Nothing prepared Charles for the rush that came from fatherhood.
It was a flood of excitement at every giggle or kick of Nicolas’ tiny feet. Dizziness when he trained his expressive eyes on his father. A soft, lilting high when Nicolas fell asleep in his arms, his little mouth parted in a light O.
Nicolas was a delight of innocence and perfection. He was everything Charles wished to be, somewhere within his dark heart, and now he could be that, with his son.
Nicolas’ fine, wispy hair had begun to darken, not at all like Charles’ own dirty blond. Charles frowned at that, until he remembered his father, August, had that dark chestnut hair that lived only in his dreams now. If Nicolas resembled Charles’ hero, that was fine by him. And, although the doctor said he was probably imagining it, seeing as it was too early to know for sure, he thought Nicolas’ eyes were darkening by the day, too.
He was hardly fussy. Lisette minded him all day and night with soft patience, but even she commented that she expected him to be more trouble. Boys always were, she said, and Charles could believe it. He slept for four or five hours at a time, which meant that Charles had Lisette to himself for hours before Nicolas required a feeding.
The transition from father to lover was effortless, because the three of them were one happy little family, isolated from the pain and suffering of the world, ensconced in a universe of their own making.
Charles was convinced only men who had never had a son needed drugs. He was going straight. Cocaine would heighten something he wanted to experience exactly on the level it was meant for, and to miss even a single second of fatherhood would be unforgivable.
He didn’t think of Catherine anymore.
But there was still the matter of Cordelia to attend to.
Doctoral students had their own assigned seats in the library at the university. Unlike the long tables where undergrad and grad students studied, the assigned desks were covered in varying degrees of personal effects, from pictures to books left overnight. There were only twenty or so at any given time, and the PhD students all worked at their own pace, at their own hours.
Noah had always been a night owl. His mind was sharpest around the witching hour, an irony never lost on Colleen. Many evenings, after they’d exhausted one another with their love, he’d wake and trudge into the dining room in his shorts and tee, glasses on, and make a cuppa while he worked well into the morning. She sometimes found him asleep the next morning, nose pressed into the spine of his textbook.
Colleen still wasn’t sleeping. She might never again, if she didn’t resume some control over her tattered life. She was grateful the admissions department let her join the fall program late, but now she had the challenge of keeping her grades above water, and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t certain she could.
And all the while, her mind churned and over-processed all the memories, tiny and large, inconsequential and powerful. How could that accident have been the end? How did saving his life not outweigh his own prejudices?
Nothing in her mind found the answer to this, and she had to know. She had to know to move on, and there was only one person who could give her what she sought.
Colleen pulled the collar of her trench coat high around her face to block the wind whipping off Arthur’s Seat. A low fog hung over the stone streets, hovering right around her ankles. There were few out at this hour, only the pub drunkards stumbling in and out of one establishment after another, and a handful of students, caffeinated and praying for focus.
Her low heels clicked on the stones. The sound echoed in the cool night. She drew closer to the library, where he either would or wouldn’t be. Where he either would or wouldn’t talk to her.
A whoosh of air yawned as she tugged at the heavy double doors of the library. The sound caused a couple nearby students—undergrads—to turn in curiosity, before surrendering back to their studies. A young woman sat behind the front desk with her feet kicked up, reading a tattered paperback Colleen couldn’t see the cover of. Unlike the students, she didn’t acknowledge Colleen’s intrusion on the quiet night.
Colleen wove her way through the aisles, flanked by stories-tall shelves. The doctoral desks were in the back, near a section of titles that could not be checked out but were available for use to the PhD students at their assigned desks.
The muted, softly echoing sound of feet shuffling as she approached the area gave her pause. Someone was here. Maybe Noah.
Why am I doing this? To carve an even deeper gash in my failing heart?
No, she thought. For the gift of logic that comes with clarity. To know is power, even if the knowing drives an even sharper pain.
Colleen’s fingers played with the dried, now crumbling heather band in her pocket. She hadn’t been able to make herself part with it, but she knew better than to wear it anymore.
She stepped into a small clearing, where the doctoral desks were. There was someone here, but it wasn’t Noah. It was a woman Colleen didn’t recognize. She was so engrossed in her work she didn’t notice Colleen until Colleen drew closer.
“Oh. Hi. Sorry.” The young woman pressed a folded paper into the spine of her heavy book and closed it. “Can I help you? You look lost.” Her accent was a soft brogue, similar, but not the same, as the Edinburgh locals.
Colleen read between the lines. You’re not one of us. “I was looking for someone, but doesn’t seem like he’s here.”
The young woman smiled. “Noah, you mean.”
Colleen’s stomach lurched at the familiar way her love’s name came off her tongue. “Yes, but he’s not here, so I’ll come back when he is.”
“I’m Enid,” she offered, but didn’t stand. “Noah and I are the night owls of the bunch. He’s usually here by now, so I don’t know where he is.”
“I’ll just leave him a note.”
“I can tell him you came by, too. What was your name?”
“Madeline,” Colleen stammered, not knowing why she lied.
“Madeline.” Enid smiled. “Pretty. Okay, Madeline. You leave your note, and I’ll tell him you came by.” She was back to work, the brief interruption forgotten.
Colleen knew which one was his desk, because she’d helped him pick it out when he was accepted into the program. Back then, she’d imagined, on sleepless nights, bringing him some tea to surprise him, or even to give him a brief, but welcome interlude to get him through the night.
She searched around for paper, when she came across an envelope addressed to Noah. The seal had been broken, and the letter shoved messily back inside. Her hand brushed it aside when she caught the return address: New Orleans.
Colleen glanced back at Enid. The young woman was completely immersed in whatever she was studying. She knew better than to read this, but her curiosity, paired with weeks without answers, defied her better sense.
It was a letter from Noah’s father.
She glanced around once more before reading.
Noah,
For some time, I’ve been considering the right words for this letter. They might have been better over the phone, but I think I know my son, and you’d rather have time to digest them. You take after me.
First, you tell me you’ve met the love of your life and you’re marrying her during Christmas break. Then you say she’s saved your life, but you can’t be with her? Your words don’t make any sense.
You might think I’m dense and don’t “get” what you’ve told me, but your old dad has been around New Orleans long enough to know a thing or two about the Deschanels. I’ve heard the rumors about how they amassed their wealth, among other things. I worried about you, a man of science, and what it might mean should you discover Colleen was “special” like the rest of them. But I never thought you’d react this way.
I should have written this sooner. When we spoke on the phone, after your accident, I was too relieved that you’d walked away from the crash to process the rest of your news. I can’t delay any longer, though. My fear is that my own prejudices may have affected you too much and cost you happiness.
When I told you about your mother being a witch, there was no exaggeration in my words. Her connection with nature went beyond a love of it and what she and her kin could do… things I can’t begin to describe to you. In the beginning, I loved her in spite of it. I couldn’t help but love Deirdre. She radiated with a force that brought smiles to everyone around her. Eventually, over time, I grew afraid of her and what I could never understand. At the time, I convinced myself her influence would contaminate you and your sisters. I know better now. My greatest regret in life was leaving your mother and my three daughters behind in Ireland. The barter for my pride became a false economy that no longer exists in my middle age. I loved her for who she was, not what she could do. I still love her and always will.
When Colleen laid her hands on you, she did so out of love. Think about those words, Noah. Decide what they mean to you, if anything.
I love you, son. I have always and always will. I only want what is best for you.
Love,
Dad
Colleen’s hands were shaking when she shoved the letter back inside. She finally gave up and dropped it on the desk, rushing through the long aisles of the library toward the door and the outside, and the air she so desperately needed.
She doubled over when the cool fog filled her lungs. She gasped, drawing in more, pushing out whatever else was still trapped within her.
Noah’s father had said exactly what Noah needed to hear, and still, Noah hadn’t called.
It was over. Nothing she could say was even half as important as the elder Jameson pouring his heart out.
Her hand connected with the heather band. She should go back in and leave it. He’d know it was her who’d come. Madeline was a bad lie, and one he’d see through immediately. Leaving the band would at least give them both closure—or her, anyway, seeing as he’d clearly moved on long ago and was doing just fine. Noah and Enid, thick as thieves in their midnight study sessions.
“This is mine,” she whispered. A white cloud blossomed in the night before her. “You took my heart. You can’t have this, too.”
Cordelia dropped her bags at the foot of the stairs. She shot an impatient, crude look at Richard, who rushed to collect them.
“No,” Charles commanded from the top of the staircase. “She can carry her own shit from now on.”
Richard disappeared again.
“You’re a fool,” Cordelia hissed. “This can’t work. You’re just too stupid to realize it.”
“Stupid? Stupid is cutting out the only power you had over me,” Charles said. “Stupid is thinking that I would never find out about the backroom deal you made with the doctor to pretend you actually needed the surgery. Stupid is not helping your nitwit brother fix your father’s company so you had at least something to fall back on.” He descended a step. “You know what I am? I’m a fucking charitable motherfucker, that’s what I am. I’m the man who could throw you on the street and instead is giving you an allowance bigger than the GDP of New Orleans, and the ability to save face, which is so important to you. I’m giving you everything, when you gave me nothing.”
Her gray eyes narrowed. “I gave you a son.”
“Yes. He’s mine,” Charles agreed. “Don’t forget it.”
Cordelia bent at the knee and lifted her heavy bags. Her arms shook with the weight. “Be very sure this is what you want, Charles. This is nothing short of a declaration of war.”
He smiled. “A war you can’t win.”
“A war your children will bear most of the losses from.”
“My children will be just fine, here, away from you.”
“I’ll be back,” Cordelia said, flashing a grin wider than his, darker than any expression she’d ever worn. “If you want my agreement, I’ll be back in this house as I please, when I please. I’ll see my son. And I will see whatever bastards you manage to bear with that child upstairs. And they will regret the day they were born into this sick arrangement, because suffer they will, Charles. I will take them to public dinners and pretend they are mine when we entertain, but their private lives will be hell. And I will make damn sure they know exactly who to thank.”
Condoleezza opened the door to let Cordelia through, and then closed, and locked it, when she was gone.
“Change the locks,” Charles gruffed.