Chapter Text
Chapter 8: Run
‘Run’ from the album ‘Ludovico Einaudi: Portrait’
Composed by Ludovico Einaudi
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)
One would be foolish to run.
There. She acknowledged it in a part of her brain. Fine.
One might be so desperate that running was the only option.
Yes, there was that, too. Who could blame her, except herself?
Maybe one’s grief and fear were so deep that only what remained was the urge to run?
Likely. Presumably. Did it make her psychologically weak? Ethically shallow?
But one could be considered selfish to run. Right?
That confession brought a twinge of shame, making her face redden.
However, undoubtedly, when one sensed an impending, overwhelming conflict so great that one must protect oneself and loved ones at all costs, there was only one choice. So? Run!
Hence, it was the logical alternative. Wouldn’t Carol see that?
Conceivably, it was all those things that caused her to bolt. Flee. Take flight. Run!
Conflict. Grief. Loss. Trouble. Distress. Hopelessness. Terror.
Therese snapped out of her rumination. “So, you want to know why I ran? You do, don’t you? Just… abandoned everything.” She reached a shaky hand across her lap, smoothing the nap of Carol’s skirt fabric. It felt so comforting, knowing Carol’s skin was just beneath. “The freshly-baked baguette on the floor. The spilled… What did I drop, spilling it everywhere? Poor Joséphine. I left a mess for her to sweep.”
“It’s minor in the scheme of things, Therese. Joséphine realized you were upset. Then there’s the whole matter of the bus you–”
“The piano is pretty. Yes, it is, Carol. But I don’t want it there.”
Carol jerked at the non sequitur. “The piano? Oh, right. The piano.”
“It’s always been a glaring, accusatory object here in Montréal. I know I personify it; I imagine it throwing little stinging barbs at me as I pass by: “Come, play us a tune, Therese Belivet Aird. Something easy like Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat major, Op. 106, Hammerklavier. The real Therese could do it with her eyes closed, and she preferred Mozart! But you will never play like her.” Therese delivered the comment in such a witty voice, projecting a haughty demeanor much like the pretentious piano might, that Carol stifled a laugh. Therese was masking, though, using humor to deflect the pain; the piano wasn’t funny to Therese. No, the instrument threatened her dear girl.
“So, it was the piano. The discussion that night after dinner?”
“Hmm. Mmm. Yes. And… And no. The… The letter. It was already in my pocket. I’d read it, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it.” Then Therese rushed to profusely apologize again. “I should have shown it to you immediately. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was protecting you.”
“I’m a big girl, Therese.” There was a considerable pause, Carol deliberating her next words carefully. “But I understand why,” she said softly, swaying her head. “That letter blindsided you. Mary, too. After you… When you…”
“Ran? Ran and left you all to pick up the pieces?”
“Later, we– Mary, me, Mr Leonard by phone– we came up with a stop-gap. It’s not perfect, but it will work for now.”
“Oh, Carol. Thank you. I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t have–”
“Therese, this isn’t some demand for an answer. One correct word, like on those radio game shows. Say the right reply and win a prize. Take It or Leave It. Truth or Consequences. We have time here. Time now. Talk me through it. Your… Your thoughts. Your… Ruby calls it a pattern of thinking. We all have them. The ways we interpret situations and our reactions to them.”
“Why? I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was stupid and juvenile and-and-and-”
“Nooo. It’s not about right or wrong, either. I’m not judging you, Therese. Don’t you see, Darling? You need to– We must try to process what happened. If you don’t, then I’m afraid it will only–”
“With the letter? Or with the piano?”
“Darling, listen to me. Process your life! Lisette’s life! The things that scare you. The obstacles you still foresee. And if you hope to keep your vision alive for music academies with John’s fortune, then you have to be willing to accept that you must remain Therese Belivet Aird, Philanthropist. Otherwise, you forfeit that money to Harge or Jennifer. I can’t conceive of what would happen to your dream then. But know that it’s your choice. I’ll stand by you.”
Therese drew a long breath. “I think I’ve been running so long that… I can’t explain it. The feeling sounds ridiculous. You’ll think I’m daft.”
“Tell me. Describe your sensation,” Carol urged, buoyed by the fact that they were on point, discussing it, beginning to analyze the complex problem, stripping away the layers. Therese’s life was like a centuries-old wall. The two must now remove the buildup of those many superficial layers, the accumulated history, and a carefully crafted external facade to reveal the true, the authentic, the essential beauty of Lisette Freyer’s life.
“It’s like running to the point where I feel I’m motionless, Carol, hibernating in a cocoon. Isn’t that strange? To feel stationary when you’re racing wildly for your very soul?”
“No, not to the trained person. Your friend Ruby said that you appear to suffer from some physical fatigue combined with a… a… Oh, please don’t take this the wrong way. A mental disassociation, which is what she called it. The effect is your brain has disconnected from physical discomfort, leaving you feeling static, frozen, and–”
“Stuck!”
“Yes! Yes, Ruby used that exact word– Stuck!”
“Do you think Ruby knows… About me?”
“What there is to know seems so implausible that I doubt anyone would just guess. It’s a bit fantastical, like the woman who claims to be Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov. Most think she’s merely a delusional mental patient who cracked under the strain of The Great War. Coincidences of doppelgängers are rare, Therese.” Carol brooded a moment. “But Ruby and Jean-Paul sense something is amiss in your background. Something potentially harmful to you. They love you that much, Darling.”
“Okay, I’ll give this processing technique a try.” Therese’s curled fist rested on her upper lip, below her nose, sniffling back the emotion that threatened to leak. “But I can’t go back to the beginning– Southampton. Not yet. Let’s start with our new life in Montreal. I’m not ready for anything before that.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me how you thought our weeks were unfolding on Rue Saint-Paul,” Carol said, not quite able to keep the urgency out of her voice. She had thrown Therese a weak lifeline, and surprisingly, Therese had caught it.
“Hm. Good. Great, actually. Nice. The shops. The cafes. You like my apartment, don’t you? The colors? Does Rindy? Did she say anything to make you think she didn’t?”
“No, no, Sweetheart. It’s lovely. It’s definitely a home I could see living comfortably in with you. But, you see, I want you to be at peace. Inner peace. Who you are. Who we can be to one another. But to do that, you must go beyond the superficial and examine–”
“Alright,” Therese puffed forcefully. “I will. I’ll try.”
Silence.
Therese sat, slightly hunched, and Carol could visualize the weightiness of the problem burdening the slight woman, almost a physical presence pressing downward. For a moment, Carol feared that Therese had retreated behind her safe walls again. And she could comprehend that, much as she herself had done after her parents’ death. After the night with Harge. After the breakup with Abby. After leaving Therese and fleeing to the Manhattan apartment with Rindy. Just as Carol was about to take a verbal step back, Therese looked her in the eye and said:
“Montréal was glorious until it careened out of control.” Therese looked guilty. “Until I veered out of control. It started that night. The first night, didn’t it? Maybe even a little bit on the train,” Therese admitted, her face appearing strained as she paused, reflecting on the last weeks:
Therese’s hands and mouth roamed everywhere: fondling, kneading, stroking, caressing, massaging. She kissed every bare inch of Carol until she shimmied down the blonde’s body, hooking thumbs into the silk pajama bottoms to drag them down Carol’s legs. Then, settled between Carol’s thighs, Therese licked, sucked, and teased Carol’s sensitive clitoris, Therese’s tongue darting and tasting the essence of Carol. Such a heightened initiative. Such a take-charge lovemaking. Bolder. Assertive. Brazen.
Then, pre-dawn, Therese appeared in a manic state: rapid speech, disjointed thoughts, jerky movements. But, after the madcap sexual encounter of the first night on Rue Saint-Paul and the frenetic morning that followed, the electric current vibrating within Therese dialed back a click, then another. It lessened. Relieving Carol’s anxiety, easing Mary March’s worry. Temporarily. Yet in the moment, Carol and Mary held their breath, hoping it would last.
Jean-Paul Dompierre returned home from a conference in Alberta with mementos and souvenirs for everyone and three bottles of Bordeaux. Therese, Carol, and Mary prepared a welcoming dinner, the top floor at #34 Rue Saint-Paul illuminated, soft light pouring from the row of arched French doors and windows, a genuine familial type of warmth filling the flat.
He was only an inch taller than Carol, standing about 5’10”, and he was handsome in a Southern European way, with a slight Mediterranean tint to his skin in a rich olive hue. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, straight, and medium-long. Jean-Paul had the characteristically strong French nose and brow definition with slightly larger brown eyes, so empathetic that it startled Carol.
“Such a pleasure to meet our Księżniczko’s très chère amie.” He bussed Carol on each cheek. Then they all laughed at how easily they blended an English discussion with Polish and French endearments. And the night was perfect. Their metaphorical circle linked hands, growing tighter, protecting them all, but especially Księżniczko Therese.
In the following days, the sightseeing intensified: Notre-Dame Church, Montréal’s masterpiece of Gothic Revival architecture, known for its embellished interior. Place d’Armes, the historic site in front of Notre-Dame, with its gorgeous twin towers and high arched entries. They took the F-line bus to the C-line to Montréal’s Botanical Garden, considered one of the world’s most important botanical urban oases, with over 20,000 plant species. Rindy scampered through the fertile rows, collecting fallen blooms and sprigs, ferrying them back to Therese to weave a flowering crown of beauty.
“See, Tress! Look, Mommy! I’m a princess like Tress!” Rindy twirled, a twig her Royal scepter.
With Mary March and Ruby, Therese and Carol strolled the nearby Saint Joseph's Oratory, a minor basilica featuring colorful flowers, vast green spaces, tall trees, and the magnificent Garden of the Way of the Cross. Jean-Paul used his connections for a private viewing of Château Ramezay in Montreal, built in 1705 by Claude de Ramezay, making it over 243 years old. It was the first private history museum in all of Quebec Province, a former governor’s residence transformed into a museum: 2,000 drawings, prints, paintings, and etchings to explore.
Then, for Carol’s mid-May birthday, Therese planned a surprise picnic. Mary and Jean-Paul. Ruby. Joséphine and Henri, who brought a basket of treats from their bakery, while Mélanie and Florian presented Carol with a bouquet from the shop. The spring concerts had begun in Place Jacques-Cartier, the bustling town square in Old Montréal, and it was there that Therese performed with the community orchestra on the Vuillaume violin that she’d purchased with Carol in Pittsburgh. And Carol sat in amazement at how radiant Therese was, transfigured and elevated impossibly higher, if that was even possible.
Their stares connected across the green, their eyes roaming the other’s face, hanging on each other’s expression longer than friends might. Ruby noticed it, but then she had read between the lines of the letters Therese had mailed her from Rumson. This woman, Carol, was special to Therese– the Princess’s Królowa Kier, Queen of Hearts.
“She’s remarkable, isn’t she?” Jean-Paul whispered to Carol, but his eyes remained on Therese. “So like Audrée,” his last three words issued in the slightest of breaths. He meant it as his highest form of compliment, but Carol worried. How could one young woman be expected to satisfy everyone’s fantasy? Her eyes traveled to Mary March, likewise absorbed in the myth of an orphaned girl who became an instant daughter. To Ruby Robichek, Therese was the supreme rescuer, plucking her up from the refugee and immigration center to help restore her dignity and life– Ruby’s Księżniczko. And Rindy sat in the crook of Carol’s arms, transfixed by the young woman she believed was her sister.
Adopted daughter. Surrogate child. Sister. Friend. Savior. Lover. Deeply cherished but overburdened.
The pace somehow intensified over the weeks. Shops. Bookstores. Early mornings at the farmers’ markets. Therese brought Carol to the immigration center, where she volunteered. Introduced her to Mireille, the woman who hoped Therese would illustrate the children’s book she was drafting. Then, Therese suggested a tour of the Art Association of Montreal, which was currently undergoing a major rebranding as the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. It was Canada’s premier cultural institution, located in the current Beaux-Arts building on Sherbrooke Street.
It started pleasantly enough. Relaxed. Enjoyable. But what began as a meandering stroll through the galleries somehow became a march of endurance, Therese distracted, jumping from one piece to the next.
“Did we eat breakfast? It’s silly; I can’t remember.” Therese looked around, almost startled that they were in the museum. “Let’s go have smoked meat at Schwartz’s Deli in the Plateau neighborhood.”
“But… Well… Yes. I mean, yes, we had breakfast. But if you’re hungry for lunch–” Carol rushed to say.
“Jean-Paul loves for me to see the art here, but… but…” Therese faltered, blanking on the real reason they had come here.
“We didn’t have to do this today, Darling– the art. In fact, a lazy day at your flat would be a welcome–”
“He loves the museum, Carol. Jean-Paul says it’s where he feels closest to Odette and Audrée. He’ll want to know what I thought about–” Therese swung her head around the room. What had they seen today? What would she tell Jean-Paul if he asked?
Carol sharply narrowed her eyes. “That’s fine for Jean-Paul. But you have all sorts of wonderful interests. Don’t be readily swayed to–”
“Are you hungry by chance? Did we eat this morning? There’s a cafe around the corner.”
“Wait, Therese. Please know that you never have to do that with me. That thing you do.”
“W-What thing?”
“Bend to what you think someone needs from you, how someone wants you to act, or who to be. You’re your own beautifully unique person. Don’t forget that. Promise me.”
“Okay. I promise.” Therese lifted her shoulders and bit her bottom lip. Her eyes twinkled enchantingly under the museum lighting. And Therese was so precious, so vulnerable Carol took note, filing it all away for examination later.
So, for the foreseeable future, Therese packed their days, hours, and minutes:
Mile’s End…
Hamlet Beneath the Hill…
Saint-Viateur Street…
Shopping on Sainte-Catherine Street…
Kondiaronk Belvedere, the crown jewel of Mount Royal Park…
The Quartier des Spectacles…
Montréal City Hall with its imposing architectural mansard roof…
And everywhere, a harmonious mix of languages, diversity, whimsical architecture, and a friendly, easygoing atmosphere permeated the air.
Often, the residents of #34 Rue Saint-Paul gathered for communal dinners. They shared more musical concerts in Place Jacques-Cartier.
There were stops at bistros for café au lait or café latte, or even better, a café latte mousseux. Therese practiced her violin in the small French grenier or gave lessons to Rindy on the child-sized violin she purchased for her tiny sister. And Montréal’s breathtaking vista flourished around them, ripe with possibilities. Opportunities appeared in wee ways, infinitesimal inroads, and Carol happily snatched each one.
“Mommy, I want my own room. Now, please. My animals can’t sleep with you and me both in the bed. I’m six, Mommy.” Rindy tapped her sister’s arm, “Tress, Mommy snores, Aah-zzz, Aah-zzz. Like that.”
Carol glanced at Therese, mouthing, That’s that, thank God.
“You could use Mary’s room, Carol,” Therese quickly offered. “She’s happy downstairs with Jean-Paul. No sense in wasting a comfortable bed,” Therese said, winking behind Rindy’s back. Mary March had happily settled in with the professor, providing the convenient excuse: Carol inherited the bedroom on the other side of the shared bathroom with Therese’s room, making life in the flat one step easier.
“What happens when Aunt Abby comes, Mommy? She’s still coming, isn’t she?”
“Oh, dear! Such a problem,” Carol exaggerated. “I guess I’ll have to… um… Therese, would you mind if I slept with you? I promise not to snore. We could try it out tonight. Just the two of us.”
But simmering below Therese’s surface, a rattling hum grew louder. It had shot past bone and muscle, risen above the hypodermis. It had clawed its way through the dermis layer of skin and rested barely beneath the epidermis, where it itched. Worse, fragments of splintered light shattered her dreams, leaving her gasping for air. There were nights she crawled into bed with Rindy, comforted by the steady breaths from her little sister; other nights, she tossed and turned until she woke herself in a fevered sweat, seeking sex with Carol, chasing anything that would give her relief.
One morning, Therese perched atop a lookout on Mont Royal, the perfect one, unveiling Montréal in its splendor. “This was Táta’s proposed neighborhood when I moved here. Some of the city’s most affluent neighborhoods are located here, near Mont Royal. In that direction,” she pointed, “is Westmont, one of Canada’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Northwest of Mont Royal is Outremont, home to the Francophone elite. He preferred that I live in either community. Take my pick. Ostentatious apartments. Large mansions. Pretty young women and eligible, rich gentlemen. Upstanding families.”
“It’s lovely.” Carol smiled, yet she heard the distress in Therese’s tone. “But you desired a life in Vieux-Montréal on Rue Saint-Paul. I approve. It suits you,” she said strongly.
“Yes. I thought so… hoped so. It was so hard, and–”
“Why was it difficult to make the decision? To tell John your wishes?”
“Because it was hard to say no to Táta. He saved me from the orphanage. The streets. What a life like that meant for a girl in war-ravaged Europe. Prostitution. Dead-end. He warned me repeatedly about what would have happened to me. No decent person would take in an orphan. Sister Alicia reminded me, too, nearly every day.” Therese suddenly looked to Carol for confirmation, “He-He loved me. Right? He did it because he was good and kind and…” Her lip twisted, her eyebrows downturned, then an about-face, asking, “What would you like? Are you hungry? Thirsty? We could walk to–”
“What do you want to do, Therese?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ll do anything for you.”
“Simple, Sweetheart. Please tell me how you’d like to spend the rest of the morning and afternoon. We’ll do it.”
The expression of bewilderment on Therese’s face, held in her body, was not missed by Carol. “We could go to the museum, Carol. Would that please you? Make you happy? The farmers’ market. Tour City Hall or–”
“All of those, we’ve done. I fear you’ve raced through your Montréal guidebook, Darling.”
“Oh. Yes, I guess I have. Maybe… Maybe home first, if you wouldn’t mind. I… That humming. That buzzing. Can’t you hear it?”
“Um…” Carol peeked around the quiet overlook. “No, Darling, I can’t. Perhaps a BC Powder or Goody’s from the pharmacy counter will do the trick. C’mon, we’ll stop by the shop around the corner from Rue Saint-Paul.”
And that’s when the letter arrived, forwarded from Québec City, a week and a half overdue. Therese didn’t recognize the handwriting. How could she? She hadn’t ever seen anything written in his hand before, except an artist’s flourish of the brush. She was chatting nonstop about what she’d ordered for next week’s dinner to celebrate Abby’s planned arrival, and the message cruelly caught her in a vise, twisting the breath from her.
“What is it? Bad news from Abigail? Don’t tell me she canceled–” Carol sensed immediately that Therese was going to brush whatever it was off. Divert. Distract.
“No. A… A bill… I forgot to pay it.” And into the nearest pocket, Therese crammed it, her fingers squeezing any life from it, any power it might wield over her. It was problematic– for all of them. But it was also useless to try to wrench free. She was… stuck. Stuck, stuck! STUCK!
Currently, in the attic convent room, Therese drew her narrative to the present: “So, the letter came, and I didn’t want to drag you into my mess. I was already feeling Therese Belivet Aird’s persona unraveling, thread by carefully stitched thread, but the letter…”
“I saw something wash over you in that moment, Therese. That panicked look you get– something beyond your control. I should have stopped you then and made you talk me through it. But I didn’t. I avoided it, much like we haven’t really discussed the file Jeanette Harrison handed me. Lisette Freyer,” Carol sighed. “We’re in this strange bubble of discovery and happiness. Away from Rumson. Away from John and the entire Aird reputation. Everything is new and fresh. I didn’t want to spoil it. Then the letter came.”
“Then the letter came,” Therese repeated. “A man I’ve never met, but who would possibly upend everything. A visit! He wants to visit me! Why? The money? The inheritance? Anastázie’s shares of Aird & Higenfeld Lumber Company? A closer scrutiny of me? The last time he laid eyes on me, I was unconscious in a hospital bed in Southampton. I didn’t know what to do when I received his request in the mail… then… then the piano.”
“Oh, God. The piano. On the surface, it was minor, but every person there that evening knew in their gut something was off… something went deeper.”
“And poor Abby. I plunked her smackdown in the middle of the drama.”
Abigail Gerhard, indeed, kept her travel plans, arriving in Montreal after a business detour to Toronto, infusing the apartment’s energy with another surge of excitement. “This place of yours. It’s magnificent! Therese!” The lilting voice. The expressive, whirling gestures. She wrapped everyone in the amusing allure of a pretty female harlequin. “That area. I have the perfect–”
“You mean that one square inch of space?” Carol rolled her eyes.
But it wasn’t long before Abby drew Carol aside with little murmurings of: “Is Therese alright? Carol, she seems… She seems so on edge. What is it? The Lisette matter? Harge? She keeps touching her ears and rubbing her eyes. Something’s wrong. You know it.”
“No, no. It’s fine. Oh, and don’t mention it, Abby. She’s been working so hard to ensure everything is perfect for your visit. She’s planned the welcome dinner in your honor. You’ll adore her friends here.” But Carol did take a long look across the living room, watching Therese fret, fuss, and double-check every detail, but repeatedly patting a trouser pocket, her hand searching it for something, worrying.
And, after dinner, the delicate matter of the piano crashed the party, much like a 500-pound gorilla. The tight-knit group was laughing at one of Abby’s misguided adventures. Henri raised his glass, cheering, “The piano. You never play it, Therese. Play us something to celebrate your friend, Abby.”
Therese’s mood pivoted sharply; then she stood, and Carol anxiously figured Therese might bolt from the room. “I’m actually thinking of selling it. Yes. I’ll sell it!” Her voice was a notch too loud; her movements were a tad too jerky. And Ruby Robichek caught Therese’s every minute expression, throwing wide eyes at Carol as if to say: “Księżniczko is unraveling!”
A chorus of:
“No. It was one of your mother’s pianos.”
“Therese, you can’t! You simply can’t.”
“Play the damn thing for us, Therese. Give us a song.”
“Selling?” Abby moved around the console piano, appraising it with a keen eye. “What a coincidence. I have a customer scouring everywhere for one of these. It’s valuable, Therese. It’s a C Bechstein. German manufacturer, right? I could guide you toward a fair–”
“You know your pianos, Abby.” Therese leaped on a whim, “Therefore, it’s your prize. Take it.”
“Silly, girl, the name’s on the little gold crest and lettering,” Abby smirked. “I’m good with my factory marks and periods, but not that good.” A pause. “My prize? Take it?” she laughed. “You can’t be serious.” Abby realized it wasn’t a joke, suddenly in possession of a 500-pound piano. “I only meant–”
“I’m giving it away– to you. I can do that, can’t I?” It was more than a question; Therese sought permission as she searched each face surrounding her, then scowled at the piano. “Henri, I can give it to Abby, can’t I? Florian? Mélanie? Ruby? Joséphine? You can have it, Abby, unless some of you want it. Then maybe we can draw straws.”
Jean-Paul grew concerned, “It was one of your mother’s, Therese. I imagine she hoped you would find great enjoyment in it one day. Think about it.” He shifted his eyes to Mary March.
“Abby gave me a valuable gift once, Jean-Paul. It’s simply a way to repay her kindness.”
“Therese, Sweetie, the antique business doesn’t work in quite that way,” Abby commented. “What was the gift I gave you?” she inquired, juggling her hands, lost at Therese’s logic.
“The book. Little Women. And your friendship and advice when I needed it most.”
“Uh… right. Not exactly an equal trade. Think it over a bit; if you want me to research the value, I can handle that. But it’s not like I can pack this item in my luggage, Sweetie.”
“Well, whatever you can do. Besides, there’s already so much noise right now in the apartment… In my head. Don’t you hear it? Why can’t you all hear it?”
The exchange didn’t kill the party mood, nor did it end it early, but the friendship circle cast worried glances at one another.
And Therese’s hand! Again, Carol noticed it constantly went to a pocket, searching, reassuring herself that something important was there.
No! Safe-guarding. Protecting.
But what?
What hadn’t Therese shared with her?
What had tripped the sparking fuse further along the circuit?
In a startling flash, Carol realized this moment concerned Lisette and the girl’s carefully constructed fortress, the one that protected her identity. But didn’t the poor girl understand? Carol was part of Lisette’s life, too!
As quickly as it surged, Therese’s mood ebbed, leaving a residue of confusion and alarm within Carol– a forewarning that issues from the past must be dealt with before they intruded on their present.
There was a heaviness in the air in the convent attic room, and Carol left the bed to raise the window higher. Then, she returned to Therese, the pair turning to one another, their thoughts coalescing into a rush of words, causing them to speak over one another:
– “I thought I hid everything so well, Carol. I told myself, ‘I can handle this visit. Táta prepared me.’ But he hadn’t. He left me on my own. I was drowning.”
– “Believe me, Therese, I would have helped you find a way through it– all of it. The piano. The letter. The fact that you seemed rudderless, no anchor.”
Therese gathered her resolve to finish. “The idea for the baguette and coffee beans was only an excuse. I wanted somewhere quiet and private to read the letter for the hundredth time, in case I'd missed something. I thought I’d have the bakery to myself. At that time of day, Joséphine and Henri are usually in the back kitchen. I had grabbed a baguette and the coffee, the note in my hand, and was reading it. The buzzing was so loud, pulsating in my eardrums, that it jumbled the words on the page. When Joséphine touched my back, I think… I think I screamed, believing he was behind me, that he’d arrived early. Found me. I dropped everything and ran. Ran for my life. Fled for a chance to outrun my acquired destiny. Keep you safe from a visit from him.”
Completely dazed in the moment, Therese blurted, “I’m not sure what happened after that. I found myself banging my fists on the door to the convent school. 262 kilometers away. 163 miles. A little over three hours. And I couldn’t remember most of it. I sat there on that bus, chilled and numb. Thankfully, I had my wallet. If I had wandered somewhere and become lost, I doubt I could have told anyone my name. And which name?
“When I arrived, I rushed past Sister Évangéline, tore away from Sister Hortense, who tried to grab me. I dodged Sister Sophia on the steps and sought shelter here. Here in this very room.”
“And? Did they come to you immediately? Reassure you? What did the Reverend Mother, Sister Alicia, say?” Recriminations? Carol wondered.
“Sister Penelope made up an excuse that I was on a spiritual retreat,” Therese smirked. “She gave me time to myself, then appeared like the angel she is. She knows me too well. Earlier, Sister Hortense had found Fripon, where I had hidden him from Sister Alicia, and handed him to me. Then, Sister Penelope and I sat. Silently. Until my heart stopped racing. Until I could breathe again.”
Carol cut her eyes to Therese. “You frightened us. Joséphine was in a state. She thought something had happened to one of us. That’s when she rushed upstairs to pass us the letter she’d found amidst the coffee beans and baguette. Mary’s French is better than mine, but we still asked Jean-Paul to read and translate it. I won’t belittle your intelligence, Therese. You have to know that we were scared out of our minds. The last sight Joséphine had of you was you chasing after the bus pulling out from the corner. Mary called Ruby, too. We sent Rindy to bake cookies with Henri and Joséphine. Then, with Abby included, we tried to piece together the events that terrorized you.
“Abby knows who you are, Darling; she helped me read through your file that Jeanette Harrison assembled. Never would she ever breathe a word. Your secret is safe; Abigail is trustworthy. But it’s clear that Jean-Paul and Ruby hold tight to a suspicion that there’s more to you resting just beneath the surface.”
“What am I going to do, Carol?”
“It’s what we’re going to do,” Carol said, holding her. “I need to tell you what Ruby and I discussed on the way here. But first, maybe I can sneak downstairs to return this tray and beg for more tea.”
“Sister Penelope will help you. Should I go?”
“Stay. I’ll only be a moment. I have a quick favor to ask your pretty little nun, too.” She blew Therese a kiss.
So, Abraham DuBois was heading to Montréal about possibly opening a gallery. A friendly chat over coffee? A reacquaintance with his deceased lover’s child? A claim on an illegitimate daughter? Or a threat of extortion? What did he know? What did he suspect? None of it was happening under her watch, Carol swore. No one would pierce the illusion of Therese Belivet Aird. And no one would harm Lisette Freyer, by God.