The after-concert party photos and the on-line messages from the many women blatantly vying for Luke’s attention pointed to a world far removed from zoo animals and medical reports. Still, she had been curious. Com-on, Laurel, don’t you want to live a little? What happened to that New Year’s resolution to be more adventurous? She pushed open the lab door ten minutes later, no more certain of a decision, than when she had sent Luke that text.

#

“What’s the matter? Your watch showing porn movies, now?”

Martin felt his face warm as he pushed down his jacket sleeve. “Cute. No, I have to be somewhere at 5, so I need to leave here exactly at 4:30,” he said to his coworker, James.

“Dude. It’s only 3 o’clock,” James said with a loud laugh. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. But, only if it all works out to plan.”

“Oh-ho, A Plan.” James enjoyed teasing Martin. The large man’s quiet temperament was an easy target. “Is a woman involved?”

“What do you think?” grinned Martin.

# 

Laurel paused before opening the door. The form-fitting dress was a far different look than her medical scrubs, or even the ski outfits she had worn in Breckenridge. She felt oddly ill-at-ease appearing so (so glamorous, her inner voice taunted, admit it: you look GLAMOROUS!). With a deep inhale, she twisted the knob.

“Wow. Natalie was not exaggerating…very elegant dress, Laurel,” Martin said, hoping that remark didn’t imply she wasn’t equally as desirable in her scrubs. Stepping into her apartment, he quickly glanced about the simply-furnished main room. “Nice drawings,” he said, pointing towards a framed arrangement on the wall, near the front door. “A local artist?”

“Not, quite, local…me,” Laurel said. “It’s a hobby…well, more of a stress-reliever,” she added. Martin’s focused scrutiny of her pencil sketches surprised her.

“Well, they look quite professional, to me,” he said. “You have real talent.”

Her next surprise was parked at the curb. “I thought you drove a Jeep.”

Martin laughed. “This is my mom’s car. Once Natalie told me about your dress, I thought you should arrive in the proper vehicle, too.”

That I will. Laurel carefully arranged herself within the luxury sedan, more from Martin’s appreciative scan of her attire, than from any need for comfort, while hoping Luke would be similarly impressed.

However, during the short drive, from her apartment to the city’s only gated boulevard, Laurel became aware that Martin’s demeanor was subtly shifting. He kept her laughing with stories about past Twelfth Night parties; his wave to the guard at the entrance to Audubon Place implied a long-time familiarity to that routine. By the time he tossed the car keys to a valet, Laurel was certain he had transformed into a sophisticated, man-of-the-world. Grinning, he now angled out his elbow before escorting her up the walkway.

The Rochelle home, situated mid-way within this luxury enclave, glittered from roof top to front door with generous swags of white lights. Stepping inside, she couldn’t contain an appreciative gasp.  A two-story foyer, complete with a massive staircase and a crystal chandelier, still provided plenty of floor space for guests to mingle. A spectacle of decorations, candles and floral arrangements could be seen within each of the elegantly appointed, white-on-white rooms encircling this entryway. Martin’s parents stood in the center of this foyer, conversing with an older couple.

Claire extended both hands and smiled as Laurel and Martin approached. “Laurel, welcome! Let me introduce you to Lynn Lee Howard and her husband, Will Grant.” Gracefully moving her hand as an introduction she added, “Lynn, Will: this is Dr. Laurel Sinclair. She is taking care of your elephant.”

Laurel felt her eyes widen as she heard their names. This couple was not only underwriting Bibi’s medication, but the optical equipment in Laurel’s lab, too. “Oh, it is so nice to, finally, meet you,” she said quickly. “Bibi is making great progress.”

“Good to know,” Will said, smiling. “We were worried she might need custom glasses.” He shifted his gaze towards Martin. “How’s your venture coming along? Do you have a launch date, yet?”

Martin glanced at Laurel before answering. “I’ll …uhm, probably, make an announcement next week,” he said. “Don’t want to compete with Natalie’s debut and this Twelfth Night party.” Gesturing to his left, he said with a laugh, “And speaking of our deb, I see she has her posse in place.”

Laurel wanted to ask about this venture, but Martin now steered her into that room to their left: a room with a glossy black, grand piano and a cluster of young women talking to Natalie. Natalie lightly clapped her hands when she realized the woman with Martin, was Laurel.

“Look at you!  That color is perfect. Let me introduce you to my friends…”

Laurel allowed herself to be absorbed into this giggling group of college sophomores. The easy topics, infectious laughter, and Natalie’s insistence to guide her through two more rooms while introducing her to more people left Laurel slightly dizzy. She occasionally glanced over her shoulder, trying to include Martin in the conversations, but he seemed content to stay at the periphery. Now, Natalie announced, they were in the dining room.  Laurel stared at the long table filled with chaffing trays, platters of shrimp, bowls of strawberries, a large tureen of bisque, and four King Cakes arranged atop silver cake stands. The aromas from rich sauces, fresh bread and a hint of cinnamon filled the room.

“Wow.”

“I tried to warn you,” laughed Natalie. “My mother plans a serious Twelfth Night party.” The sound of someone playing a few bars of music on the piano brought a squeal from Natalie. “Luke!”

Laurel watched Natalie gracefully scurry from the dining room, then, across the foyer towards the piano. Luke, standing next to the keyboard, grinned. One hand rested along the edge of the piano, his other was lightly clasped along the waist of a pink-haired woman.  Natalie was undeterred; she ignored the woman, to hug her brother.

Many of the other guests surged forward, past Laurel. Luke was now shaking Will Grant’s hand, nodding at Natalie’s roommate, laughing at a comment from his father, seemingly focused on every other face but the veterinarian surgeon wearing a designer dress of deep violet-colored silk, hand embroidered with seed pearls and smoky-grey glass beads, who was standing, frozen in place, next to the dining room table. Laurel overheard one guest whisper, “That’s got to be Cora Wallis…are they working on an album, now?”

It was a logical observation, but no comfort to Laurel. Cora Wallis, last year’s Grammy-winning artist for debut album, was talented, but she had also built a reputation as a savvy media manipulator. Laurel watched Cora step away from Luke, to speak with Claire. The action revealed that Cora’s mini-dress was backless; a drape of fabric that was, technically, part of the skirt, started at the small of her back and almost reach mid-thigh. The photographer, who worked with the society columnist, collided with Laurel as he attempted to frame several shots.

“Sorry, could you move to the left for a moment?”

Laurel inhaled firmly as she stepped deeper into the dining room, towards french doors that led outside to a slate patio, sheltered under a white tent. Heaters blew warm air across Laurel’s face as she maneuvered past other guests, also enjoying the mild night air, to find a spot alongside a low, stone wall. She stared at the far end of the yard, where the glittering water in a swimming pool offered a mesmerizing distraction to the emotions filling her with chagrin.

Don’t be such a school girl, Laurel. When did Luke ever indicate he was only interested in you? A handful of text messages and what did you expect? Flowers? Some public declaration?  She sighed. Might as well enjoy this incredible party a little longer, then, ask Natalie or Martin how I get a ride-share past the security gate. With one last look at the pool, she left the patio.

Her plan held for less than three minutes. Luke and Cora blocked her route to Natalie, and Martin was nowhere to be seen.  She smiled, though, when Luke raised a tumbler to her as a salute. On an impulse, she approached him, saying “And so: I really get to see you in a tux.”

“Hey, Laurel. Great dress. Glad you were able to make the party.” Luke gestured towards his attire. “Yeah, I’m thinking this will be my outfit for the next album cover.”

“Like hell.” Cora Wallis took a small sip from her champagne flute before continuing. “If it’s the cover we talked about last night, babe, no way.” She traced the seam of Luke’s lapel with one lacquered fingernail, keeping her gaze on Luke’s mouth. “Not enough skin.” Now, she scanned Laurel with narrowed eyes. “Is she the zoo girl you mentioned? We ought to get her in that video… could be a kick.”

“Cora, Laurel is a vet, not an animal handler.” Luke smiled at Laurel. “So, are you going to the club after this party?” He glanced at Cora. “How many people do we have in the limo?”

“More than enough. Com-on. Introduce me to that guy talking to your dad.”

Laurel felt her eyebrows raise as Luke’s grin faded into a mild grimace. Still, he managed a wink at Laurel before he held Cora’s elbow to steer her across the foyer, into the room with the piano. Laurel was impressed with Cora’s transformation into a demure pose and soft smile for the man she now recognized as Senator Aucoin – recently widowed, and rumored to have inherited sizeable ownership in a broadcasting corporation. Laurel couldn’t contain a sharp exhale of contempt, but wasn’t expecting to hear Martin voice her thoughts.

“Yeah, Luke sold his soul to the devil with the band’s new recording contract. That Cora takes no prisoners.” Martin handed Laurel a flute of champagne. “She insisted I to move OUT of the way when that photographer asked for a shot of her and Natalie.” He laughed at Laurel’s frown. “Hey: since Will sort-of blew up my surprise, want to see what I’ll be launching?”

Laurel stared, momentarily confused at Martin’s excited tone. She was, still, nursing her annoyance from Cora’s snub. “Sure, but, isn’t there some sort of… presentation to Natalie?”

Martin glanced at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes. Plenty of time.”

Why not? I doubt Cora or Luke would miss me. She followed him: across the foyer, then, through a doorway next to the staircase. The sounds from the party quickly faded as they continued along a well-lit corridor, past an entrance into the kitchen, to eventually pass through a connecting door that opened into a spacious family room.

Two of the walls were filled with framed photographs. Close-ups of alligators peering through switchgrass, a lion’s profile, dew clinging to peacock feathers – all shot in a high definition, black and white format. She stared at the photo of an eagle perched upon a snowy bough; their encounter along the Breckenridge ski trail, now, made sense.

“You’re a… photographer?”

“Best kept secret in town,” laughed Martin. “Let’s just say I’m more methodical than my brother. He jumped into the music biz without really knowing what he was doing. I’ve finished my MFA and created a sizeable portfolio before trying to get an exhibit.” He paused, keeping his gaze towards the carpet as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “The zoo wants to use several photos in their reception hall, as part of that gala; last week, I, finally, got a book contract. However, I need your permission to use several photographs.” Reaching toward a leather folder atop a nearby side table, he withdrew several sheets of photographic paper. His heart jumped with Laurel’s reaction to seeing photos of herself, with various zoo patients.

“Oh, Martin…I look so, so…”

“So perfect.” Martin could feel his face burn from this awkward reply. “Laurel, I know I don’t flirt and, uhm, charm as well as Luke…but, I’ve been admiring you from the sidelines since we met.” He paused, again. “These copies are for you. I hope you will let me include the originals in my book…and I h-h-hope you will accept my invitation to the Arion Ball.” Inwardly hating the wobble in his voice, he worked to maintain a smile as he handed Laurel the over-sized envelope that had also been stored in the folio.

She took a small step back in surprise. Martin, surrounded by his photographs, holding that folio was finally revealed to her as more than a friendly animal handler. His careful handling of Bibi was an extension of his careful attention to the composition of his photographs. What Laurel had originally seen as a lumbering gait, was actually Martin’s deliberate pace to stealthily and noiselessly approach his subjects. Hundreds of small thoughts spun through her mind. She laughed. “My New Year’s resolutions were to be more adventurous, and a better listener to my instincts. If I don’t accept your invitation to the Ball, and agree to this photo release, I’ll have to restart the year!”

“Well, I can’t let that happen, can I?” He started to step closer, hoping to kiss her. But, staccato bell tones, from the mantle clock, began to strike the hour. Martin’s shoulders sagged. With a slight smile, he said, “We better make tracks to the dining room, or Natalie will strangle me. I’m supposed to be her personal photographer.”

But, they discovered, Natalie was more distracted with Luke and Cora’s impromptu duet performance, and afterwards, with her parents presenting her with a pair of diamond earrings to nag her brother. Martin had no difficulty capturing her happy expressions, and was very pleased of a close up shot of Natalie and their parents. But he was having difficulty concentrating. Laurel had accepted his invitation to the Ball. The cap he was attempting to fit onto the wide angle lens slipped from his fingers. He watched it roll towards the dining room table.

“Don’t worry, I can reach it.”

Laurel’s light pat on his hand was both unexpected and thrilling. He was certain his smile was too wide and too unguarded.

“Here. Don’t let Martin put you to work.”

Laurel was startled with Luke’s agile flexibility. He stepped forward to swoop under the table, retrieving the plastic disk. He carefully slipped it into her hand.

“I’m sorry Cora was acting so witchy,” Luke said, as he continued to hold her hand. “She’s ridiculously insecure. Still friends?”

Hours ago, I would have melted at his feet for this moment. But to Luke, she said “Thanks for saying that; it was, quite, uhm…awkward.” As she tried to gently extract her hand from his grasp, the folder, tucked between her arm and her dress, slipped away and fell to the floor. 

Photos and a cream-colored envelope spilt onto the carpet. Luke recognized the embossed design on the envelope’s flap; he glanced at his brother and flashed him a peace sign. Smiling and shrugging at Laurel, he stepped away.

A waiter had quickly gathered the photos and envelope back into the folder, handing them to Laurel. She accepted the bundle, then, turned - wondering about Martin’s reaction to this encounter. Martin, though, had already crossed the room, and now stood at her side.

“Hope Luke’s reaction wasn’t a disappointment.” Martin felt a wave of wild happiness from her reply. “Com-on; you better let my mom tell you what to expect at this Ball.”

Claire Rochelle was more than helpful. Laurel folded a written list and three business cards into her purse. Martin tentatively reached for her hand as they left the house. She had no interest in the Apex Club, now.

Martin laughed at her many questions about the Ball, during the short trip back to Laurel’s apartment. When they arrived at her front door, he covered the door knob with one hand. “Laurel, now I have a question for you. May I kiss you goodnight?”

“I hoped you would,” she whispered.

#

Four weeks later, Laurel opened her apartment door, again, with hesitation. The man standing in the hallway this time, however, wore a chauffer’s uniform.

“Miss Lynn Lee is in the limo.”

Lynn Lee Howard smiled as Laurel carefully stepped into the softly-lit car interior. “Hi, Laurel. It will only be you and me tonight. Everyone else is already at the Auditorium, preparing for their roles in the Ball. Are you a little nervous?”

Laurel carefully smoothed the wide, full skirt of her ball gown. “Just a little. Five months ago, I would have never believed I’d be wearing a dress like this… or sitting in a limo, again.” She glanced at Lynn Lee, before adding “The last time didn’t end so well.” If the older woman was aware of Laurel’s cancelled wedding, she made no effort to acknowledge the reference. Instead, she smiled.

“Well, I’ve always believed that the Mardi Gras Season has its own magic. I’m sure it will bring something wonderful to you, especially since this is your first Carnival Season.” Lynn Lee rested one gloved hand atop Laurel’s. “Just believe.”

Soon, the limo was following other luxury cars: all heading towards a canopied entrance. Lynn Lee smiled. “Oh, it looks just like the old days.” She pointed out several features as they exited the limo, adding “Until ‘Katrina, the Municipal Auditorium was the most elegant place for the Balls. The City took too many years to restore this building,” she said firmly, “but, oh, look how it sparkles, now!”

Laurel had to agree: the bronze doors, massive chandeliers and gilded plasterwork complimented the elegantly dressed people strolling through the foyer. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored panel and smiled. The vintage dress had been a great find; Claire’s seamstress had been very excited to modify a 1960s dress with a couture label from a Paris fashion house. Now, Laurel carefully lifted the voluminous, pale lilac skirts to make her way down a flight of steps towards their seats. “Wow. Second row?”

“The perks of Will serving as a Krewe Officer, and Natalie debuting as a Maid,” Lynn Lee said, as she waved to several women seated further into the auditorium. “See: Claire will be seated directly in front of us.”

Laurel, now, noticed that placards had been draped over those chair backs; each placard embellished with a name. Settling into the chair beside Lynn Lee, she perused the program that had been draped atop the back of her seat. Lynn Lee chatted with several people, occasionally introducing Laurel. It was during one of those introductions, when Laurel noticed Luke, strolling along the white-carpeted main floor, alone. He now waved and made his way towards her row.

“Hey, Laurel. Mind if I sit next to you for a few minutes?”

She smiled. “Of course not.” Laurel glanced past him. “Cora isn’t with you?”

He laughed. “OK. I deserve that…especially after her tantrum at the Apex Club. No, she’s…on a completely different adventure.” Luke paused, momentarily shifting his gaze towards the crowds before saying “This is definitely not the right venue for her… too many new chances to offend people,” he laughed, again. Now, he angled himself within the seat to be closer to Laurel.  “So…have you decided if you want to expand your research work? Natalie told me you were talking to people at the San Diego Zoo.” His eyes strayed along the sweetheart neckline of her dress. “That’s not far from my condo, you know. Just in case it would encourage you to…”

A trumpeter played a few notes, causing Luke to hurriedly stand away from the chairs. He hoped he sounded more amused than concerned. “Uh-oh. Krewe policy requires those of us without big roles in the pageantry to stand along the back wall.” He pointed away from the stage area, where other men were gathering. “Gotta follow rules. See you, later.”

Lynn Lee noticed Laurel’s confusion. “Luke is also a member of the Krewe of Arion, but hasn’t been as involved as Marcel and Martin. He isn’t eligible to participate as a masker, but has other duties.” Luke was not her favorite Rochelle, but this was not the time for such a conversation. She adjusted her voice to a lighter tone. “Now, look: here comes Claire. She’s been in the Green Room with all the other mothers of the debs. Watch for the Krewe Captain, he’s the masker with a whistle, because he will start the Ball.”

A masker soon stepped towards the middle of the open, carpeted floor to blow three blasts on a silver whistle. Laurel tried to recognize Martin within the groups of men in elaborate garments marching around that open floor. She guessed the person initially escorting Natalie across the white carpeting was Dr. Rochelle, but all the other men were cleverly concealed in those bulky costumes. Meanwhile, the pageantry, glittering scepters and extravagance of the debutantes’ dresses created its own distraction; Laurel felt her eyes shift left and right, again and again in a futile attempt to see it all.

Once the Court was seated upon the dais, facing the audience, the Captain announced that the First Dance would begin. Laurel glanced at Lynn Lee, unsure of what to do.

“It’s a call-out dance. Very special. Wait for one of the Krewe to approach you,” Lynn Lee whispered quickly. An elderly gentleman was approaching Lynn Lee; he asked her to accompany him to the dance floor.

Laurel watched. Luke, now, escorted Claire to the dance floor, then, approached another row of seated women. She looked down at her program. Martin hadn’t mentioned anything about call-out dances. She didn’t dare want to believe that, perhaps, she would be invited to this first dance, too. Inwardly, though, she laughed. Laurel, stop acting like you are at the 8th grade social. You have no idea of the protocol. They may only allow a limited number of people on the dance floor. Don’t panic!”

“Miss Laurel Sinclair?”

She stared at the bearded man who now stood to her right. He smiled as he extended a gloved hand. “Someone is requesting a dance with you.”

Amused with the formalities, she allowed the man to guide her onto the carpeted dance floor, towards a figure masked and caped in a dazzling blue outfit. The masker lifted Laurel’s hand towards his face. Her heart raced as his lips brushed against the thin, lamb-skin gloves. She could feel the warmth of his breath through the leather. Martin’s voice was muffled within all the other sounds on the dance floor, but she heard the emotion in his tone.

“You look so beautiful in that gown, Laurel...I…I almost forgot my cue to march when I saw you, sitting next to Lynn Lee.”

Her heart twisted in contentment. Martin’s compliments always carried an endearing, boyish sincerity which she was beginning to understand and treasure.  The opening notes to a Sinatra ballad, now, prompted her to step into Martin’s outstretched arms. Martin, she discovered, danced quite well. “I had no idea what to expect tonight,” she said. “To call this Ball magical, barely describes it!”

Martin lightly stroked her back with his hand. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying…well, all of this. Carnival Balls might seem fussy and old-fashioned to some people, but I think it’s…well, a perfect chance to...” He peered through his mask. He had wanted to say so much more, but the song was ending. “…to convince you to stay in New Orleans.”

“Oh, Martin.” She had wanted to avoid this topic, at least for tonight. Her ambitious side was lobbying for a new adventure, a new locale. But these past weeks, spent with Martin, had re-opened her eyes to other possibilities. The song concluded; she realized she was, now, surrounded by several familiar people.

“Laurel,” Martin began, while retrieving a sparkling brooch from the pouch tied to belt of his costume, “This is the Krewe’s official pin. Quite coveted…” he said with a slight laugh, “but this…” he continued, pulling a narrow box from an inside pocket, “is an early Valentine’s gift. From me…and several others.”

Laurel looked left and right, with some confusion. She was vaguely aware that Natalie was clipping the brooch onto her dress, as Martin fumbled with the hasp on the box. Inside, nestled against a velvet lining, was a silver charm bracelet. Tiny, silver versions of local buildings, a streetcar - even an elephant - were attached to a heavy, Florentine-style chain. But there were also two business cards tucked within the box’s lid.

As Martin fitted the bracelet around her gloved wrist, Lynn Lee leaned close. “One card is from the dean of LSU’s Veterinary College, and the other is from the owner of Cypress Stables. Both want to talk with you about a career opportunity. I don’t like to talk business at these events, but promise me you will call them?” She gazed at Laurel. “Please?”

Claire added, “We’ve talked with them, too. We’ve grown very fond of you, dear. Please, stay in New Orleans.”

Laurel met the smiling faces of each of the people gathered in this circle with her own smile. She felt the warmth of their friendship almost as surely as she felt Martin’s warm hand atop her shoulder. Living here, and exploring a future with Martin, would be a different adventure; but adventure, she was learning, could mean many things.

“Oh, I couldn’t have wished for a better evening.” Laurel worked to control the moisture forming at her eyes. “…Or a sweeter way to help me decide.”

With impeccable timing, the band restarted. Martin swept Laurel into his arms, towards the dance floor. “Please, Laurel, say it to me, first.”

“Yes, Martin. I’ll stay in New Orleans.” She would remember the sensation of Martin’s enthusiastic kiss for the rest of her life.

GREEN: FAITH

IN DREAMS AND RISKS

“Wow. Look at all the limos.”

Marla stepped next to her, spending – perhaps- a second to peer through the grimy window. “Must be one of those Carnival Balls. A bunch of snooty society girls, pretending to be princesses, while their rich parents waltz around and drink champagne. Stupid.” She elbowed her companion. “Com-on, Jilly, don’t tell me you’d rather be at one of those Balls instead of partying at the Apex Club?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Jilly attempted a laugh as she added “I’ve never been to anything more glamorous than prom. Maybe, going to a real Ball, would be fun.”

“Way out of our league, I’m afraid,” Marla said patiently, as she stepped into her cocktail dress. “Besides, you can’t just buy a ticket to one of those Balls. You have to be invited and there are all sorts of rules about where to sit and who is allowed to dance. Sounds like a nightmare to me.” Marla moved towards the narrow sliver of mirror bolted to the closet door. While assessing her appearance, she realized, Jilly, was still watching the limos. “Hey, at this hour, that Ball has ended and the people are heading home. Get changed so we can continue our party!”

But Jilly stared at the hulking building with the cluster of activity around its brightly lit entrance for a few more seconds. The view towards Armstrong Park was probably the nicest feature of this budget motel and their lackluster room. Still, she had to agree with Marla: they had driven to New Orleans to experience Mardi Gras, not sit in a motel room. Marla, two years older than Jilly and possessing at least a limited knowledge of the city and Mardi Gras from a trip last year, had promised Jilly a weekend to remember. They had arrived late in the afternoon, allowing themselves only a few minutes to check into this motel before spending the past six hours roaming the French Quarter. The decadence of Bourbon Street, the beautiful little shops and colorful art galleries along Royal Street, the off-beat bars and bistros along Decatur Street and the view of the Mississippi River from the Moonwalk had provided a sensory overload of sounds, spectacles, music, noise, aromas, odors, laughter and odd bits of overhead conversations. At this hour, Jilly would have been content to go to bed, but Marla had been adamant they should spend Friday night at a venue called the Apex Club.

Her fitted, sheath dress, made of black silk shantung with a narrow inset of green beading running from shoulder to hem had looked glamorous enough on the dress form next to her sewing machine. Compared to Marla’s off-shoulder, red sequined dress, though, Jilly now realized she would, once again, spend the evening in Marla’s shadow. Marla, however, wasn’t inconsiderate to the difference.

“I still can’t believe you sewed that dress,” Marla said as she circled Jilly. “Very classy…makes you look like one of those lounge singers in a 1930s movie.” She smiled “You know: the one who steals the show and the hero’s heart.”

“I doubt the Apex Club is hiring singers,” laughed Jilly. “Or is the hangout for heroes.”

The ride-share driver eyed them both with a wide grin. “Apex Club? Definitely the best nightspot for you two beauties. Y’all from out of town?”

Jilly started to reply, but Marla delivered a subtle nudge while saying “Hardly. Just doing a stay-cation in the French Quarter. A girl’s weekend, you know what I mean?” The driver nodded, saying nothing else as he maneuvered the sedan through the traffic.

Minutes later, as he steered his car towards the curb fronting the club’s main entrance, he angled one arm past the front seat console. “When y’all are ready for the next place to party, call me, directly, at this number. I know all the good places for gals on the town. Guaranteed.”

Marla took great care to make a small performance of slipping the business card within her cleavage; pleased with the driver’s reaction as he watched her from the rearview mirror. “I like the way you think! If the Apex does become boring, I’ll call you.”

Minutes later, Jilly had almost forgotten the creepy ride-share driver from her awe of the sparkle and high energy pulsing through the Apex Club. Unbeknownst to her, Marla had procured Special Guest passes, which had allowed them to side-step the general admission line to enter a smaller, atrium-style lobby with two glass-enclosed elevators. On their assent to a rooftop pavilion, Jilly had stared through the cab’s curved glass wall towards the view into each of the three floors below their destination. The dramatic lighting, dancing figures and throb of music barely prepared her for the wave of conversation, music and scented air flowing into the elevator when they reached the lobby leading to the pavilion.

She followed Marla, who was threading her way confidently between groups of people, towards a cluster of small tables at one side of the neon-embellished bar. Jilly adjusted the placement of her chair towards the other patrons while Marla moved hers to face the bar. “Look at the people, Marla. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many men in tuxes…and did you see the yellow ball gown on the redhead? I saw a similar dress in that online review of Fashion Week. Do you think it could be the same dress?” Jilly kept her focus upon the graceful dip and sway of that full skirt with the lace overlay, debating if she should venture away from their table to ask the woman about the dress.

Marla, though, had been watching the ebb and flow of people approaching the bar. “Forget the dress, Jilly. Look who just walked in…alone.”

# 

Luke undid the knot in his bow tie while nodding at the bartender. “Jimmy, right? Good to see you’re still working the pavilion.” The young man behind the bar immediately stepped closer, tossed his green-tinted hair and laughed.

“Still? Dude: I got a bonus, a deal with that on-line platform, NiteLives, and a legit following on my own SocMed account.” He leaned towards Luke. “And you wouldn’t believe who has been sitting at this bar since you and Cora had that…incident.” He reached for the square-ish bottle on the upper shelf. “First two drinks on me…LP Southern Scotch, right?”

Fingering the call-out brooch in his pocket, Luke managed a smile. “Good memory. And those scotches are a good idea. Keep ‘em coming, ‘til this nightmare ends.”

“Nightmare?” Jimmy kept his focus on the two tumblers and the amber liquid filling the one on the right. He tipped the bottle slightly upwards before filling the one on the left. At forty-dollars a glass, he wanted to be generous, but not wasteful. “It’s Friday night, this place is filled with opportunities, and you’re looking quite handsome in a new tux. I gotta say, this one is an improvement over the last one…but then, I never was a fan of the sleeveless look.” He was pleased to hear Luke laugh.

Four weeks ago, two over-served tourists and Cora Wallis had locked egos and started a movie-worthy brawl at the same spot where Luke now stood. The security video and two dozen smartphones had captured Jimmy’s effortless vault over the bar’s countertop, his creative use of a nearby table to separate the tourists and other fighters from Cora and Luke, and the moment that had sealed his popularity with NiteLives: carrying Cora Wallis to safety while Luke continued throwing punches within the growing melee. By the time the club’s security team had separated the fighters from Luke, Luke’s tux jacket had been torn to shreds and the pavilion resembled a demolition site. Jimmy believed that evening was the turning point of his life.

Luke was also recalling that night, and the unpleasant meeting with Cora’s agent the following morning. Cora’s outrage over the brawl had suspended progress on the album. Three weeks later, Cora, claiming she still needed to recover from the trauma, had been seen frolicking along a nude beach in Cancun. His manager had emailed the band just this morning, suggesting they find a way to proceed with the album, but without Cora. At the time, he had wondered if Life could get any worse. Now, Laurel’s decision to stay in New Orleans, instead of taking a West Coast job dashed his other dream: of exploring a relationship with a woman who wasn’t as mercurial as Cora. He swallowed the second half of the first tumbler. The quality scotch was smooth, with a satisfying, nutty aftertaste. He allowed the tingling sensation on his tongue to almost subside before he reached for the other tumbler.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Luke Rochelle?”

The red sequins sewn onto that fitted dress acknowledged every inch of the blonde’s curvy form. They also caught the illumination of the overhead lights so that her any movement brought a burst of shimmering dots to dance across the bar’s countertop and Luke’s hands. On any other evening, he would have had a ready smile and a smooth line. But this time, Luke only lifted the second tumbler as a salute. “Last I checked, that’s my name. Congrats on recognizing me in a tux.” He brought the tumbler to his lips.

Marla took his reply as a challenge. She had almost finished her flirty comeback when a green-haired bartender practically ran towards them.

“Hey, miss, the sign is right here: Club Members only beyond this point.” Jimmy angled one hand towards the assembly of posts, braided rope and the metal-framed sign separating this end of the bar from the rest of the pavilion. “If you would come with me, I’ll make sure your waiter knows you need a refill.” Jimmy mouthed the word “sorry” to Luke. He had been so focused on negotiating a payment option with an angry patron holding an expired credit card, he hadn’t seen the blonde glide into the reserved section. He was surprised when Luke shook his head while lightly placing one hand atop the blonde’s forearm.

“Wait a minute, babe.” Luke now smiled at the bartender. “It’s OK, Jimmy. I think I need to socialize with a better class of…citizen tonight,” he said, with a wink to the blonde. But, to Jimmy, he added “Start me a tab.” Standing away from the bar, he said to red dress “Let’s find a table.”

“Actually, I’m sitting there.” Marla pointed towards the small table and Jilly.

“Lead on.” Luke swiveled his face back, towards the bar, hoping Jimmy could decipher his expression of wanting a rescue, if needed. God, let’s hope these girls aren’t looking for an audition.

Jilly had been visually following Marla’s bold decision. Luke Rochelle looked nothing like his stage presence fronting the band Feral. Probably the only give-away is that mane of dark hair and the tat on his neck. She also inwardly sighed, noticing his make-the-best-of-it expression. If history repeats itself, Marla will be leaving with him in about five minutes. Still, she smiled broadly as they approached.

Stepping quickly ahead of red dress, Luke pulled out the chair facing away from the bar. “Can’t take the gentleman out of the rocker, I’m afraid.” Once red dress had settled that sweet backside into the upholstered seat, Luke slid into a chair facing the bar, and signaled for the nearest waiter to approach. “Another round, please, and Jimmy’s holding my tab.” Once the man had turned away from the table, Luke smiled broadly at red dress. “So, you started to say your dad owns a radio station? Jimmy interrupted before you could tell me your name.”

Marla returned his smile. “I’m Marla Chambers. My dad owns WWTN. It’s a small, independent station outside Memphis, but he also donates bandwidth to the local community college.” She allowed that information to fill the pause, then added. “Oh, and this is my friend, Jilly. It’s her first trip to New Orleans.”

PR work for the band was not Luke’s strongest skill. Feral’s drummer was the nerd who knew all the call letters for every radio station carrying rock music. For all he knew, WWTN was an old school, country music station. Still, this Marla was quite a distraction from his disappointment of watching his younger brother kiss Laurel during that second waltz at the Ball. “I think our spring tour includes Memphis,” he lied. “Would your dad’s station want to do an interview?” He took a slow sip of the scotch, keeping his gaze on Marla’s pouty lips.

“Probably not,” Marla laughed. “Dad’s station is…how should I say it? Focused on a Higher Power.” She waved her hand between herself and Jilly. “We are the extent of Dad’s marketing department. He thinks we are meeting with a record label exec in Mobile. A label that’s only known for gospel music.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, we will meet her…on Monday. But for now, Jilly and I are taking a slight detour.”

Nice play, Marla. Use Daddy’s biz to score a few free drinks from me. He should have replied with some cool putdown, then stood away. But, Luke was feeling a volatile blend of self-pity and petulance. He turned his attention to the young woman in the plain black dress. “First trip to New Orleans, on the weekend before Mardi Gras? You are brave.”

Jilly quickly swallowed her mouthful of gin and tonic. “We…or at least I, didn’t know about all the other parties and parades before next Tuesday. It’s all quite overwhelming.” Feeling more adventurous than usual, she added “And are you wearing a tux because you were at one of those Carnival Balls? She hoped she was flashing a smile to match Marla’s. Luke’s frown, though, was not the expected response.

“Oh, you have scored another round of drinks for that observation.” Luke waved one hand above his head as a signal to another waiter. “Yes, yours truly reprised the role of Krewe usher while my sister was presented as a deb at the Arion Ball.” He reached into the side pocket of his jacket. “And this bauble,” Luke said as he placed the brooch on the table top, “Should be perched on the shoulder of someone who…well, someone....” He found himself staring at the brooch a little longer than he wanted. He met the confused expressions of Marla and Jilly with a shrug. He re-pocketed the brooch. “What can I say? Maybe I’ll write a song about it.”

Marla had only a marginal interest in consoling a mildly-intoxicated musician, even if it was Luke Rochelle. Especially against the option of flirting with the trio of men who (she suspected) were Saints football players. One of those lumbering, large men had just blown her a kiss as they strolled past their table. She rested one hand atop Luke’s wrist. “Have Jilly write that song. She’ll never admit it, but that’s her secret power…that, and singing.” Standing away from her chair she drained the last of her white wine. “I need to take a little walk…be right back.”

Jilly, shocked at Marla’s abrupt exit, found herself stuttering. “I, Marla… Look:  Marla is exaggerating. Please don’t think I’m…” Luke’s dismissive hand wave did not put her at ease.

“It’s OK. I get these spiels all the time. But not normally for the wingman – or in this case, wing-gal.” Luke smiled. “So: is Jilly a nickname or some weird family name?”

The change in Luke’s tone emboldened Jilly. “Please,” she laughed. “A nickname; Julianne Lily Thompson is on my birth certificate. My older brothers, though, decided it was hilarious to combine my first and middle names into Jilly. Unfortunately, my parents went along with that nonsense, and I’ve been known as Jilly ever since.” She leaned slightly forward, adding in a secretive tone “Could have been worse…my mother had wanted to name me Belinda Lily. Imagine what my brothers would have concocted from that moniker.” She was glad Luke immediately made the connection. His laugh was deep and sincere, but not prolonged. Still, she noticed he seemed less guarded than when he had been flirting with Marla.

“So, a radio rep by day, songstress by night?” Luke slouched into the back of his chair. The third tumbler of scotch had dulled his wariness; now he was embracing the buzz and Jilly’s unaffected friendliness. “Have you done a demo, yet?”

Jilly did not immediately reply. She watched her hand stirring the melting ice in her glass for a few seconds, before meeting Luke’s gaze. “Yep. Four songs. Two are my own compositions and the other two…well, I sang two of the songs from your first album.”

“Huh. Neat coincidence.” Luke felt a pang of regret in his slurred voice and Jilly’s stony expression. The fact was: the idea of this pleasant young woman singing his songs on a demo had his attention. But the waiter had arrived with the next round of drinks. Once the waiter had stepped away, Luke rested his elbows on the table top. “Which ones?”

During those few seconds, when the waiter was removing the empty glasses and arranging the fresh beverages, Jilly assessed this situation. She had no delusions that this celebrity had any interest in her, yet she did not believe in gratuitous rudeness. After all, he had just ordered another round of drinks and ignored the couple who had recently walked past their table, twice. Sliding her fresh gin and tonic to one side, she sighed. “Look, you’re being very kind, but I’m guessing you weren’t planning to spend any time tonight counselling some wannabe singer. And I really am sorry about, what sounds like, your surprise heartbreak. Not the way to start a holiday like Mardi Gras.” She smiled, then gestured to the table top, “And I can cover our drinks. Marla will, eventually, come back…so I’m OK.”

This was not the response Luke expected. He wasn’t so inebriated to ignore her tone or the mannerisms that hinted to her attempt to give him an easy exit. It was an odd realization, but he didn’t want to leave Jilly. He brought the fourth tumbler to his mouth, but didn’t take a sip. Setting the glass down, Luke adjusted his posture. Leaning slightly towards her, he focused on how he spoke. “Hey, Jilly, I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. Yeah, the Ball did not end as I wanted, but your career dreams shouldn’t be collateral damage to my…what did you call it? A surprise heartbreak?” Luke hoped his smile would be enough. “Com-on, tell me: which songs are on that demo?”

Jilly wanted to believe that smile, and that coaxing tease, but wasn’t convinced. “Why does it matter? Not one agency has shown any interest in that demo. Marla thinks I should have only used my own songs instead of implying I could cover tracks from a platinum album.” Jilly tried to smile. “Or maybe my voice scared them off.”

“Why? Can your voice shatter glass or something?” Despite the warm fuzziness at the edge of his consciousness, Luke recognized that tone in Jilly’s voice. Equal parts defiance and vulnerability – he could appreciate that mix. And, he did want to know more about her efforts to break into the music business. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I have a better idea.” He gulped down the final swallow from tumbler number four. Mildly surprised that he was unsteady on his feet, Luke gripped the table edge for a few seconds. “Com’on. I have an epic idea, Let’s go down to the second floor.”

Jilly, now able to see Marla within the throngs of people orbiting the three large men, briefly waved at her. A rush of giddy recklessness fueled this unusual bravery. Why not take a risk? Whatever was on the second floor could be fun. This is a top-tier club- what could be safer? She allowed Luke to steer her out of the pavilion into the lobby, but towards a different glass-walled elevator. Luke grinned at her as he slipped a plastic card into a scanner.

“Club membership has its perks.” He gestured for her to proceed him into the cab, then pushed the control button embossed with “2A”. Leaning against the chrome rail girding the interior of the elevator cab, he laughed. “I hope your two gin and tonics haven’t chilled your throat. The Apex has this fairly decent karaoke set-up on the second floor…what do you say we shake things up tonight?”

“What?” She wasn’t expecting this sort of idea, or for Luke to now rest one warm hand atop her shoulder.

“Jilly, think about it. You and I take that stage and do a couple of duets. How many people do you think would post that on their social media accounts?” He nodded. “Everyone with a phone, but is that enough? Now, that bartender I spoke to…before we took the elevator? He also works with NiteLives. If Jimmy posts even one of our duets, it gets regional, if not national attention.” The elevator door slid open. “Ready?”

Am I ready? Jilly may have whined to her mother (and a few times to Marla) about the rejections from the talent agencies, from the expense of making that demo recording, of the frustration from listening to label execs promote other singers, yet, this impromptu performance could be THE break of her dreams. Hardly typical, but what about this trip had been typical? She tried to use a serious voice tone. “Not until your NiteLives buddy, Jimmy, arrives.”

Luke tilted his face upwards and feigned concern. “Great. A diva already.” Without really thinking about it, he wrapped one arm around Jilly’s shoulders. “Well, Jimmy just stepped out of the service elevator. Let’s start this performance with a great entrance.”

The second floor elevator lobby was separated from the karaoke lounge by a pair of sliding glass doors. Jimmy had quickly stepped in front of Luke and Jilly to approach the two men flanking the doorway. In a quick flash of understanding, Jilly realized the men were security staff for the club. With an air of the utmost seriousness, the men escorted Luke and Jilly through the middle of the room, towards the DJ station positioned at the far end of the stage. She vaguely heard the comments from the people stepping deferentially aside. She tried to maintain an expression of both benign amusement and confidence, while monitor her posture, and praying she wouldn’t trip out of her heels. The trio already on stage soon stopped their rendition of a country-western standard to stare. While the guitar chords continued to twang, the DJ lowered the volume of the music track so he wouldn’t have to shout or use the mic. He smiled at Luke.

“Dude. Quite an honor. Which one of your singles do you want to cover?”

Luke shook his head as he laughed and nodded towards Jilly. “Let her pick.” But to Jilly he whispered “Pick three we can sing as duets, but none of my stuff.” While Jilly read through the playlist, he scaled the steps alongside the stage. The trio quickly stood away from the microphone.

“Hey, hey,” Luke began. “Hope y’all can still recognize me in a tux…and for those who may be worried, I’m still the same Luke Rochelle. Just left my guitar…and wardrobe… at home, tonight.” He waited for the applause and whistling to subside to then add, “Now: my friend Jilly is gonna join me, so whadya say we start this party? Jilly, you ready?” Her hand felt more than comfortable, now pressed against his own palm. Savoring that sensation, Luke almost missed the opening note of the first song.

Jimmy’s video eclipsed the weekend’s latest Hollywood scandal. Luke Rochelle’s singing partner had wowed the audience with her strong alto voice and playful stage presence. NiteLives wasted no time posting the fifteen-minute performance, below the still shot of Luke kissing the unknown singer and the headline asking More Than Just An Act?

#

“What were you thinking?”

Luke jiggled his foot back-and-forth. “I wasn’t thinking, OK? There’s been a bunch of stuff stressing me out. So, I got buzzed at the Apex and this sweet gal seemed to be getting a raw deal from her friend and Life in general.” He shifted his position on the sofa to lean towards the attorney. “Look: her, supposed, friend drags her to New Orleans as a detour from some business trip, then leaves her at the Apex…well, at least, leaves her at a table with me,” Luke smiled, “to run off with three football players.”

“So, the only option was to sing songs with an amateur performer, while you have an exclusive contract with Cora Wallis?” The attorney exhaled while flipping a few more pages within his notebook. Speaking more to himself than Luke, he said “Cora’s legal team must be getting extra funding from the media outlets to be acting this frantic.”  Now, he glanced around the comfortable family room and the arrangement of black & white framed photographs on the opposite wall before meeting Luke’s gaze. “They claim Cora wants out of the contract, but only with a…substantial check.” He stared at Luke. “An amount possibly more than your portion of the last album’s earnings.” When Luke made no reply, he decided to try a different approach. “Have you noticed that I haven’t made this meeting a video conference to include your bandmates?” Luke’s startled expression was the desired result. Now, it was his turn to lean forward.

“Luke, your band’s contract has a short, but important, clause that insulates each of you from the bad decisions of the others. It’s become a standard bit of wording that perhaps you need to understand in this context.” The lawyer paused to assume a more comfortable position within his own chair. “If Cora’s demands become a lawsuit, then goes to court and wins, you…you alone… will be responsible for the settlement and the court costs. I doubt that trust fund from your grandparents will fill the gap between your earnings and what Cora’s legal team are asking. This is a rough estimate.”

The dollar amount written across the legal pad was an impressive sum. Luke slid the tablet across the coffee table, back, towards the attorney. “She’s greedier than I thought possible, Bruce. But Cora seems to be the sort that likes the negotiation phase more than the actual prize. The thrill of the hunt, you know?” Luke hoped he sounded sufficiently annoyed as he said “And what about Cora’s behavior? She starts a riot at the Apex, claims she’s traumatized, then gets her bare ass photographed for that British tabloid… I’d be stunned if she doesn’t have some other scheme up her sleeve.”

Bruce smiled. “I see we have a similar perspective on that point. It’s another reason why I wanted to meet only with you. Could you tell me, again, what started that fight at that club?” He waited while Luke took another sip of coffee.

Luke, though, was also covertly watching the movement of shadows along the gap below the door to this room. He suspected his sister had been tasked with eavesdropping on this meeting. From his vantage point on the sofa, he could see Natalie now darting out from the kitchen doors, towards the pool deck, where their mother had been pacing. He had a good guess how Natalie would report his conversation with Bruce. He set down the coffee mug.

“Well, I think Cora’s mood was on the decline after attending my parents’ party earlier that evening,” began Luke. “You’ve seen Cora in public: if the light isn’t shining directly on her, she will find some way to redirect it. This party is an annual event, practically part of the city’s official start of the Carnival Season, and was also honoring my sister’s debut.” Luke laughed, but not kindly. “Cora realized no one saw her as the VIP and insisted we leave within an hour of arriving. I had already made reservations at the Apex for a small promo-party, but that was for later in the evening. So, when we roll-up at the Apex, and the promo guests haven’t yet arrived, she’s really steamed.” Luke shook his head. “Those two drunk tourists were just the last straw. The woman claimed Cora was a one-hit wonder and made some stupid comment about Cora’s dress. By that time, Cora had been knocking back shots and…well, she just went ballistic. I sort-of recall Cora slapping someone…and that brought more people into the melee.” Luke pushed up one sleeve of his sweater revealing, below his elbow, a large bruise still transitioning into a greenish-yellow blotch. “See this? The ER doc tells me it’s one of the worst bone bruises he’s seen. I can’t tell you if Cora did this or one of the idiots at the Apex, but you are the first person beyond my family who knows about this bruise. It’s the real reason I’ve been OK with delaying the album. This bruise has affected my ability to play my guitar.”

The attorney replied, first, with a long whistle. “Well, looks like I’ll be earning my retainer this month. First: are there any video shots that show your arm getting hit?” With Luke’s blank stare, his thoughts raced. “Okay…what about the doc who treated you? Is he someone you can trust?” Jotting a few notes into his phone, Bruce now began gathering the legal pad and the papers he had arranged atop the coffee table at the start of the meeting, into his briefcase. “Let me make some calls; I need to check on all possibilities. I’ll try to call you in an hour. Are you available tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? You do know tomorrow is Mardi Gras, right?”

“All day?”

Luke sighed. “You are the worst tourist, Bruce. Yes, all day. But, fine. I can be back here by 2:30. Will that give you enough time?”

#

“Well, we all know about WWTN’s capacity to support our artists, Marla, but it’s your coworker, here, who has me intrigued.” The executive swiveled her chair to face Jilly. “Quite a voice you have there, Miss Thompson.” She laughed, “Yes, I keep an eye on the NightLives Weekend Report! And I was especially impressed with your choice of songs: I hardly expected Luke Rochelle to agree to sing duets that weren’t…how should I say it?...more provocative?”

Jilly felt her face burn with surprise and excitement. From her peripheral view, though, she saw Marla’s frown. A constantly reappearing expression since Marla had stood in the crowd to witness Luke Rochelle’s on-stage kiss and, later: each time Jilly finally returned to the motel after spending most of Saturday, then, Sunday morning, with Luke. She quickly composed an answer that wouldn’t further irritate Marla.  “He actually let me select the songs, Ms. Stonewell, and since it was my…well, …first stage performance, it seemed a safer path.”

“A nice choice of words,” Ms. Stonewell said. “And a smart decision.” She now gestured towards Marla. “Yes, I like the idea of a promo-event with your father’s station. Our label has three new artists who will be making the rounds, in coordination with National Record Store Day. Let’s make WWTN our first stop…perhaps in mid-April?” Briefly smiling at Marla, Ms. Stonewell, again, turned towards Jilly. “Our label probably isn’t a good fit for your talent, but I like your voice. Even though the streaming platforms are getting attention, it’s difficult to navigate the music world without some professional help. Let me suggest an agency that represents artists in several genres, and I think Susanna may be able to help you. Good Luck.”

Jilly felt her mouth drop open, as the woman wrote the information on a notepad emblazoned with the Heavenly Notes Records logo. In the bustle of wrapping up the actual purpose of this meeting, and attempting to avoid irritating Marla any further, Jilly vaguely recalled thanking Ms. Stonewell several times before she and Marla left the office suite. Now, she found herself practically jogging along the corridor to match Marla’s determined stride.

At the elevator lobby, Marla jabbed the call button again, and again. When the elevator doors finally opened, Jilly was disappointed the cab was empty. She cautiously followed Marla inside. Marla allowed the door to close, before swiveling her head towards Jilly.

“Pleased with yourself?”

“Marla…”

“Don’t even try to explain yourself. I felt like WWTN was some sort of consolation prize in that meeting. Were you hoping she would sign you on, with all of one video on NiteLives to showcase your…talent?” Marla’s tone changed to an even angrier tone. “If the WWTN marketing plan doesn’t pan out, Daddy will have ways of taking it out on you… trust me.”

Jilly mentally debated whether to challenge the threat. When Marla made no effort to touch the control panel, though, Jilly decided she should remain silent as she pressed the button for the lobby. Staring at the little LED screen blinking a count-down of their journey from the 20th floor, Jilly used the time to calm her racing heartbeat. When the doors slid open for the ground floor, Marla bolted forward. Jilly exited at a slower pace. Seven steps towards the lobby, though, her phone hummed.

“Oh, must be Luke.”

Marla’s sarcasm held no sting as Jilly stared at the screen. In fact, it fueled a rush of rebellion that inspired her to aim the screen towards Marla. Jilly smiled. “Yes, it is. Would you mind? Since the car is in your name, I’ll wait in the lobby while you deal with the valet.”

Selecting a chair not far from the valet’s podium, Jilly opened the text message.

How was your mtg? My lawyer has news & a plan. Gimme a call. L

He answered on the second ring. Jilly listened to Luke’s excited monologue as she also monitored Marla’s interactions: first with the valet and then with the caller who kept her pacing outside, alongside the curb. Jilly shivered with anxiety. She could imagine Marla, in a continuance of her bad mood, leaving her stranded in this lobby. As she watched for the valet to arrive with the car, though, her phone hummed again. Luke, meanwhile, was now playing a bit of melody on a piano.

“So, what do you think? Could you get a car and drive back to New Orleans, today?”

“I…I’ll have to check, Luke. Uhm, my boss is trying to reach me. Let me call you right back.” Jilly quickly switched to the other line. “Hi, Reverend Chambers. Were you trying to reach Marla? She was getting the car from the valet, and may not have heard her phone.”

“Actually, Julianne, I was just talking to my daughter about today’s meeting and the, shall we say, unexpected turn in the conversation.”

Jilly felt a block of ice form somewhere in her midsection. “Sir?”

“Did the CEO of Heavenly Notes Records actually offer you a lead for other work?”

“Well, it was more of a …comment, a bit of advice, you could say.” She swallowed quickly. “You see, Ms. Stonewell watched the NitesLives post…” Words failed her as she could now hear his breathing. Reverend Chambers was a large man and asthmatic. In stressful situations, he tended to gulp in air as if to preparing to dive into deep water. Jilly glanced towards the lobby doors in time to see Marla step into the rental car. Marla kept her face towards the windshield as the car rolled forward, and into traffic. Jilly couldn’t contain a small yelp of surprise. Reverend Chambers now voiced a soft sigh.

“Ah. I’m guessing you just saw Marla drive away. Julianne, this is a strange situation, strange and awkward…so bear with me as I attempt to untangle what is happening.” He took a few more breaths. “Accepting that information from Carol Stonewell was, technically and in the thinnest interpretation, a violation of our company’s policy regarding a conflict of interest. Regrettably, and hear me say this: regrettably, Marla is insisting it is grounds for termination.”

“But…”

“Please, let me continue. In the past minutes, my daughter has expressed herself in a most unflattering light. It pains me to see her use her MBA, and her 40% share of the company stock, as a tool to make such rash accusations and demands. Still, I also believe that the Lord’s plan is not always of our understanding. Julianne, you are a believer, correct?”

Jilly heard her voice manage a weak reply. She had one hundred dollars in her wallet, a low-balance debit card and a company credit card, that Marla, undoubtedly, had already cancelled. Her luggage was in the trunk of the car Marla was now driving towards the interstate. If this was part of His plan, there better be a miracle in the third act. She heard Reverend Chambers clear his throat.

“Now, this is what I propose we do: Instead of that harsh word termination, let’s agree that you are resigning. I checked our files and see you still have four days of vacation owed to you. Your luggage should be with the valet and my assistant is calling the rental car people to bring you a car. I’ve authorized you to have a car for four days. Just bring it back to Memphis by noon Friday and you can pick up your personal items and final paycheck at the security desk.” He could hear Jilly’s attempts to voice her version of the meeting. “Julianne, I hope you will call the agent Carol Stonewell mentioned, and that the agency will recognize your talent. I am certain He is offering you this unexpected path, this risk, which may be the start of something wonderful for you. Finally, I hope you will also find a way to forgive Marla. She hasn’t learned the folly of burning bridges… and one day she will regret treating you so unprofessionally.”

The four-hour drive back to New Orleans, the multiple phone calls: to her parents, her roommate, the agent Susanna and particularly the extended conversations with Luke, blurred within the memory of Reverend Chamber’s advice to create one, dizzying sensation of anxiety and excitement. The winter sun was quickly disappearing below the horizon when Jilly finally steered the economy car into a small office complex and, then, towards a series of parking spaces labelled “visitors only”. Her heart raced as Luke exited the lobby of the nearest building. He was already alongside the car as she opened the driver’s side door.

“You have had quite a day, already,” Luke said. “Hope you can handle one more meeting.” He reached for her hand, as she stepped out; not expecting her to slide both into the pockets of her jacket.

Jilly briefly looked away, towards the traffic and the darkening sky. She knew this was the moment to ask the question she had rehearsed since crossing into Mississippi. “I can, Luke, but this question has been growing in my mind during my return trip to New Orleans: why are you doing this? Really? I mean, it sounds like Cora Wallis could make life difficult for you, your album...the band.” She tried to smile, but felt her lower lip start to quiver. “I’m out of a job, not sure what I’m doing…”

“Hey,” Luke said softly, “I thought we agreed, over breakfast on Saturday: we’re partners in a new music project.” He cupped his hands under her elbows. “I can barely sleep from all the ideas filling my brain.” When Jilly met his gaze, he tried to suppress a smile. “Were you worried my, uhm, interest was just something to do until I got back to the West Coast? Jilly… I know I’ve got a reputation and done a lot of stupid things, but dishonesty has never made that list.”

“But Cora…”

He shook his head several times. “Cora and her lawyers can make all the noise they want, but, the band’s lawyer, Bruce Wilson, is convinced she’s just trawling for a negotiation.”  He took a deep inhale. “And look, here’s some other honesty: I’m feeling a little vulnerable, too. My whole focus, for the past ten years, has been the band, and getting us on the charts. I didn’t think other options as a musician were possible because the band took all my attention. I didn’t even consider a personal life until my brother met…well, until I saw how two people can build a real relationship.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Since Friday, I’ve been thinking that… maybe there was a bit of destiny that we met.” Jilly’s wide-eyed stare prompted him to laugh slightly. “Yeah, I got a similar response from my parents and my manager when I told them about my doubts, about meeting you, and about our ideas. But, com-on inside; it’s getting cold out here.” He pivoted towards the building, but Jilly remained standing next to the car.

“I’m still not sure I understand what you’re telling me.”

“Jilly, it’s this simple: even though we’ve only spent a few days together, I like you. A lot. And I think we could work well together. When we were watching that parade on Saturday afternoon, you said you felt like you had awoken into a dream. Those four words have stuck in my brain. I’ve been considering this: perhaps we should pay more attention to our dreams and try to live as if dreams are a better reality. What do you say?” Luke held out one hand.

Was it the last bit of glow from the setting sun washing over his face or his hesitant smile? She mentally heard Reverend Chamber’s advice, again. Grinning, she grabbed his hand. “I say: let’s get inside!”

The building lobby was remarkably drab. Jilly was reminded of a parking garage, without the cars. Luke led her to a first floor office suite not far from the concrete-colored lobby desk. The sign on that door only had the words “Law Office”. “Why does a lawyer like Bruce Wilson only rent an office here? I expected he would have one of those swanky, top floor offices with incredible views.”

 Luke paused in the action of opening the door. “Bruce works for the record label and only represents the band. I also have an IP attorney. Her name is Muriel DePaul… a bit of a nerd,” he laughed, “but she knows the ins-and-out of intellectual property laws and is a genius for helping an artist who’s getting started.” As the door swung open, Jilly blinked at an office interior of brightly painted walls displaying a riotous arrangement of framed posters, vinyl records and autographed photos. All the photos, she noted, were of either Grammy-winning or Oscar-winning superstars.

“Welcome, welcome!”

Jilly felt immediately shy as the pleasant-faced, grey-haired woman approached her. There was an aura about the woman, as if she, too, was a celebrity. Jilly shook the woman’s hand, sat in a wide leather chair, and allowed Luke to monopolize the conversation for more than several minutes. Finally, she found her voice. “I’m so grateful for this meeting, Ms. DePaul, and for learning how you could help me. I hope you will be able to answer two questions, though.”

“Only two?”

Luke’s teasing, Jilly was recognizing, wasn’t meant to sound flippant; it was part of that bad-boy persona he seemed to employ when he was nervous. Drawing upon that insight, she smiled at him for an extra second before returning her attention back to the attorney. “I’m wondering: what do I say to Susanna about her offer? She has emailed me all sorts of documents and expects me to call her back tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes, about that. I talked with her, about an hour ago, and explained that Luke has both an interest in your career and is considering a possible collaboration. If anything, that info certainly got her attention.” Muriel leaned back into her chair. “But, let’s first talk about this resignation.” She clasped her hands atop her desk. “While Reverend Chambers claimed a resignation would be a nicer way for you to leave WWTN, he’s not doing you any favors. You are forfeiting unemployment benefits and probably access to gap insurance.” At Jilly’s lack of reaction, Muriel exhaled loudly before saying “Look: if this collaborative album with Luke takes at least a year to get released, how are you going to pay for rent, or…anything else? There are no advances in the music biz for a project this risky, Jilly.” She softened her tone as she added “I’m just making sure you understand the bigger picture. Now, I don’t handle labor law, but I do know several firms that would be able to help you if you want to challenge this termination-disguised-as-a-resignation from WWTN.” She wasn’t expecting Jilly to, now, smile.

“Ms. DePaul, both my parents are CPAs. When my grandfather died twelve years ago, he left me a…well, a decent trust. My parents have been nurturing that trust into a portfolio that can more than support me for a year or more to work on this project.” Jilly laughed “Naturally, my folks would prefer I not touch these funds until I’m at least seventy, but they understand.”

 Now it was Muriel’s turn to laugh. “Well, that information certainly makes a difference. It seems you may be on a more stable financial footing than I realized… if you really are serious about this collaboration.” She glanced at Luke before adding “Jilly, before we can proceed with any details, you will have to agree that I can represent you as your attorney.” She added “And at the same rate I charge Luke: ten dollars a month.”

“What?”

“It’s the family rate…didn’t Luke tell you I’m his godmother?” She laughed at Jilly’s expression. “This is the way we conduct business in New Orleans, hon. Now, let’s shake on it and then, you can ask me your second question.”

A firm handshake from the attorney she was now invited to call Aunt Mimi, seemed to close that transaction. Jilly, then sat back into her chair. She rested her hands on her knees as she mentally adjusted her next question. Shifting her gaze from Luke to Aunt Mimi, she said “After I spoke with Susanna, I also received a call from someone named Leo Rochelle.” She was not expecting Luke to groan and curse as he stood away from his chair, to begin pacing the room.

“Please tell me you didn’t agree to any of my cousin’s schemes,” he said, trying to contain his anger. “I can’t believe he would try….” He spun towards his godmother. “And I thought you said…”

Jilly began to wave her hands. “Whoa, wait a minute. I only listened to his pitch about some sort of music festival. I didn’t agree to anything.” She watched the silent exchange of expressions between Luke and Aunt Mimi; the soft hum of the fluorescent lights only adding to the feeling of tension and emotional static. She hoped she didn’t sound too nervous as she said in a softer tone “It looks like there is something I need to know about this cousin. I’m not sure what’s going on, here, but I’m getting worried.”

“Sit down, Luke,” sighed Muriel. Her impression of this young woman was improving by the minute. “Jilly obviously has more than enough common sense to not to fall for Leo’s silliness.” She smiled at Jilly. “Luke’s cousin has been living in the shadow of Luke and Luke’s brother, Martin, all his life. About two years ago, he started a small entertainment agency. He hasn’t done badly with this agency,” said Muriel, ignoring Luke’s whispered comment, “...but it’s not booking talent as famous as Luke’s band. He probably hoped you would be his Golden Ticket. I’ll call him tonight and smooth this over.” She inspected the watch on her desk; the device was sounding an alert. “Drat. Time certainly flew by: I have to leave in a few minutes for a dinner meeting.” She stood away from her desk. “Jilly, tomorrow is Mardi Gras, so the whole city is, essentially, shut down.” She laughed. “Take tomorrow off, and think about everything we’ve discussed. If you want to tell Susanna we need at least a day to review her offer, I’ve cleared my calendar for Wednesday morning, so let’s regroup, then, at 9, OK?”   

#

A cold breeze blew into Jilly’s face as she exited the office building, causing her to gasp in surprise. She had waited in the lobby, while Luke remained in Aunt Mimi’s office; using her phone to search for the nearest hotel with a vacancy. Discovering that any of the hotel chains she recognized were all at capacity, she had widened her search. “Where in the heck is Folsom?” she had whispered as she tried to enlarge the image on the screen. “Oh, this is impossible” she finally conceded. “I need my tablet.”

“Jilly, where are you going?”

She spun away from the cold wind to face Luke. “Oh. I’m trying to find a hotel, or even a motel, with a vacancy, but the map on my phone doesn’t make sense. I’m going to my car to get my tablet since it has a bigger screen.”

Luke shook his head and laughed as he gently pulled her back, into the lobby. “You don’t need to worry about that. I have a place…well, it’s my parents’ place, but they are cool with it.” He was learning to enjoy her skeptical expressions. “What? Did you think I would make you fend for yourself? You won’t find a decent hotel within seventy miles of New Orleans, tonight. I promise…” he laughed. “My folks have a huge property, complete with a guest cottage. Totally private, no opportunity for NiteLives to post some new rumor, unless…” He stepped closer.

She averted her gaze, feeling her face warm from his suggestive tone and nearness. Luke’s flirting was confident and direct; since Friday night, she had managed to resist his more specific suggestions. Jilly had enough experience with recording executives, advertising reps and road managers to be prepared for those ideas with a witty reply, even if her resolve (as it was now) threatened to melt. She hoped her sidelong glance would suffice, in this moment. “You’re making me blush again, Luke,” she teased, “and I doubt your parents would allow the NiteLives hounds sneaking around their property.”    

If the security guard hadn’t been lingering near the lobby desk, Luke would have leaned- in for a kiss. But he was becoming possessive of his interest in Jilly; for once, he didn’t want his personal life to be a publicity gimmick. Instead, he compromised with a grin, while stroking the left side of her face with his thumb. “They live on the only gated street in the city. Safest place for all sorts of activities.”

#

“Well, thankfully, she certainly isn’t another Cora Wallis,” Claire Rochelle sighed. She picked up the remote control device to activate the feature that would allow the backyard security camera to be seen within the TV screen. She now sat next to her husband, nestling her head within his shoulder and outstretched arm. Luke, Natalie and Jilly, she could see, were in the pool; the backlit steam rising from the heated water creating ghostly clouds around and between the three swimmers. “But so worldly! And who arrives in New Orleans, in February, with a swimsuit?” she asked herself as much as her husband. But Dr. Rochelle was enjoying the movie already on the TV screen. He did not reply until the lead character had finished her lines.

“Claire, people in sales and marketing travel with the expectation that their hotel has an indoor pool. This Julianne…or, uhm, Jilly… seems nice. She is a bit worldly, but so is Luke.” He patted his wife’s shoulder. “She, also, isn’t in awe of our son or sought him out for a favor… which probably is a first for Luke,” he laughed. “Here, give me that remote: I don’t think we need to chaperone the pool. Natalie will be enough of a pest. Besides, Luke and Jilly are consenting adults.”

“That’s what worries me.”

#

The beeping phone clattered to the floor. Jilly groaned, pushing the duvet to one side in order to lean over the side of the bed. It took three tries to silence the alarm feature. With a sigh, she fell back onto the pile of pillows clustered against the headboard. The building Luke had described as a guest cottage was twice the size of the apartment she shared with her roommate and furnished to a degree that could rival a five-star hotel. Despite these comfortable surroundings, Jilly wasn’t completely at ease. The cautious hospitality of Luke’s parents wasn’t unexpected, but it hinted to their concerns that she was another Cora. Thank goodness Luke’s sister had ended that awkwardness with her irreverent comment. Yet, Jilly now smiled: mentally replaying the swim in the heated pool, followed by the romantic dip in the hot tub, afterwards, with Luke. She felt a giggle simmer within her grin, remembering other, later, activities. She yawned, now content in her sleepiness and memories until muted sounds from the patio reminded her that the Rochelle family had a busy schedule of Mardi Gras traditions, starting before dawn. With effort, she pushed herself up, and out of bed.

Thirty minutes later, Jilly looked away from her tablet, towards a series of soft knocks on the cottage’s door, accompanied by the click of the door’s latch. She met Luke’s smile. “Good Morning.”

“’Morning. ‘Had hoped I could wake you up.” Luke now bent his face towards hers, connecting against her mouth to enjoy a deep kiss.

She considered abandoning her tablet, but instead, returned that kiss before coyly angling her face to one side. “Do you have a minute to look at this before we have to leave?”

Luke held up an insulated carafe “Not until we have some coffee.”

The rich, aromatic brew tasted nothing like the coffee Jilly drank in Memphis. “Wow. I’m awake, now,” she laughed, adding after another brief sip. “Delicious.”

Luke, settling next to her within the small sofa, only glanced towards the electronic device; he felt a comfortable, primal-sort of familiarity as he slid his palm against the back of Jilly’s neck. She responded by angling her face towards his. Her smile implied so much. With more effort than Luke thought possible, he contented himself by stroking his thumb against that soft spot behind her ear. Nodding towards the tablet he said “Is it music or an email from Aunt Mimi? I’ll need more coffee if it’s one of her legal memos.” Jilly’s soft laugh felt comfortable in his ears; a sound of a shared amusement that he had never experienced with Cora, or even with Laurel. A realization that lingered while Jilly spoke and he moved his arm so that his hand now cupped her shoulder.

“Music, silly. I changed some of the words to that second verse and added…well, let me click on the icon so that the software voice will sing the lyrics with your score.”

Luke smiled. “I knew you would like this program. Lots easier than having to sit at the piano and play a section over and over.” He listened to the thin, mechanical voice warble the two verses. “Huh. Yeah, that’s closer to what I was thinking. But, let’s just save it, for now. My dad keeps an eye on the clock and runs a tight schedule on Mardi Gras morning,” Luke sighed.

Jilly nuzzled his neck. “So…with this tight schedule: did he notice what time you left this guest cottage last night?” she whispered. Luke only replied with another kiss.

#

From the back row of the Rochelle’s luxury SUV, Jilly listened in surprised to Luke’s sister and mother debate which gown Natalie should wear to the final Ball of the Carnival Season.  How many Ball gowns do women in this City own? As Dr. Rochelle maneuvered the vehicle towards a parking space, Claire said the words Jilly both dreaded and anticipated.

“Oh, look: there’s Martin and Laurel.”

The couple making their way across the parking lot waved in recognition of the vehicle. Jilly could now understand why Luke would have been smitten with Laurel. She was petite and delicate; Jilly was reminded of a coquettish fawn. Martin, on the other hand, dwarfed Laurel; his swaying gait and animated actions a noticeable contrast to her delicate presence. The couple reached the vehicle almost as soon as the passengers stepped outside. Martin gave his mother a quick kiss, before approaching Luke and Jilly.

“Boy, do I have news for you,” he said to Luke, pausing to offer Jilly a slight smile. “Cora is in town. We saw her at last night’s Ball.” He paused again to, now, offer Jilly his hand. “Hi, I’m Martin; you must be the reason Luke skipped the family’s dinner last weekend,” he laughed. “Nice to finally meet you, Jilly.” His voice tone shifted as he returned his attention to Luke. “So, here’s the worst part: looks like she’s made a conquest with Senator Aucoin. They showed up late to the Ball; he was squiring her around as if she was Queen of Carnival. A spectacle.”

Jilly heard the sarcasm in Martin’s rapidly-spoken monologue, but was also interested in Laurel’s conversation with the Rochelles. Laurel, in a softer tone, was relaying a similar version of Martin’s report. Now all three women walked quickly towards Luke. Dr. Rochelle, though, remained near the hood of the SUV. Claire waved her hand to capture Luke’s attention.

“Your father is calling the club’s GM right now to see if that woman and the Senator are already at the brunch. Oh,” she added in her frustration, “I wish your father would have never invited him to our party.”

“Mother, if not Bernie Aucoin, Cora would have found some other sugar-daddy,” said Luke with a humorless laugh. “She has some sort of radar for deep pockets.” Now, he faced Laurel, barely realizing he had taken Jilly’s hand. “Hey, Laurel. I’d like you to meet my friend and…hopefully, new music partner, Jilly.”

Certainly looks the musical type, Laurel, decided, noting the lean woman’s long auburn hair, stylish clothes and bohemian jewelry. But she seems to be a more natural, friendlier type than Cora. To Jilly, though, she said “How nice to meet you in person. Martin and I really enjoyed your performance on NiteLives. I can’t believe that was your first time on a stage!”

Jilly grinned. “Well, it helps to have the right back-up singer.” If she had any lingering doubts about Luke, they disappeared with his laugh and brief hug.

“All right,” began Dr. Rochelle as he walked towards the group, “the Senator and Cora have not yet arrived. The GM has a room reserved for us, far enough away from the main dining area to minimize the potential… awkwardness.” He tried to smile, but it was an effort. “Let’s just try to focus on the holiday, OK?”

Their destination was a single-story building, wrapped in a wide, glass enclosed veranda and fronting the entrance to a picturesque golf course. “Why is your father worried the Senator will be at this particular club, with Cora?” Jilly softly asked.

“His family has had a membership, here, since…like, the 1930s” said Luke. “Just be prepared for anything, if Cora arrives with him.”

Jilly tried to maintain an inner calm as she walked alongside Luke. The man greeting them outside the front entrance wore an expression that matched her anxiety. He insisted they enter the club through a side door. He then led them, in a single file, along short a service corridor, then into a private dining room with a sizeable window providing a quality view towards the driving range. Natalie, seemed to be the only one amused. Slowly spinning around to scan the room and its decorations, she laughingly announced the room “exceeded expectations.” Jilly noticed no one else was smiling.

“I am sorry for this inconvenience,” the man said to Dr. and Mrs. Rochelle, barely concealing his exasperation with Natalie’s attitude, “but the Club President thought we shouldn’t risk any chance …encounters.”

Natalie turned towards her brothers to whisper “I think it’s the most hilarious thing to happen, here, since the fist fight on New Year’s Day.” To Laurel and Jilly she explained “two of the club’s officers discovered they were dating the same divorcee, and…well, it was ridiculous.”

Jilly started to comment, when a familiar voice was heard outside this dining room.

“In here? Whew, I’ll need a map to find my way back to the front door.”

“Mimi!” Claire said with a laugh. “What brings you out at this hour?”

“Oh, I wish it was a craving for cheese grits, Sis, but this is business.” Muriel DePaul motioned towards Luke and Jilly. “I need a word with these two.”

She led them to a far corner, near the large window. As Muriel waited for the rest of the Rochelle clan and Laurel to leave the room, Jilly felt a small chill of concern. Aunt Mimi’s frown hinted to trouble. She tried to steady her nerves by facing the window, watching golf carts, festooned with purple, green and gold garlands and filled with laughing golfers, roll away from the driving range towards the first hole. Now, Muriel cleared her throat.

“So… that dinner meeting I had to attend last night was with Bernie Aucoin…and his… protégé, Cora Wallis.” She held up both hands to stop Luke’s comments. “And of course, I told him it would be a conflict of interest to represent her. But, since they were still determined to freely discussed their plans with me, I’m not held to confidentiality.” She paused. “Now, it looks like this whole snit from Cora, against the band and her demands for compensation, is a smoke screen for her newest fixation: a movie career.”

Luke laughed. “She’s a natural; I wish her luck.”

Muriel shook her head at his reaction. “Please take this seriously, Luke. It’s your best chance to quash her demands for compensation from that unfinished album. I called Bruce last night and he’s now been busy negotiating more realistic terms to cancel that contract.”

“What’s my part in this?” asked Jilly, surprised when Aunt Mimi laughed.

“Well, this is where it gets weird. Bernie Aucoin’s broadcasting corporation, somehow, got a copy of your demo. Bernie wants to use one of your songs in the movie he’s underwriting for Cora.”

“My song?”

Muriel held up her hands and laughed, again. “He’s willing to pay a decent rate, too. I told him to send me his proposal so that you and I can review it tomorrow.” Now, she turned towards Luke. “Bruce should have a letter of cancellation for you, and the rest of the band to sign when you two meet at 2:30.” She sniffed the air. “Mmmm. I think I’ve earned a decent breakfast. Let’s check out the buffet.”

Jilly strolled the buffet line in a semi-trance; Luke had to prompt the servers to place several helpings of food onto her plate. Now, seated between Luke and Aunt Mimi, Jilly felt numb, but listened to the banter between Luke and his brother, Laurel’s recount of examining an alligator, and the latest family gossip shared between Claire and Muriel. She tasted the serving of french toast and sipped the foam off her Mimosa, while mentally replaying Aunt Mimi’s news and reciting a prayer of thanks. When Luke asked, she said “I guess I’m just overwhelmed. This is all so surreal…like a dream…and to think: for the rest of the world, it’s just a Tuesday.”

 Luke wrapped one arm across Jilly’s shoulders. Inhaling her perfume, he brought his face close to her ear; whispering the two words he was so nervous, yet so anxious, to say. “My Love…if this is a dream, let this be our new reality.” Jilly’s shining eyes and the light pressure from her hand against his heart was the only reply he needed.

GOLD: POWER

WHEN MORE THAN LUCK PREVAILS

“A whole year, Mom,” Natalie sighed. “I can’t believe an entire year has come and gone…and tomorrow is another Twelfth Night party.” She waited until the workers carried the Christmas tree out of the foyer before adding “And who would have predicted…this.”

Claire Rochelle now sat in the chair next to her daughter. “Honey, you aren’t the first person to be in an accident. It’s just bad timing it happened the first day of our ski trip. We will make the best of this. And when the dressmaker comes by this afternoon, and needs to modify your gown, just remember Jilly’s suggestions.” Claire laughed “And a year ago, who would have thought we would be asking Luke’s latest…well… music partner, about tailoring.”

“Oh, Mom, compared to Cora, I think she’s a dream” said Natalie. She now swiveled her wheelchair towards the kitchen. “Did you know she’s been sending me a silly email or text every morning since the accident?” She rolled the wheelchair a few feet forward, then stopped. “I’m going back to the guest cottage for a nap, before Emily arrives. I’m too tired to face the party planner and her crew.”

“Let me at least push your chair as far as the patio doors,” Claire said. From the family room windows, Claire watched Natalie’s progress across the pool deck, up the temporary ramp and into the guest cottage. Oh, why didn’t we install an elevator when my mother lived here? My sweet girl, staying in that cottage, while in a wheelchair… Claire worked to control the tears she had, so far, hidden from Natalie. Deciding not to cancel their annual Twelfth Night party had been her husband’s idea. “Natalie can’t stop the world” he had argued. “She needs to learn to be adaptable to what Life sends her way. Who knows,” he had laughed, “this accident could be a lucky charm.” Claire wasn’t seeing anything lucky, so far, in juggling the home nurse schedules, the follow-up doctor appointments and the many details that would result in their annual party. She sighed as the doorbell rang. Walking down the hallway, towards the foyer, she heard several loud thumps.

“Miz Claire!”

“Coming, June.” Their housekeeper, now, poked her face past the door frame leading to the foyer. Her expression made Claire laugh.  “What’s happened, now?”

#

From her spot, next to the front parlor fireplace, Natalie watched the line of guests. She had discovered an interesting, predictable, pattern from these people: first, they would greet her parents, then Martin and Laurel, and then, glance towards her with a mixed expression of pity and concern. She turned her face towards her college roommate, seated to her left. “Hey, Emily. Would you mind asking one of the waiters to get me a soda? Thanks.” She now smiled and waved to her mother’s book club friends as they walked past. Gawd, you’d think I was dying or something.

“Wow, Nat, tough break…no pun intended,” said the boy flopping into the chair Emily had just vacated. “Is anyone allowed to sign your casts?”

Natalie rolled her face towards the twelve-year-old who lived across the street. “Perry, I am wearing a long dress just so folks don’t make such a big deal out of this. Do you really think I’m going to prop up my legs on a table, during this party, to collect autographs?”

Perry snorted a giggle. “That would be hysterical. Really.” He shifted his pose. “Is your brother going to sing a song, like he did last year?”

“Very unlikely. He and Jilly are in New York taping some interview for a late night TV show this week.” She smiled at the waiter, who now approached with Emily. “Thanks so much.” She sipped on the straw, monitoring Perry’s fidgeting.

Emily now sat in a chair across from Natalie. “So…did the dressmaker have some ideas about your gown?” Emily frowned as Perry extended his legs parallel to the floor and began attempting to hoist himself up from his chair using only his arms. Natalie, she noticed, seemed oblivious to these antics.

“Amazingly, yes. She had a similar idea to Jilly’s suggestion: to just remove the back section and the crinoline.”

“So, everyone will see your…backside?” Perry laughed. “Crazy.”

Natalie and Emily exchanged expressions of exasperation. Emily, though, couldn’t resist saying “Didn’t you hear? No one is wearing pants or the backs of their dresses at this year’s Ball.”

Perry’s loud giggling, finally, prompted his father to guide him away from Natalie and Emily, towards the dining room. Emily shook her head.

“Your parents should have an age restriction mandate on this party. What a pest.”

“Perry’s an acquired taste. His family is…different.”

“How different?”

Natalie leaned forward. “His mother is this botanist who is always traveling for research projects. Now, she’s been studying some rare plants in Peru for three years – three! Never comes home, not even for Perry’s birthday. His older brother is our age…he and I went to the same high school…but I haven’t seen him in years. I heard he enlisted. Perry never talks about him, neither does his dad, so it’s odd. Now, I’m fairly certain Perry and his dad live in that big house across the street, all alone.”

Emily stared at the bald man navigating the perimeter of the dining room table with Perry. “What a sad situation for them both; I’ll be sure to say something nice to Perry, later.” She smiled, now, at Natalie. “Anyway: I am so excited to be able to attend a Ball! But, how does anyone manage all these parties? Last year, wasn’t your Ball in February? I was so mad my practicum advisor wouldn’t allow me to take those days off. Why did they change the date?”

 “The whole Carnival Season follows this ancient lunar calendar” began Natalie. “Don’t ask me to explain it,” she laughed. “Last year, there were more than four weeks between this party and the Arion Ball. But this year, Mardi Gras Day is so early that all the Balls, parties and parades are squeezed into, it seems like, eleven days.” She waved at another neighbor before continuing. “Still, the good news is that, this year, I won’t have to miss any school, since we are still on winter break.”

“Oh,” Emily said slowly. “I guess that’s why the rest of our gang couldn’t attend.” She hoped her smile looked convincing.

“Well, not exactly.” Natalie clasped her hands tightly across her lap. “Dad insisted I wouldn’t be feeling well enough for everyone to be here, again. He and Mom would only allow me to invite you. And I guess he was right…I have all these therapy appointments, and it’s no easy mission getting me in and out of a car…” She was almost able to prevent a tear from rolling down her cheek before she rapidly said, “Oh Em, I am so glad you could be here. I’d feel like a complete loser if I went to tomorrow’s supper, and then that Ball, without one good friend.”

#

“Oh, look: a gimp and a wimp.”

“Wendy, you are so cruel,” laughed Miles Oliver. He tipped a handful of cashews into his mouth, while eying the other offerings along the hors d’oeuvre table. The procession of Natalie, her mousy-looking companion, and the rest of the Rochelle party into the restaurant’s event room had created a minor stir of excitement among some of the Krewe members. Last year, he had enjoyed escorting Natalie as part of the Ball’s rituals for debutantes. And even though she was not, as his frat brothers would have agreed, a hot commodity, she was – never-the-less - Luke Rochelle’s sister. Luke had even given him a guitar pick, and Miles still carried it proudly in his wallet. Wendy, now, leaned closer, blocking his access to a tray of shrimp.

“My mother told me that engagement ring Martin gave to his fiancée has a weird-looking stone that Martin claims is an uncut diamond. What a strange family.” She met Miles’ stare. “Aren’t you glad you won’t be pushing her wheelchair across the dance floor tomorrow?”

Miles only grinned, determined to preserve Wendy’s good humor. As a girlfriend, Wendy Harris was both prime arm candy and a party girl that could handle her liquor, but prone to a cattiness that made him nervous. He ignored her sigh of impatience as he waved at Natalie. “We didn’t think you would be here tonight, Nat,” he said, once she and her wheelchair were closer. “Didn’t we, Wendy?”

“How did you ever manage the steps into this place?” Wendy smirked as she leaned against Miles. “I almost caught my heel on the second step…thankfully, Miles was beside me. Or did you have to use that ramp near the kitchen?”

Natalie tried to smile. Goodness. Perhaps if your shoes didn’t practically set you en pointe, you could walk properly. But instead, she said “It’s quite handy, having an older brother who can bench press three times my weight: he carried me inside and Dad brought in my chair. Oh,” she continued, “this is my roommate from college, Emily McGraw. You may remember her from my parent’s Twelfth Night Party, last year. Emily, this is Wendy Harris and Miles Oliver.”

“Hi,” Emily began, now directing her comment to Wendy “I remember you from that party. We discovered we went to the same summer camp in South Carolina.” She was caught off-guard by Wendy’s emotionless expression and insincere tone.

“Really? I don’t recall that conversation.” Wendy’s gaze shifted to a point well past Emily’s shoulder. “Oh, is that Caroline? I have got to ask her about her trip to Cabo. Miles?” She tugged on his hand.

“Glad you’re doing OK, Nat,” Miles said over his shoulder as he trailed behind Wendy’s swaying stride.

“Lord, Natalie. She is just…”

“Yeah, she is.” Natalie laughed a sad sort of sigh. “She’s now dating the guy who was my escort at last year’s Ball. The guy who was the dreamiest of all the junior Krewe members, and yet she still has to be so, so…”

“Predictable?” Martin handed both his sister and Emily a flute of champagne. To his sister he said “Dad knows I’m giving you champagne. He threatened to break my cameras, though, if I bring you anymore.” Martin monitored Wendy and Miles’ path across the room for several seconds before adding “We are seated at table eight, thankfully nowhere near those two.”

Emily’s seat, though, had a direct view towards the side of this elaborate room where Wendy, Miles and the adults she guessed were their parents, were seated. She felt like an anthropologist studying the social behaviors of an alien race. Finally, she looked away, towards Natalie. “You know: my social psychology prof would faint from observing some of the more overt sociopathic behaviors in this dining room. I may want to base my senior thesis on this annual dinner.”

“Supper,” corrected Natalie with a laugh. “Or if you want to be completely precise, The Queen’s Coronation Supper. The Krewe President officially announces this year’s queen, right before the start of the meal. Naturally,” she added, “the deb and her family already know she will be queen…I mean, she has to be fitted for her gown and the headpiece and secretly rehearse her procession steps, but it’s a big announcement, for this group.”

She wasn’t exaggerating, Emily soon learned. There were trumpets, speeches and a flurry of photographic activity. The wait staff, who had crowded along the perimeter of one side of the room, now stepped into action.

“Goodness,” Claire Rochelle said softly, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a bearded waiter in this restaurant. They must be really desperate for help.”

“Mom,” groaned Martin. “Please remember we live in the twenty-first century.”

If the bearded waiter heard these comments, he made no acknowledgement. He orbited their table, setting the plates of salad between each grouping of cutlery until he stepped next to Natalie. The plate wobbled slightly in his hand. “Sorry, miss.”

Natalie squinted at the waiter’s profile. “It’s all okay. These salads usually need a bit more tossing, anyway.” His dry laugh was barely audible, but vaguely familiar. Natalie glanced at his profile, again, but quickly forgot about the waiter as Emily continued to question almost every aspect of the meal, the restaurant and the décor of this room.

“You mean all these men were Kings of Mardi Gras?” Emily swiveled her head back and forth to better appreciate the quantity of framed portraits. “When we have a chance to walk around, I want to take a closer look of all this ephemera. Amazing.”

“Kings of Carnival” laughed Natalie. “And, yes: as soon as the dessert plates are cleared away, we can certainly roam.”

But Natalie and Emily became distracted by a conversation with Laurel and a woman who had been Queen of this Krewe’s Ball thirty years earlier. Coffee had already been served and many people had already begun mingling between the tables. Dr. Rochelle now patted Natalie’s shoulder. “You remember Raymond Stewart from last year’s presentation, right? The Krewe Captain thinks Ray will be a better escort for you, this year.”

Natalie stared at her father and the young man standing nearby. Right. Raymond was Wendy’s escort last year. He looks like a sumo wrestler and Wendy Harris sees an opportunity to push Raymond on me, so she can claim Miles. Bet her dad called in all sorts of favors for this swap. But to her father, Natalie said “Of course I remember Ray. Hi! How did you like your semester abroad?” Before replying, Raymond pulled a chair from a neighboring table, setting it closer to Natalie. She realized, with a twinge of guilt, that his actions were a courteous way to allow him to speak with her at her eye level.

Blotting his face with an oversized handkerchief, he groaned as he sat. “It was great. I’m now applying to a culinary school in Rome. Who knows? Maybe I’ll open my own place in a few years…maybe I’ll start a catering biz. Wouldn’t it be crazy if I got to cater that party at your folk’s place?”

Natalie felt another pang of guilt. Miles Oliver did look like a model, but his notion of academia seemed to be more focused on fraternity escapades than a career path. She smiled at Raymond, determined to atone for her unkind thoughts. “I’m so jealous. I wish I hadn’t screwed up and ruined my chance to spend a semester in Paris.” She patted her knees.

“But it wasn’t your fault, Nat,” Raymond said. “The guy driving that snowmobile was on the wrong trail…I, uhm, read the online article.”

“Thank you. Keep reminding her,” interjected Emily. “She’s still blaming herself. Oh, and I’m Emily, her roommate.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Raymond, but he returned his focus to Natalie. “Look, Nat, there’s something you need to know. One of the waiters handed me this.” He pulled a small, slightly wrinkled envelope from within his dinner jacket. “He said you were the only person he could trust.”

Natalie laughed. “Quite a joke, Ray. Did Miles put you up to this? He teased me constantly during last year’s Ball, after I told him I changed my major.”

Raymond blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you were a history major.”

“Alas, now, I’m studying Criminology,” Natalie grinned. The envelope was not addressed, but it was sealed. Natalie took a butter knife that had been left on the table and thoroughly scrubbed it within her napkin. Running it under the envelope flap, she carefully extracted a folded piece of paper. Emily and Raymond leaned closer to read the neat printing.

My brother is in danger. Please help me get him away from my father.

“Whoa. It’s like something from a TV show,” said Raymond.

“SHHHH” hissed Natalie. “Which waiter gave you this envelope?”

“The one with the beard,” began Raymond. “My dad almost choked on his Sazerac when that guy brought the soup course and talked to me,” he laughed. “Dad is so old-school, he still complains that the ice in his drink isn’t hand-chipped anymore. A waiter with a beard, for him, is like…like, heresy.” He was pleased, hearing these pretty young women laugh with him. “Didn’t you see him?”

“Yeah, and...” Natalie tapped the edge of the envelope against the table top. “For just a moment, I thought he looked familiar.” She stared at the envelope for a few more seconds before shifting her gaze to Raymond and Emily. “So: are both of you ready to solve a mystery?”

They decided that since Raymond had the culinary interest, he would be the most likely person to wander towards the kitchen. Natalie shared her phone number to Raymond’s phone, then she and Emily explored the portraits, memorabilia and autographed photos lining the walls of the room. They had just returned to table eight when Raymond re-entered the private dining room. His arms swung as if they assisted in his ability to walk. Natalie suppressed the urge to laugh.

“I found him,” Raymond whispered. “He said he would call you after his shift ends…sometime around 1AM.” He glanced at his phone. “About two more hours.” A voice caused him to look away. “Uh-oh, that’s my dad. Let me know what this guy has to say, OK? I won’t be able to sleep ‘til you call.” He glanced at the floor before looking at Natalie. “You know, I was kind-of worried I would be, I don’t know, a disappointment… after Miles was your escort. You’re alright, Natalie…nice to meet you, Emily. I’ll see you, both, at the Ball. G’night.”

Natalie waved at Raymond as he followed his father through the doorway. Now, angling her wheelchair towards Emily, she grinned. “OK, Miz Psychology Therapist-in-training, your evaluation?”

“A heartwarming demonstration of kindness, maturity and possibly an early indication of self-actualization…on your part,” laughed Emily. “Raymond, is definitely, just smitten. Com-on, it looks like your parents are getting ready to leave, too.”

#

“Have two hours ever taken so long?” Emily indulged in a deep yawn. “Is there any coffee left in that carafe?”

“Nope.” yawned Natalie. “and it’s almost 1:15. If he doesn’t call soon…”

They both laughed when, seconds later, her phone buzzed. Natalie felt her eyebrows lift as she activated the device and heard a familiar voice. “Rene’? Is that really you?”

“Yeah Nat, it’s really me. Boy, am I glad Ray gave you that note. I was so worried I wouldn’t get to work the Coronation Supper, again, and miss the chance to contact you.”

“Again?”

“I started working there, last year. Didn’t realize the Supper is a big perk for the wait staff.” He laughed, briefly. “I had to work my butt off to get on this year’s list.” He took a deep inhale. “Look, Nat, would you be able to meet me, somewhere, tomorrow? Because of all that’s going on, I can’t show up at the guard station and expect him to let me walk to your house.”

“But what IS going on?”

“It’s a long story…more than I want to discuss over the phone.” He paused. “Would your friend be able to drive you somewhere? Like maybe City Park?”

Natalie glanced at Emily before saying “I think I could get my mom to loan us a car, but it has to be somewhere my wheelchair can roll.”

“Oh, Nat, of course. Let’s meet near the Peristyle; the coffee stand now has tables on that patio, between the Casino Building and the Peristyle. I can get there by eleven, OK?”

Raymond was equally surprised about the caller, and concerned. “This sounds weird, Natalie. Rene’ is supposed to be in the Army…or was it the Marine Corps? Maybe he’s AWOL, or something.” He cleared his throat. “I should go with you.”

Natalie had set her phone on speaker mode, and had to press a pillow against her mouth as Emily playfully pushed at her shoulder. “Oh, that’s…sweet, Ray, but Em will be with me, and it’s a public place. I promise, I’ll call you after, to let you know what’s going on. Good night.”  

 “Okay, who is this Rene’?” began Emily. “And why would he want your help?

 Natalie readjusted the pillows behind her back. “Rene’ is Perry’s brother. I don’t understand what’s going on, either but, Em, I’m so tired, I can’t think anymore.”

Emily crawled off the bed, then helped Natalie arrange the other pillows, a frame over her casts and a weighted sheet over that frame before turning off the bedside lamp. Settling herself on the futon angled into the nearby corner, she now switched off the lamp on the nearby side table. Even in the semi-darkness, this guest cottage was impressive. Emily stared about the room: the shadowy forms of floral arrangements and furniture, the pale glint of moonlight touching the metal frames showcasing all the artwork arranged along the fireplace wall, and even the wide-bladed ceiling fan slowly spinning overhead created a tasteful, luxe retreat. She tried to mentally catalog all she had heard and seen since she arrived in New Orleans.  Claire Rochelle had covertly warned her about Natalie’s “blue moods” (geez Mrs. R, what do you think a traumatic accident does to anyone’s emotional stability?) but Emily was certain Natalie’s mother would be unprepared for whatever help Natalie was planning to offer Rene’.

#

“City Park?” Claire didn’t look away from her efforts to concoct her daily blend of fruit, protein powder and yogurt into the blender. “Audubon Park is literally just across the street and if Emily doesn’t mind pushing your wheelchair, you would be there in minutes.”

“Em wanted to taste beignets, so I thought the coffee stand at City Park would be, uhm, safer for me than the French Quarter,” Natalie lied, while tracing the seam on the wheelchair’s arm pad with her fingernail. “We’ll be back long before the dressmaker arrives.” She waited, watching the blender blades whirr, knowing her mother had activated the appliance as a delay.

After pulsing the mixture several times, Claire finally met her daughter’s gaze. “Oh, I suppose there’s no harm. But…” She pointed her thumb at Natalie “Only one beignet for you. There’s no time for altering your gown, if it doesn’t fit, today.” After taking a quick taste of the smoothie, she added “I’m certain you’ve gained at least five pounds since the accident. It’s just not healthy, hon…and will only be more problematic once you’re able to walk again.”

As Natalie and Emily left the kitchen, Natalie whispered. “Now you’ve witnessed my mother’s obsession with body image. Ugh. I may eat three orders of beignets, just for spite.”

There were no other cars in the ADA parking spaces, and Emily was glad. She felt very nervous driving a car worth more than her dad’s annual salary and was thankful she could steer the luxury sedan into a slot that seemed wide enough to accommodate a bus. As she and Natalie made their way across the parking lot, towards a vintage, brick building fronted with an arched colonnade, Emily also watched for the bearded waiter.

“I don’t see him, Natalie. Is this the right coffee stand?”

Natalie laughed. “It’s not like Central Park, Em, there’s only one. He may be waiting for us in a car – you know, making sure we didn’t bring anyone else along.” But she, too, felt uneasy from not seeing Rene’ anywhere near-by. They had now reached the counter with the hand-written sign “Order Here” taped above the window. After negotiating with the staff to loan them a tray, Emily slowly guided the wheelchair across the uneven brick patio while Natalie managed to balance the tray of coffee mugs and two plates of beignets, without incident, to a far table. No sooner had Emily positioned the wheelchair to face the table and turned back towards the building to return the tray, when a woman swiftly approached Natalie. She started to reach out to Natalie, but stopped.

“Natalie?”

The wide brimmed fedora and oversized sunglasses hid most of the woman’s face. Her shapeless wool coat was equally concealing, but Natalie had noticed the woman’s left hand before it was quickly drawn back into a pocket. She doubted there were many middle-aged women with a tattoo of a tropical flower vining around their thumb. “Mrs. Delachaise?”

The woman lowered herself into the chair across from Natalie. “It’s Sarah Henry, now. I’ve been separated from Perry and Rene’s father for three years, so it makes no sense to hold on to that last name.” She glanced over her shoulder, towards the coffee stand. “Is she your college friend, the one who was at last night’s dinner?” To Natalie’s surprised expression and nod she leaned forward. “Can you trust her? If not, I have to leave…now.”

“She’s from New York and knows nobody in New Orleans, except me and my family,” Natalie said quickly. “You can trust us both, but what’s going on? Where is Rene’?”

“He’s in my car” she said as she feigned to brush some lint from the sleeve of her coat.

Natalie guessed the action was a signal. From behind, she heard a car door slam from the vicinity of the parking lot. Emily had almost reached the table at about the same time as Rene’, traveling slightly opposite from her, approached from the parking lot. Emily paused, unsure of the presence of the woman.

“Is everything alright, Natalie?”

“It’s OK, Em. Please let me introduce you to Sarah Henry, Rene’s mom. Rene’, I think you remember, was working as a waiter at last night’s supper. Miz Sarah, Rene’: this is my college roommate, Emily.”

Rene’ and his mother acknowledged Emily with nods and brief smiles, before quickly refocusing their attention on Natalie. Sarah spoke first.

“We are so grateful you agreed to meet us,” Sarah began. “Rene’ and I have been planning this for more than two years, now, and your help will make our plans a success.” She glanced at Rene’ with a sad smile. “But first, there are some other details you need to know. I hope what I tell you both won’t be too disturbing…given Mr. Delachaise’s reputation.”

“My dad is not who you think he is,” interrupted Rene’, conscious how his hands, resting atop the table, had clenched into fists. “He’s a…a scary man, capable of… well, any sort of abuse you can imagine. Mom took the brunt of it until I turned sixteen. Then, for me, every day was like Russian Roulette: would he just ignore me? would he hound me, all day long, with insults? would he take…”

Sarah placed her hand atop Rene’s shoulder as his voice wobbled. “But you were strong, Rene’,” she said softly. “You followed the first step of our plan as best as you could.”

Sarah shifted her gaze towards both young women. “Everyone in the neighborhood believes I spend much of my time out of the country, pursuing research work; more involved with my career than my children’s welfare. The fact is: many times, my soon-to-be-former husband beat me so severely I was quietly…relocated…by his inner circle of thug-staff until I could return home. He threatened to harm my sons if I ever attempted to reveal this violence.” Sarah now withdrew her left hand from her pocket. “I know Claire thought I had lost my mind for getting a tattoo,” she said as she extended her hand towards Natalie. “But it conceals an impressive scar. Look.”

“He went after us, both…with a knife,” Rene’ added. “Day after my sixteenth birthday party, because I hadn’t finished writing thank-you notes for my gifts. He threatened to cut my new watch off my wrist, but instead, slashed at Mom when she intervened.”

Natalie felt slightly dizzy. From this close proximity, the tattoo neatly, but not completely, obscured the jagged scar which ran almost the entire length of Sarah’s thumb, then curved downward. From the orientation, Natalie was amazed the knife hadn’t severed that thumb. “But…but didn’t the ER docs ask you what happened?” Sarah’s laugh was short and hard.

“ER? He had the stable vet brought to the house.” Sarah slid her hand back into her coat pocket. “It was after that night, when I made my plans for us to escape.”

Natalie couldn’t prevent her hands from shaking as she reached for her coffee mug. She had only been inside the Delachaise house once, for Rene’s sixteenth birthday party. The house had seemed remarkably under-furnished, given the way her own mother lavished artwork, mirrors, floral arrangements and decorative touches throughout their home. But Natalie had guessed the emptiness was to accommodate the crowds of people drifting from room to room. Many of the guests were not from their high school, or even from the social club where many of the teens from Audubon Place carried memberships. Instead, there were politicians, the LSU football coach, people Natalie vaguely recalled from the Society pages and the unsmiling men who normally orbited Rene’s dad. Stan Delachaise, owner of an international shipping company, a stable of race horses and a minor league baseball team, reveled in his reputation as a self-made multi-billionaire with only one year of college education. Natalie tried to compare the image she had accepted as the successful Mr. Delachaise, against the horrible information shared by Rene’ and Sarah. She shook her head. “But what about Perry? He was at my parents’ party two days ago and seemed fine…well, I mean…”

Rene’s wry smile was barely seen behind his moustache and beard. “Yeah, we’ve heard that PD is still a handful,” he said with a small laugh. “The housekeeper keeps us informed,” he added. “Mom was the one who helped Lucia get her work visa, so she was willing to help.”

“Perry, as you’ve probably guessed, is on the spectrum…lightly on the spectrum,” Sarah stressed. “I think that’s the reason Stan has had more…patience with him.” She took a steadying breathe. “And by Stan keeping Perry so close, it is the perfect way to…to prevent me from proceeding with some of my other ideas: for divorce, for getting Perry away from him…” She pushed the sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. “But the housekeeper has been noticing a change. Stan has started yelling at Perry. Not often, but…and he hasn’t touched him…yet…” Sarah was almost able to swallow a sob “…but, I am so scared for Perry.”

“So, we have only one opportunity to get Perry away from him,” Rene’ said quickly. “And the Arion Ball is part of the plan.”

#

Natalie directed Emily to take a more complicated route from City Park back to the Rochelle house. The extra twenty minutes were barely enough time to review the structured plan devised by Sarah and Rene’.  They pulled into the garage minutes before the dressmaker arrived at the Audubon Place security guard’s station. Claire was not pleased.

“Honestly,” she sighed. “One minute is NOT ‘long before’ Trinh shows up” she said as she strode towards the sound of the front door bell. “I hope you two can get back to the guest cottage and look prepared for her.”

Natalie ignored her mother’s tone and implied anger. As Emily steered her wheelchair towards the guest cottage, though, she shared Raymond’s cell number to Emily’s phone. “You don’t need to see me struggle into that dress. Make sure he understands all the details.”

“Got it, boss,” Emily laughed. “Or should I say ‘ten-four’?”

#

“We are leaving in fifteen minutes.” Claire rapped, again, on the cottage door. Honestly, why do they think that door needs to be locked?  She didn’t notice the slight movement of the draperies as she turned back towards the house.

“Has she left?”

Emily stepped away from the window. “Yes, and I think she snagged her dress on that shrub next to the pool deck.”

“Drat.” Natalie checked, again, the placement of the small tote tucked into the side of her wheelchair. “It’s a new dress; she will be in a real fizz if one bugle bead is out of place. Let’s get a move-along.”

#

Emily, again, felt like a astronaut among an alien race. Tucked into a chair within a corner of a large Green Room, she observed the frantic activity, multi-layered conversations and general unguarded behavior of the debutantes, returning debutantes, their mothers, several hairdressers and the uniformed women who were attempting to assist where needed. She grinned More ideas for my senior thesis.

“Excuse me, miss.” One of the uniformed staff, attempting to push a cart carrying platters of small sandwiches and a glass urn filled with iced water and lemon slices, now brought the cart to a stop so that Emily’s view into the room was now blocked. “Did my cart mark your lovely dress? I was so busy making sure nothing would spill, I’m afraid I ran over the hem.”

The dress was untouched. “All’s fine” Emily assured the woman, adding a slight wink. “Would I be able to have a small plate of those sandwiches?” She inwardly laughed at Sarah Henry’s clumsy efforts to serve the plate of food and her compliment: her dress had been purchased at a thrift store in Brooklyn. Compared to the beautiful gowns swirling around this room, her dress should have earned her an escort out of this room, let alone into the actual Ball.

“Look, Mom,” whispered Wendy, staring towards the mirror, and the reverse image of Emily. “Now, she’s making friends with the help. Obviously not aware of how this works.”

“Maybe they’re comparing shopping hints,” Wendy’s mother replied as she tucked a stray curl of Wendy’s hair within a bobby pin. “That dress looks like it was ordered from the final edition of the Sears catalog.” To the woman pushing the cart, though, she said “Oh, yes: a small cup of lemon water would be perfect to settle my daughter’s nerves.” Mrs. Harris gingerly managed to take the cup without touching the woman’s food-service-style gloves. “Here, Wendy, perhaps a sip of this will calm those giggles.”

Claire, with Emily steering Natalie’s wheelchair, were the last people to exit the Green Room. Claire worked to maintain a neutral expression as Raymond Stewart approached. She was surprised at Emily’s friendly attitude towards the rotund young man.

“She’s all yours, now, Ray. Good Luck!” Emily patted his sleeve.

Ray laughed. “But you’ll still be my dance partner, right? I mean, Nat’s OK with it…aren’t you, Nat?”

“More than fine with it,” Natalie grinned.

“Come along, Emily,” Claire said within her clenched teeth. “We only have two minutes to get to our seats.”

Emily scurried behind Claire: along a hallway, past a wing curtain and into the main room of the auditorium. The bright klieg lights, hum of conversation and the sight of tiers of people seated around the pristine, white-carpeted floor, caused her to slow her pace in surprise.

“Come along, Emily, the Krewe Captain is already standing behind the main curtain,” urged Claire.

Emily had barely settled into her seat, when three whistle blasts brought the rest of the audience to their feet. She managed a decent, though softly sung, version of the National Anthem, then returned to her seat, next to Claire. The pageantry, the colors, the acceptance of this stylized ritual by the entire audience and the participants left Emily giddy from the sensory overload. Regaining her concentration, she now focused her attention upon the young woman she had met at the Coronation Supper. She and that young woman had discussed their respective studies in psychology, but at this moment, that young woman was gracefully waving a scepter.

Now, the Queen of the Arion Ball turned to face the dais and the theatrical backdrop of a Grecian Temple. Emily noted her slow, measured steps towards the dais and its broad throne. Two of the four young boys in capes, feathered caps, and outfits better suited to a Shakespearean play, now stepped away from the dais to assist the Queen maneuver her long, wide cape to one side, allowing her to climb the two steps to the throne. When the taller of the two Pages offered a brief salute to the Queen, Emily had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, but, also hoped Perry’s eccentric action had been mostly unnoticed by the audience.

Situated at the very end of the arc of chairs arranged next to the dais for the previous year’s debs, Natalie also monitored both the processions across the white carpet and the people walking along the open floor space alongside the side wing curtains. While maintaining her focus upon the Queen’s final arrival on the dais, she slipped her hand into the small tote. “A-CHOO” She prayed this bit of acting would be sufficient.

Raymond, standing behind Natalie, leaned forward. “Is that the signal?”

Natalie pretended to sneeze a few more times. Within the last notes of the processional march music, Raymond made a gallant show of steering her wheelchair into the wings.

“Good Luck, Nat,” he said in a low voice, “Tell Rene’ I said hello, too.”

“Oh lord, where is Raymond taking her?” Claire began to rise out of her chair.

“Mrs. Rochelle, it’s OK. Natalie was…uhm…sneezing a bit, while we were at the park.  It’s probably just hay fever,” Emily lied. “She probably is going back to the Green Room for another tissue.”

Claire hesitated. Natalie had never complained of hay fever, ever. And the substitution of Ray Stewart as Natalie’s escort hadn’t made sense, either. Her husband had no interest in the possible intrigue of Nick Harris using his influence to have his daughter, Wendy, escorted across the white carpet, one last time, with handsome Miles Oliver instead of roly-poly Raymond Stewart. She felt a wash of annoyance at yet another twist of unfairness against her daughter. But one of the Krewe ushers had just approached their chairs. She had a role in this Ball (particularly now that her husband would be the in-coming Captain) and accepted that responsibility ahead of any personal frustrations. She smiled at the man as he extended a gloved hand.

“Mrs. Rochelle, someone is requesting the pleasure of your company for this dance.”

Emily felt a small twinge of envy, as more and more of the women seated around her were invited onto the dance floor. Finally, she watched Raymond make his way, alone, along the nearest side of the dance floor.

“May I have this dance Miz Emily?”

She was surprised with Raymond’s ability to lead her through a waltz and a modified swing-step. Granted, she was performing three steps to his one, but this was real dancing – not that awkward swaying action she recalled from prom. At the conclusion of the second dance, Emily couldn’t help but hug Raymond. “Thank you, Ray, for dancing with me. I feel like Cinderella among all these beautiful debs.”

Raymond set his gaze upon the carpeted floor; he felt a different warmth flow across his face. “Well, uhm, if that means I can pretend to be….” he paused while an older couple strolled past. “Uhm…your Prince Charming,” he whispered. “Then, I’m your guy.”

#

Natalie waited until she was able to see Ray approach Emily before she left the curtained wing and began to count the seconds as the dance music began. Within twenty seconds, she had rolled her wheelchair across a fairly deserted backstage, nodding to the security guard and the woman seated by the loading dock door as she continued towards a far corner. Her destination was a small room to one side of that loading dock. It was where the Pages were supposed to be enjoying their own, small, celebration until the final procession of the Krewe’s officers and the debutantes concluded the Ball.

The room probably served as an office for the stage manager, but tonight, it had been equipped with a wide screen TV blaring a sci-fi movie, a table displaying several trays of sandwiches and chips, and a questionably sturdy sofa. Through the open doorway, she saw three of the Pages were jumping on the sofa. Natalie was relieved to recognize the man leaning against the doorframe.

“Reverend Palmer! I didn’t know you were a member of the Krewe. How did you ever manage to be assigned this task?” she laughed.

“Ah, Natalie, the role of Honorary Krewe Chaplain is not for the faint of heart,” he said with a smile. “Converting wild animals to our Faith, I fear, would be an easier task than corralling these boys.” He gestured towards the room. “So much energy at this hour of the night! I told the staff to take away the soft drinks and bring these boys bottled water.” He tilted his head. “And why aren’t you with your friends, in the Auditorium?”

“Well,” said Natalie, indicating the wheelchair, “I’m hardly anyone’s idea of a dance partner, so I thought I’d explore the…backstage area...” She almost didn’t finish her sentence. The clergyman was attempting to covertly gain the attention of someone behind, and to her left. Swiveling her wheelchair slightly towards that direction, she smiled at the uniformed worker pushing the cart carrying an ice bucket filled with water bottles and the woman who trailed slightly behind her.

“Uhm, Natalie…perhaps you should return to the auditorium.”

Reverend Palmer’s abrupt change in tone and his awkward attempt to step between Natalie and the cart hinted that he had a role in this plan, too. Then, the uniformed worker spoke.

“She’s helping us, Jack. It’s OK.”

Natalie, with a nod to the clergyman, the heavily disguised Sarah Henry, and Lucia the housekeeper, rolled her wheelchair to the doorway. “Psst. Perry. I need to show you something.” Perry, at the moment attempting to juggle several empty soft drink bottles, immediately let the plastic containers tumble to the floor to hurry towards her.

“Hey, Nat, com-on in,” he said. “Guess the Ball is kinda boring for you, too, since you can’t dance. Have you seen this movie? It’s great.” He waved her towards the sofa.

“Take a look at this, first,” said Natalie, as she pulled a small box out of the tote tucked in the side of her seat. When she removed the lid, Perry’s face lost all expression; his mouth hung open.

“How, how did you get…that?” he finally whispered.

“Your mom and Lucia are waiting for you…right outside this room,” Natalie said as quietly as she could, despite the noise from the TV and the other boys. “Rene’ is in your mother’s car, parked near the loading dock. You have to leave, right now. But you have to be like a cat, Perry: quiet and like…like a shadow.” She folded the box into his outstretched hands.

Perry nodded, then with an exaggerated step, tiptoed around her wheelchair and out of the room.

Natalie normally would have laughed at Perry’s theatrical performance, but his lower lip was trembling as he stepped past her. How much of his goofy actions had been a way of concealing the sadness of child missing his mother? Through watery eyes, Natalie saw Sarah embracing Perry while Lucia was encouraging him to remove his cape and vest in order to don a winter coat. Sarah mouthed the words “thank you” towards Natalie before helping Perry slip his feet into a pair of sneakers.

Within seconds, it seemed, the trio was now hurrying towards the loading dock door. No sooner had they approached the loading dock guard, though, when a sheriff’s deputy entered the building. Natalie’s heart raced while the deputy spoke to Sarah; she sighed with relief when the man shook Sarah’s hand, then proceeded towards Natalie and Reverend Palmer.

“I’m looking for Stanley Delachaise,” the deputy said.

“Ah,” began Reverend Palmer, “He’s somewhere among the revealers in the Auditorium. If Natalie will stay here, to keep watch on the Pages, I’ll gladly bring him here.” He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll agree this should be handled with as little commotion as possible?”

“Yeah, you right,” sighed the deputy. He waited until the clergyman was almost out of sight before turning towards Natalie. “I hate serving people with divorce papers and TROs at events…especially these big-name sorts. But, my CO told me some of the details and it sounds like he deserves to be arrested, too.”

“It’s a terrible situation. I’m glad Miz Sarah took all the right legal steps so that he can’t easily create more trouble for her.”

The deputy leaned against a nearby column and grinned. “So… you didn’t ask what’s a TRO? are you majoring in pre-law or something? For a debutante, you sure are as smart as you are pretty.”

Natalie did not have a chance to reply to the young man’s awkward attempt to flirt. The sound of heavy footsteps and an angry voice now drew quickly closer. Reverend Palmer was practically running to match the fast stride of Stan Delachaise, resplendent in a Krewe Officer outfit and cape, and another man, wearing a tux. Natalie rolled her wheelchair now slightly behind the deputy. Reverend Palmer was able to close the door to the room where the other Pages were still, loudly, enjoying their movie before Stan spoke.

“What do you think you are doing?” Stan Delachaise had removed his mask and hat as he approached. His flushed face almost matched the color of his red costume. “How dare you walk into this building and treat me like some…” He paused when he noticed Natalie. “You,” he began, in a softer, yet more dangerous, tone. “Do your parents know about your involvement in this fiasco?” He stepped towards her, aiming his index finger and thumb at her face. “Were you filling Perry’s head with ideas during that Twelfth Night Party? Getting involved in something way beyond your understanding? You stupid…” He stopped himself before saying that word in front of witnesses. “I have ways of getting all the information I need to sue you, your parents, probably that…” He shrugged off the hand of the tuxedoed man. “I have every right to be furious, and she has every reason to know why.”

“Mr. Delachaise,” began the deputy. He directed the two envelopes within the open space between Delachaise’s still-extended finger and thumb, pleased that the man reflexively clutched the documents. “You have been served.” With a faint wink to Natalie, he took two steps backwards, then spun away towards the loading dock door.

Stan only glanced at the envelopes before handing them to the tuxedoed man. “We’re leaving. I’ll explain to the Krewe Captain, tomorrow. Reverend, if you would please open that door and tell Perry to step outside.”

“But…but he’s not here, Stan, as I tried to tell you.” Reverend Palmer couldn’t control the wobble in his voice. “He left, with his mother, about fifteen minutes ago.”

The cart Sarah had abandoned in the hallway near the office was violently shoved into the column next to Natalie. The loading dock guard now approached at a run.

“Sir, please calm down…I can’t allow anyone to get hurt.” The guard motioned towards the tuxedoed man. “Perhaps he needs some fresh air? Could you help him…to follow me?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Bub.”

“Mr. D, mebbe we should…”

“I’m not paying you to make suggestions, Arnie” Stan said quickly. “I want you to check that room; make sure Perry isn’t in there.”

Arnie had almost touched the doorknob, when another man, wearing a gold costume and accompanied by Raymond and Emily, hurried towards them. His concerned expression, once he noticed the overturned cart, along with the postures and positions of the people near the office hardened into a scowl.

“Stan, what is the meaning of all this…mayhem?” he said slowly. “Several of us could hear you shouting from the other side of the curtains – even over the music! My son and his friend have told me, some, of the…uhm, circumstances…”

“Oh, have they now?” Stan interrupted. “The plot thickens! And what role has Raymond played in the apparent abduction of my son?” He stepped forward. “You’re an attorney, R.G., you know my rights…”

“I can’t discuss this with you, Stan,” R.G. Stewart said quickly. “Ray has also told me that Sarah has met with someone from my firm.” He shook his head. “A real tangle, Stan. A tangle and inappropriate to be part of the Krewe’s evening. Let Arnie take you home.” He nodded towards the tuxedoed man.

Several more minutes were needed to convince Stan to leave the building, but he and Arnie, with the security guard close behind, eventually exited through the loading dock’s door. R.G. Stewart waited until that door swung back into the frame before speaking. “Natalie, I hear you have been a real friend to Rene’ and his mother. Is it true you suggested the TRO and mentioned my firm?”

“Well, I…only mentioned them because Miz Sarah hadn’t considered the legal aspects of her plans.” Natalie smiled slightly. “Last semester, I took a class about the laws addressing domestic violence. Rene’ and his mother were so focused upon using this Ball to get Perry away from Mr. Delachaise that I could see they needed some professional advice. I hope I wasn’t overstepping?”

RG smiled. “Not in the least. You seem to have good instincts, Natalie. When you’re further into your studies, let’s talk, again.” He now gestured towards Reverend Palmer. “I think that’s the music for the last dance, Jack. You better make sure those boys are ready.” He now held his arms apart. “And the rest of you: back into the auditorium. The processional will be starting in minutes.”

Natalie did not object to Ray’s offer: to steer her wheelchair back into the Auditorium. At the moment, she was feeling a crush of exhaustion, excitement, and a small amount of pride for her part in Sarah and Rene’s plans. Deep into her thoughts, she was surprised to finally realize that Emily and Ray both had spoken her name; Emily was patting her shoulder.

“Hey, Nat, are you asleep? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you? Tell you what?”

Emily laughed. “About the party, after this Ball. Ray said it’s at music club at a marina. Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, I hate to say, I wasn’t sure I’d be up for it,” Natalie said. Noticing the shift in Emily’s expression, though, she quickly added “But you should go. Really. We had my brother’s birthday party there, back in October, and it was a blast. Besides,” she laughed, “once the story gets out about Perry and Mr. Delachaise, my parents will want a detailed explanation. I may still be explaining it all, by the time that party is over and you get back to my house.” Grinning at Emily, she said “Go and have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, twice.”

#

Hours later, after Emily had returned from the after-party animated and eager to share stories about the dancing, her quasi-celebrity status from her participation in the Delachaise Drama (as it was now named) and from Raymond’s goodnight kiss, Natalie, again, mentally replayed the events at the Ball, and the meeting afterwards. In the darkness of the cottage, she listened to Emily’s soft snoring while her mind continued to churn.

Soon after the conclusion of the Ball, R.G. Stewart had approached her parents, suggesting he should accompany them and Natalie back to Audubon Place to further discuss the backstage incident. “There are no secrets within this Krewe” he had sighed “and I want to hear Natalie’s version before I listen to any more gossip.” Once home, her father had helped her onto the sofa in the family room, and allowed her to sip a few mouthfuls of tea, before he cleared his throat. She knew that habit, and worked to quickly sort her thoughts.

“Now Natalie,” he began. “Before R.G. asks any questions, I must say that your mother and I are…astounded that you would allow yourself to become involved with such a…”

“Dangerous idea,” continued Claire, now settling carefully into a chair directly facing Natalie. She rearranged the skirt of her ball gown to avoid the hem catching against her shoes before frowning at Natalie.  “What were you thinking?”

“Claire,” began R.G. in a slow, even voice, “Let’s allow Natalie to start at the beginning. I suspect she had no idea this could escalate into a shouting match, complete with threats and all the rest of it. Is that a close assessment Natalie?”

Once Natalie reached the conclusion of her story, Claire could barely contain her emotions. “I can’t believe that frumpy-looking staffer in the Green Room was Sarah. Either she is an expert in disguises or has aged quickly.” She looked away from the others, to gently clutch a section of her skirt in each hand, then, paused in her actions. “Why didn’t Sarah tell anyone?” she asked, again, for the fourth time. “All those years, living a lie, allowing Stan to, to…” Now, she stood away from her chair to pace the room. “When I think about how many times Lynn Lee and I would wonder…” she paused, not willing to vocalize the details of those gossipy conversations. Directing her comments to R.G., she said in a softer voice “Do you know where they are staying? Should we try to help them; does she need money?”

R.G. shook his head. “On my way here, I called the partner in my firm who is handling her case. All I can say is that Sarah and the boys are safe. She may not be from New Orleans, but she has enough of a network through the University to have a decent support group.” He smiled at Natalie. “One detail you haven’t told us, though, involves that box. What was in there that would convince Perry to believe you? I think it’s fair to say that we all know Perry’s personality…” he said with a small laugh.

“It was a gift he had given his mother,” began Natalie. “A small crafts project – it looked like a butterfly made out of dried macaroni and glitter…I think it was supposed to be a pendant for a necklace –you know: the type of stuff that kids make at summer camp. Perry had given it to her when she claimed she was leaving for that research project in Peru. Perry hadn’t been told Miz Sarah was actually leaving the marriage, but he understood she would be gone for a long time. Miz Sarah had promised him that when he next saw that pendant, it would mean she would never leave him, again.” Natalie couldn’t contain her stumbling voice. “Perry looked like he was about to cry when he stepped through that doorway and saw his mother. It was heartbreaking to watch him hug Miz Sarah…after all those years.”

In the darkness, Natalie fumbled to find the box of tissues atop the side table. With a shuddering sigh, she wiped away the tears ponding in her eyes. She hadn’t cried so much since the ski patrol men had slid her within the rescue basket that was then winched up into the helicopter. But this time, she understood she cried not for herself, but for the circumstances which had robbed Sarah, Rene’ and Perry of so many years of happiness. Steadying her breath, she reactivated her phone to gaze, again, upon the last text from Rene’:

Nat, you are the best friend! We are OK but I can’t say much more. Look for something in the days to come. xo Rene’

She had told no one about this text message, not even Emily. She stared at the x and o, considering how many young men in her circle would use those symbols. Kiss and a hug? Admit it, her inner voice teased, Rene’ looked very rugged and (dare I think it?) handsome in that dark beard. She pulled the blanket closer to her chin. Still, what would be the chances of ever seeing Rene’, again? She sent the text to the cloud, then tucked the device under her pillow. Her last lucid thoughts, before falling into sleep, involved a romantic scenario with Rene’, a clandestine rendezvous and a starry night sky.

#

“Another?” Martin stared at the orchid in the gold-colored bowl and the two floral bouquets arranged atop a buffet cabinet in the family room. “So…he’s sending you flowers every other day? Is he working for a florist, too?”

Natalie knew she was smiling too broadly, but didn’t care. “I’m sure Rene’ isn’t paying for all of this, Martin. His mother enclosed a note with the first bouquet, too. And even if he is, don’t you think I deserve them?”

“Doubtful,” teased Martin. “I don’t remember you showing any interest in Rene’, before.” He poked a finger between the assorted blooms in the newest bouquet. “Where’s the note from Rene?”

“As if I’d let you read them,” Natalie said with a laugh.

“She hasn’t even shown them to me,” Emily said.

“Or me,” Raymond added.

“Or me,” Claire echoed, as she crossed the family room.  Pointing at Martin, Laurel, Emily and Ray, she said “Now, if you four can make yourselves useful by carrying those trays out to the patio, Dad has already lit the heaters so we will have a lovely alfresco dinner before sunset.”

Amid the bustle, Claire pretended to release the brake on Natalie’s wheelchair. Leaning towards her daughter’s ear, she whispered “R.G. called me a few minutes ago. His partner has to meet with us, and Rene’ wants to meet you at the law office, tomorrow evening. I told him we are taking Emily to the airport for three, so we’ve agreed that 5pm will be fine.”

Natalie vaguely recalled thanking her mother, and maintaining a happy attitude during the farewell dinner for Emily. She congratulated herself for not sharing the news of Rene’s request with Emily until well after Ray had clipped a Krewe pin to Emily’s sweater, the patio table had finally been cleared of plates and glassware, and she and Emily were once again, alone in the guest cottage.

“Oooh,” Emily sighed. “Flowers and, now, a secret meeting. Too bad your mom has to be there.”

Natalie laughed at her sly glance. “Just keep packing that suitcase, Em. We are meeting at a law office, not some romantic resort. And anyway,” she said “you owe me a lot more info about what’s going on with you and Ray. You know: getting one of those Krewe pins is a big deal around here.”

“I know,” began Emily, “and I’m sort-of surprised by it all, too.” She moved away from the suitcase to sit on a chair next to Natalie. “Ray is so sweet and nice. At the Ball, he told me his weight problem is a reaction to a medicine…his interest in culinary arts is his way of trying to cope with his illness and find a healthy weight-loss path. I think he’s one of the bravest guys.” Emily glanced at the floor before meeting Natalie’s smiling face. “I’ve already invited him to the sorority dance in March.”

“Good for you,” said Natalie. “I’m glad it won’t conflict with this year’s date for Mardi Gras… But,” she added, “you may want to sneak back here, with me. It’s only two weeks away.”

“I may already be thinking about such a trip,” Emily grinned. “Now: where did I put that bag from the artists’ co-op shop? My mom is going to swoon over that glass-bead necklace.”

#

The downtown law offices of Stewart, Squires and Richmond, and this conference room in particular, could have been a movie set. The dark wood paneling, leather-tile floors, antique furniture and artwork were almost eclipsed by the sprawling view past the band of windows facing the bend in the Mississippi River. From thirty stories up, it was a breath-taking sight.

Natalie stared out at the horizon, where, the sky from this direction had already transitioned to dusk and a lone star hovered in the east-south-east. She made a silent wish as she heard her mother’s tone shift. Now that Natalie had completed her deposition, Claire had been practically interrogating R.G.’s law partner for the past fifteen minutes.

“Now, let me ask you, Huey,” Claire began “how reliable are these rumors about an FBI agent asking questions about Stan? Lynn Lee tells me you have quite a history with these types of investigations.”

Natalie spun her wheelchair towards her mother and the man with the scarred face. It was now close to 6PM, with no sign of Rene’. The lawyer’s laugh was soft, but brief.

“Lynn Lee has quite a memory,” Huey said. “But for the moment, let’s just focus upon how Natalie’s statement will assist Sarah’s...” A sound from his phone interrupted his reply. “Ah, they are finally here,” he said.

The conference room door was flung open and Perry rushed into the room. Grabbing Natalie’s hands, he hopped in place several times before leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Natalie!”

Rene’ and his mother quickly followed through the doorway.“Perry, honey, let’s use an indoor voice and gentle touches.” Sarah laughed. “Poor Natalie probably isn’t use to such high energy.” She now steered Perry into a nearby chair. Once he was seated, she returned to Natalie, bending forward to peer into her face and kiss her forehead. “I am forever grateful, Natalie.” Turning towards Claire, she now said “I’m so glad to see you, Claire. I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything to you in that Green Room, but let me now say thank you for raising such a brave, and kind-hearted daughter.”

“OK,” began Huey. “If Rene’ and Natalie don’t mind, I’d like a closed-door meeting with Sarah, Claire and Perry for a few minutes.” He pointed towards a side door. “There’s a breakroom through that doorway; please help yourselves to whatever is in the pantry or fridge.”

Natalie knew she was shifting her gaze nervously from Rene’s face to her folded hands; she tried to smile as Rene now placed cans of soda upon the small table. He sat in the chair opposite her, his own sheepish grin caused her to relax, and laugh. “Well, Rene’.”

“Well, Natalie.” He took a small sip of the soda, then set the can to one side. “I won’t repeat my brother’s happy dance, but inside, I feel about the same way.” He reached for the soda can, again, staring at his hand twisting it back and forth for a few seconds; making sure he had his thoughts in order. “When I made my escape, three years ago, I think you and your folks were packing suitcases into an SUV. I’m guessing you were heading off to college and I think you saw me tossing some boxes into the trunk of my car. Did you think I was leaving for a school, too?” He smiled, as he began twisting the can, again. “You may not remember, but you waved to me and called out that stupid quote from our yearbook…”

“If we do not find anything very pleasant, at least we shall find something new,” Natalie recited quickly. “Oh, Rene’, had I known, I would have never said anything so…so…”

“Ironic?” Rene’ smiled. “I’ve laughed about that moment, ever since. But,” he paused, reaching out his hands to cover Natalie’s, “I also remember how you stood, so happy and full of excitement. You were wearing one of your brother’s concert T-shirts, and the sun was shining all around you…” He stared at their clasped hands for a few seconds. “I’ve thought, often, Nat, about so many things I should have said to you before that day, and all the lost time since that morning. My life, at the present, is in chaos but, I’m hoping we can, now, make a restart?”

Natalie smiled. “My life, at the moment, is tied to this wheelchair and a bunch of PT sessions, so I think it’s the perfect reason for us to look towards something nicer.” She held her gaze upon his face. “And, how do I begin to thank you: for all the flowers and the orchid…”

“Like this,” Rene’ said as he leaned across the table.

His kiss was soft, yet sure - and far more thrilling than what she remembered from last night’s quasi-dream. Natalie returned that kiss, and accepted one more before the door knob to the conference room rattled and Perry’s face peeked past the slowly-opening door.

“Rene’ it’s time,” Perry whispered. “The special car is waiting.”

“Security detail,” Rene’ explained, as he stood away from the table. “Tinted windows, a body guard, the whole deal. Perry likes the driver, don’t you PD?” Perry had now entered the room; Rene’ wrapped one arm around Perry’s shoulders and gave his brother a short hug. “Let me say good-bye to Natalie, and then I’ll be right behind you, OK?”

Natalie swiveled her wheelchair away from the table as Perry turned towards the door. Rene’ stepped closer, angling his face towards hers, once more.

“Wish me luck, Natalie,” he finally said.

“Let’s wish us both luck, and more,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, again.

 **********************************

STAY (an unpubplished poem from 2012) by Karen MH Kersting

Stay

               Beyond the levee, at the riverbank,

               where the Mississippi in shallow pause

               laps against a stony edge

of vagrant camps and weedy trails

oft explored; 

Stay

     Behind the wide armed chair,

along the baseboard’s dark smudged length;

a complicated clue – perhaps,

where the view of the room is least

but lamp light flows in warm abundance; 

Stay

Against the kitchen stool

entangled among bare feet and wooden rungs;

content to sprawl as pages turned,

and coffee brewed,

while clock mechanisms clucked and tugged;

Stay

 Between the citrus and the vine,

where the grass remained compressed

into a silhouette of your form prone

weeks beyond that last sunset,

dark eyes gazing North and West.

Stay

My second shadow, stay:

deflect the silence of this house

the essence lost

the haunting doubts.

Please, stay.

***********************

A GROUP EFFORT

(an unpublished essay; Nov.2024)

by

Karen MH Kersting

Like lemmings, four other cars had quickly followed me into this side street. No doubt, they had seen me drive past the Road Closed barricade that blocked only one side of the pavement (code in New Orleans that the non-barricaded portion would be –somewhat- navigable). Like me, they were undoubtedly searching for a less-congested route into the French Quarter, past Canal. I, meanwhile, had followed two other cars into this street, only to discover an annoying surprise. In my irritation, I had turned off my car’s engine and exited my vehicle to better assess our plight.

As is typical around here, no streetlights were working. Now, in the first hours of dusk, the shadows from the multi-storied buildings lining this block deepened the gloom. Far from reassuring. Thin illumination from two parking garage entrances fronting this area shone a marginal light towards our predicament: the other end of the block was corralled behind two more barricades and a dumpster. An SUV was being parked against the barricades. The woman exiting the SUV met my gaze. “Road’s closed,” she said, while continuing to stride towards the bright lights and evening traffic along Canal Street. She never looked back.

Though impressed with both her stoicism and her ingenious decision to use this barricaded street as her personal parking space, it did not provide an easy solution for the rest of us. The drivers of the two cars I had initially followed, were turning their cars around within the parking garage entrances. One vehicle sported the back-lit sign of a ride-share service; that driver’s expression hinting to his fear he would miss a fare.

“You have to back up!” the ride-share driver yelled.

Thanks Sherlock. I pivoted towards the (now) five cars idling behind me. None of those drivers had taken any interest in the cause of this mini-traffic jam. All were focused on their phones. I waved my arms in the hope of gaining their attention. “The road is blocked,” I yelled. “We all have to back up.” A few drivers rolled down their windows. I repeated this directive while walking alongside these vehicles. “Hey, sports car,” I called out to the driver of last car in this queue (who had her window rolled down but remained mesmerized by her phone), “start backing up.”

“I won’t be able to get back onto Canal.”

Her whiny voice was not softening my resolve. “Yes they will,” I said. “Just go slow and the drivers on Canal will figure it out.” I prayed my confident tone would be enough encouragement.

To my delight, Good Luck (and an astute, kindly driver on Canal Street) favored us: within seconds, our convoy of cars and SUVs was given room to back onto Canal Street, then, one-by-one, continue on our quest for another route to our destinations. Still, the incident concerned me – but for different reasons. Was the complacency of the drivers behind me an example of a general unwillingness to get involved? to make a decision? to take control of a situation to benefit all? Then, there was the woman in the SUV who was only concerned about her own needs and willing to risk a parking ticket as a reasonable option.

Twenty minutes later, I had reached a parking garage and met my dinner companions. As we were ordering drinks, I suspect no one was anticipating I would request “two fingers of Jameson’s, no ice”. 

 *****************

PERHAPS

(an unpublished poem inspired by the 1-1-25 terrorist attack in New Orleans)

by Karen MH Kersting

Yesterday, the sky stretched clear, blue, and cold over our city;

A direct view towards that thin layer which separates

Us from the depths of Space.

Could this be nature’s way to provide

A direct path for healing?

Where the energy from our sorrows, anguish, and pain

Could drift upwards, uninterrupted, past the ozone;

To mingle within that outer vastness, towards a colorful nebula;

There, to swirl within its cosmic dust,

Finding comfort in such a luminescent cloud of light.