A gentle pressure on her hip was the first thing Estella was aware of the next morning. Following that sensation of awareness was the feeling of a long, solid body behind her. Suspiring, she pressed herself deeper into the mattress.
“You’re going to miss breakfast. It is already half past ten.”
She’s positive she mumbled something intelligible, but Oliver’s chest started to shake.
He was nudging her shoulder now. “Come on, sleepy. Up up. Can’t let you starve either.”
It was hardly the same, but the thought of eggs and a bit of toast enticed her well enough.
Dressed and out the door, they found themselves behind a handful of other late-night crawlers. Namely, the American party they stalked the night before. Surprisingly, the man was among them as loud and chipper as ever. His groggy friends mumbled pleas to him to quiet down, but he kept talking about the mysterious woman he fucked in the supply closet.
“So good, I fell asleep on the spot.”
“More like you were already asleep.” One of the other men teased.
They put the room between themselves and the group after that. They were pleased the man was alive and in good spirits, but neither were inclined to listen to his fantasies.
By late afternoon they had arrived in New York Harbor, but there were several ships before them in line to disembark. It wasn’t until the next morning that they were cleared for customs.
From there, they went straight to a hotel for the night, then they would head north towards New Hampshire. She finally learned what Oliver’s letters to John and Eva were about: he’d wanted her to meet them and that required a mending of the break. Or what break there had been. No harsh words had been exchanged according to Oliver, only a slow buildup of silent resentment then self-inflicted exile.
“They’re excited to meet you,” he told her the next morning in Central Park. “They will love you. Of course, you know that.” He laughed.
She did know that which probably was why she didn’t feel nervous meeting them again, this time outside of Saint Tourre. It helped too that Oliver didn’t view them as parental or familiar figures yet. That seemed to a bond formed after decades of time together. Estella was sad that she won’t be around to see it bloom.
The thought pulled her up short, like a punch in the gut. Heels in the ground, she stopped walking the meandering path her and Oliver were on. She always knew she would leave him --- and so did her. They were actively working toward it, in fact.
It was the first time it hurt so much she wanted to cry.
Hands, cool and calming cupped her face. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked about it.”
Oh, so she was crying. Estella felt it then, the tightness of her throat, the gasping gulps of her lungs fighting for air.
“No, it’s not. It’s not that.” She cried.
“Then what is it?”
How can she explain? How can she ever explain? She loved this man. Loved him fiercely and she only allowed herself to accept that a week ago. She could no less renounce him than he could her. They were bound together in irrevocable, awful ways seen in his desire to change his diet and her willingness to coax him to the edge if it meant he wouldn’t suffer.
And she was going to leave him. She could see now how painful that was going to be for her. For him. She clung to him, grief and guilt forcing her knees to buckle.
“Estella! Estella! Please. What is it?”
“I’m going to leave you!”
His hands stilled. He spoke slowly. “Yes. That is the plan. It is a very good plan if I may add.”
“But! But!” She choked. “But I don’t want to!”
His thumbs tenderly stroked the apple of her cheeks. Pained, sympathetic eyes gazed down at her. “That’s not what you want, Estella. You want your family. You want to go home.”
“I want you too.”
“You have me.”
“How can you be so calm about this? How it be alright that I will leave you for the better part of a century?”
“Isn’t that what love is? Wanting the other person to live their best life? And yours’ is with Jacques, Matthieu, and Theodora.”
“And you.”
“And me. But believe me, it helps knowing I found you at the other end of it.”
She breathed deeply. He was right. She didn’t want to leave him, but she wanted to be with her family. She couldn’t have both. Not here.
One day, but not here. Not now.
Leaning her forehead forward until it met the crook in his neck, she said softly, “I love you.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“And I you.”
His hands lowered from her face slowly to settle around her waist. Gently, he nudged them deeper into the copse that lined the trail. Once shrouded in privacy, the early morning glow misting in the air, Oliver spoke again.
“Estella, I swear to always want what is best for you; to help you get home to your family; to want you to see your family again. I swear to always love you; to wait for you in those intervening years and to be there for you upon your return.”
He paused to gauge her reaction, but she had none. Too stunned to move, to overcome to speak, all Estella could do was feel. And she felt that she wanted to hear the end of his speech.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he voiced his final line. “Estella de Luce de Saint Tourre, will you marry me?”
She could say he was insane. That’s he jumping the gun or being overly romantic. She could recommend waiting until she’s home, but when home is the people who love you how could you turn away more love just to postpone joy?
“Yes.”
She could say she’s insane.
____
The hired car pulled up to a large, colonial style home on the edge of the New England town where John and Eva lived. The middle-aged couple met them on the curb, embracing Oliver like a prodigal son until Eva spotted Estella watching from the other side of the car.
“Oh, Oliver! She’s darling.” The older woman ran questionably fast towards her and gripped Estella’s hands. “Hello, dear. It is so nice to meet you. I am Eva Becker and this,” she turned to her husband, “is John.”
They looked exactly the same, of course. It doesn’t ever get easier meeting people you’ve met before but who have yet to meet you. She and Oliver practiced this moment. She would not say, “Yes, I know.” And Oliver would not tell them, “She knows you already” just to get a rise out of his friends. There was no benefit in telling them the full truth, so they will keep it simple: Oliver made a friend and she wanted to meet them. They didn’t know about their relationship yet.
Eva and John were more than happy to oblige. The two led them inside, chatting all the way to their rooms. When Eva tried to put them in separate bedrooms, without a word Oliver gathered his luggage and moved next door to Estella’s larger room. The older couple raised their brow, but not a comment was made. The message was clear, she supposed.
The first time Estelle met them, she was impressed and appreciative of how few questions they asked about her state of being. Now, she theorized, she knew why: the two of them had already heard it all before. When she came done from resting, Eva earnestly began her questionnaire. If she hadn’t previously been acquainted with the woman, she would have probably been rather annoyed or offended that Eva wanted to know so much about her diet and daily habits. As it was, she assumed Eva was being nosy so she could be kind and attentive later.
John was as curious as his wife, but he stuck to the topics of her education and interests. Oddly, neither touched on her family, but when she voiced it to Oliver later, he explained it was a courtesy. “Most of us don’t come into this life with their loved ones. We’ve had to leave people behind.”
For all the bumps and bruises of that first day, Estella settled in very well with the Beckers.
Oliver was a different story. He seemed to chafe under John’s eye. She couldn’t make sense of it. John Becker was nothing, but patience incarnate. Where Oliver bit, he applied a salve. Where he spat, John calmed wiped it up. Further, this was a side of Oliver she had rarely seen. They’d had some difficult, angry discussions in Chicago, but those were mostly caused by her.
She just couldn’t see where any of the hostility was coming from, and it all appeared one sided.
One morning, when it was only her and Eva in the house, she decided to get the older woman’s perspective. She’d try to speak to Oliver about it, but he refused to acknowledge that their a problem.
“It was harder for him, the change, than we anticipated. For some of us, we can never forgive what our makers did to us. And well, he resents John the most, even though I’m the one who made the decision. I’ve told him that, and yet he still blames John. We’re grateful that you’ve made him willing to try to forgive us.” She sighed, long and low, soap bubbles gliding across her fingers. “But maybe he needs more space than living in this house can give him.”
Space? Estella thought about it, tried to picture distance between the two couples. She liked John and Eva, liked the way they loved so easily, and how they adored their two children and accepted Hannah as their third.
It reminded her of her and Matthieu. She, Jacques, and Theodora had come together so effortlessly, but her grandfather was a different story, one tied up in confusion and pain. It took the two of them time of orbiting around each other before they were ready to develop a relationship.
Maybe that’s what Oliver needs: to orbit. But Saint Tourre was much larger than this house.
“We are going to be married soon…”
“Yes, hm. You know you two are welcomed to stay in our house as long as you want.”
“But a little home of our own…”
“But not too far.”
“Oh, no. Not too far. A little cottage in the woods, perhaps.”
“Right on the other side of the tree line.”
“Just out of sight.”
“Exactly.”
“You’ll have to speak with Oliver, of course.”
“Of course.”
Giggles burst out of both of them then, giddy with ideas of the future and eventual harmony.
“I’m very glad you came into his life, Estella. And I am equally joyed the two of you decided to share your life with us.”
The expected twinge of guilt twisted in her stomach, but it did not lessen her earnest, “Me too.”
Estella wasted no time approaching Oliver. She’d thought about how to broch the subject of building a separate home all day and finally decided on a two-fold plan of attack.
“Donc. Oliver, I’ve been thinking.”
“Hm?”
“About space. I cannot do my work here without a high risk of exposure to our friends.” This was true. All her research had been confined to their bedroom and she can’t ignore John and Evan all day. That would be terribly rude and very lonely. “And---” she continued, “I think as newlyweds we might appreciate not having to worry about…appearances so much.” That was the least crude way to put it.
“Appearances, you say? You mean like…clothing? Noise?”
She swatted him playfully. “Be serious, Oliver.”
He sighed and sat on the edge of their bed. “Okay. I hear you. I agree with you. This situation has not been ideal.”
“It’s been difficult for you.”
A drawn-out breath escaped him. “I am fine, Estella.”
She bit her tongue. “You---we---need some space.”
He conceded that point. “And how do you propose we go about it?”
Pertly, she straddled his legs and laced her fingers behind his head. “We build a house.”
“We build a house?”
“Yes.” To be fair, she could probably put one together with magic. If she knew what all went into building a house, which she didn’t. At the moment, it would be more like those cardboard blocks she played with as a child.
Oliver remained skeptical.
“Come on,” she teased, “You told me you used to like working with your hands. IT’s why you went to the lumber mill, not university.”
That softened him, his shoulders relaxing. “That is true. But where would we build it?”
Estella pointed out the window. “On the other side of the tree line. Right out of sight. We could tell them that I’ve taken work as a translator to justify why I’m busy during the day.”
“And what will I be doing?”
“Whatever you want. Construction, university, my personal research assistant, laying about.”
His lips caressed her chin. “Lounging about in our bed, waiting for you to be done for the day.”
She grinned broadly. “Oui, exactement.”
