Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: In Heart of True North, 1948– Paint It Black/Sympathy for the Devil

‘Paint It Black/Sympathy for the Devil’ from the album ‘Infernal Violins’
Composed by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, arranged by Angèle Dubeau
(Angèle Dubeau & La Pietà)

Therese stood by the window, looking westward. The glass wasn’t as clean now, not like how she’d kept it. Back then, she would regularly take a rag from the tiny en-suite bathroom and wash the individual glass panes. Once, she even dared to partially hang out the open window on a fine spring day, dangling quite awkwardly as she stretched and reached to the outside glass, scrubbing off the residue of Father Winter.

And now? Now she didn’t care if the weather had marked the window with the past season’s grime and haze. Not really. Truthfully? Not at all. Besides, she didn’t have the stamina. She felt sapped. Lifeless. A barely upright ghost of a young woman. Unable to raise her arms or swivel her head. She gently slumped against the window frame, her eyes straight ahead, seeing little. When her strength became too depleted for her legs to hold her weight, threatening to collapse, she debated dragging the room’s straight back wooden chair so she could sit. But that action required a determination within her that she couldn’t muster. Not today. Maybe never again. 

Consequently, she remained a silent statue– a sentry, a diminutive sentinel.

Today was such a pretty day. Yet honestly? Honestly, she would have preferred it dark and stormy. Something in keeping with her mood. A day torn from the pages of Wuthering Heights or maybe The Fall of the House of Usher. Jane Eyre. In the back of her head, she heard that damn little childhood melody, the one about the wolf. It had gone round and round her head for days.

She paused in her listless state. What was this confounding turmoil that upended her life? She thought she had turned the page, closing the book on fears, anxieties, loss, and heartache. So why had she returned here? Here! To this very room of all places? Back… Back here? Why? What had compelled her? 

Earlier, before she had run, Therese had stepped out to the bakery downstairs. She needed another baguette. Maybe two. That’s all. It was an easy jog down the staircase or a quick ride in the refurbished elevator. Rindy had asked to go, but she’d diverted her attention, asking her younger sister to– to… She couldn’t remember. Had she known at that point her destination? No. No, not then. Instead, the nursery rhyme kept her company on her route. It had popped into her head from a long-ago memory… and stayed:

Promenons-nous dans les bois
Pendant que le loup n'y est pas
Si le loup y était
Il nous mangerait
Mais comme il n’y est pas
Il nous mangera pas
Loup, y es-tu? Entends-tu? Que fais-tu?

Yes. The wolf. But why? Who? All she had to fight back with was her lucky rabbit’s foot that had been in her jacket pocket. The one Dannie had given her. 

Now that she was here, the churning in her mind had slowed a bit, but the infernal buzzing lingered; it had been relentless the past few weeks leading to her confounding run. Just thinking about the disquieting hum and ringing, reminding herself she couldn’t block it out, made her press her palms to either side of her head, willing it away. She must remain alert. Ready. Prepared. Nothing could leak out into the world. John Aird’s world. Not a shred of anything could slip beyond these walls. 

An abrupt realization shook her petite frame. 

Remain alert? Ready? Prepared? A guardian? Why? Why was she doing this? 

Therese blinked. Once. Twice. She scrunched her shoulders forward. Hadn’t John Aird died? The end of last year? He should no longer take up so much space in her head. But he had warned her: “You must guard your identity. You must secure your place as an Aird heir. Be on guard, Therese! Guard everything with your life! You must not fail me. Understood? Understood!”

Her head thumped to an imaginary syncopated beat, and she pinched and dragged a thumb and finger across her forehead. When it didn’t help, she rested her fingertips across her closed eyes, pushing back the pain. Weariness beat down on her. 

But her mind circled to a snippet of a thought: Guard. What exactly was she guarding? Now? Right now! In this minute? This second? 

The Plan? 

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Of course. It was always about– 

Wasn’t it about The Plan? Isn’t that why she was here? No! No. no no no no. She wasn’t in Rumson. She had left. 

Think! Think, think, think. What was the reason she’d run? It couldn’t be because of her plan, that safely guarded, all-consuming secret. That was… over. Wasn’t it? She had cautiously waited. And at the precise moment, when all the pieces coalesced, she’d set The Plan in motion! Brava! She’d outwitted Hargie. Single-handedly, she’d swayed Jennifer to her side in the epic battle among John Aird’s heirs. 

While she hunkered down here, a growing gathering of bankers, lawyers, consultants, bookkeepers, and contractors sprang into action. It was underway. All that remained on her end of the Plan was to reappear now and again to sign addenda and other changes, and to approve spending overages. Even there, she was confident that between Lorenz Leonard and the banker, Clark Emory, she would move seamlessly through the maze. So, no. The Plan need no longer be front and center in her life; it no longer weighed her down as it once did. 

That thought brought equal parts relief and consternation to Therese. She was exhausted, yet the final resolution left a… Oh, God! There was a gaping void in her life. Cavernous. Frightening. Was there a place in the world for a girl without a plan? She felt she was in a freefall.

Wait... Therese’s mind refused to move on, move forward. There was a nagging tickle in her mind, almost feverish. It dwelled on one word– those four letters: P•L•A•N. 

Had Lisette launched The Plan? Was she the one who had established the Carol Ross Aird Foundation for the Arts at the Museum of Modern Art? There was another one, too. One in her tiny sister’s name at the Central Park Zoo to preserve and protect wildlife. A third was a charitable donation to a hospital that had saved Jennifer Aird’s life. But the cornerstone of The Plan was transforming Aird Manor into a music conservatory providing a specialized education and advanced musical training for girls and young women– ones like her, ones who had known adversities and traumas. Agape House would be tuition-free, funded by the Aird Foundation.

But Lisette couldn’t have managed the elaborate blueprint. It wasn’t possible that Lisette was the architect. Lisette was an ordinary girl from an ordinary family. Nothing special; nothing grand. Sadly, Therese shook her head no.

So, had her friend, Therese Aird, conceived all of this? Therese licked her bottom lip, pondering it. Hmm, no. How could she have? That girl? That Therese had… “Don’t touch that memory,” a voice hummed in her head. Something had happened to that Therese from multiple injuries after the blast in Southampton. Therese shrugged and rubbed her forehead. Good Lord! The entirety of that portion of her life still caused her nightmares.

Could that mean she had? Therese Belivet Aird. Had she devised this grand strategy for the wealth? That took a moment of thought. No. After all, wasn’t Therese Belivet Aird merely a creation of Táta’s bold machinations? A fantasy child. Something conjured during a moment of a man’s extreme emotional pain. No. Therese Belivet Aird wasn’t real. Indisputably, she was a make-believe youngster dressed up to appear as another.

That left… Therese bit the inside of her cheek, lost in those war years in England. However, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth instantly brought her back with a startle. Alright. That did leave… Lisette Freyer, an orphan! An unremarkable youngster thrust into a remarkable situation! A girl who wouldn’t even be assigned a footnote in the annals of Life? She would have never garnered a glance from John Aird had she not resembled Therese Aird. It was Lisette Freyer who had dreamed, designed, and teased out the details of The Plan. Yes!

Her plan. Therese took a long, steadying breath despite her confusion. Okay, it wasn’t her highly protected plan that had landed her here, then. Nothing had gone wrong, except for those few weeks where she thought she might lose Carol.

So what was it? Therese crooked her hand, bending her thumb toward her mouth, all the better to chew on her nail. Well, it certainly wasn’t Carol who placed her in her current position. Their reunion at Penn Station was dream-like. Perfect. She comforted herself, reminiscing:

Therese had been waiting outside on the sidewalk in front of Penn Station that April 17th evening. She had obsessively checked her wristwatch, her stomach churning. Carol wasn’t coming to meet her. Mary March had touched her shoulder, trying to stem the sadness and hopelessness Therese knew was radiating off her in waves. 

Mary had said, “I’m sorry, my girl. But you’ll be back in New York and New Jersey sooner than it seems. Chin up. I’ll help you through, Darling.” And Mary had looked at her with such devotion that all Therese could do was hold back her tears, hesitantly agreeing.

She had felt like crying, stopping right there on the pavement and breaking down in gulping sobs; she’d been so sure that Carol would show with Rindy, suitcases in hand. Walking along the platform, Therese had found herself sniffling, throwing backward glances over her shoulder every third or fourth step, hoping for a miracle, but realizing it wasn’t about to happen.

Then, she heard it: “Therese.” The breeze carried her name, light and ethereal. And though but a whisper, Therese had turned in that moment, at the sigh of her name. One of her hands had already been on the railing, her fingers gripping tightly, one foot poised on the first rung, ready to board. But she heard Carol call; she recognized the lilt in her voice. Their eyes locked, staring at one another across the masses crowding the train station; Therese and Carol remained frozen, as the scene around them– frenetic travelers bumping and jostling, hurrying along the platforms – all gradually faded. Therese had leaned back from the train car, nodding and smiling at Mary March, and hopped down from the train vestibule step. 

“You came!” she excitedly cried out to Carol. 

Too much happened at once: Rindy enthusiastically charging into her, and Abby suddenly there, kissing her on the cheek, saying goodbye. Only then did Therese shake off her surprise, threading her way to Carol despite a bump from a man carrying a trunk and a simple scuff and stumble on her shoe along her route. But Therese had persevered, her eyes still on her blonde goddess, both women suddenly shy. 

Finally, Therese spoke, “I was afraid you might have had second thoughts about my offer.” She tried to quell the butterflies in her stomach. She wanted this moment; she desired it for a lifetime. Then she relaxed. This woman was Carol, purse and valise clutched in her hand. She remembered a snippet from her first meeting with Carol before she even knew her name, and Therese had flirtatiously recited, “Do I… Do I know you? Have we met before tonight? It’s… Well, it’s– … I know it’s silly, but I think we have. I’m not one to forget a face.” Therese had beamed at Carol, unable to hide her joy. “And such a lovely, lovely one at that,” she added.

And Carol had recognized the lines she had once said to Therese that initial evening. She cleverly retorted. “That wouldn’t be possible. I’ve just arrived at the train station to meet someone. Someone special,” Carol had added. Then, she fished in her coat pocket. “I… I think this might be yours,” she held out the calfskin glove.

“Oh, goodness! Where did I–” Therese had incredulously spun around in a circle. “I didn’t know I’d dropped–”

“Yes. Last May. The 29th. I handed you both your–”

“– gloves!” Therese had gasped. “But you kept one all this time? Why?”

“I did. That night, you immediately dropped one again.” Carol bit her lip. “Here, I don’t need it anymore. I have the real thing– you.” 

“I’d forget my head if– Thank you,” she had flashed a heart-pounding smile at Carol. 

Therese had the entire scene memorized– every gesture, every word. 

Carol grew bold, delicately tracing first one dimple, then the second. Right there! Penn Station. There was nothing to hold her back, it seemed. Carol had no words, but her soul apparently did: “Yes, I... Yes, I know you. We have met before in a hundred previous lifetimes. We’ll meet in a thousand more. Continually. Eternally,” Carol breathed. “But right now, we’re here. In the glorious present. We have time– to talk, to explore, to figure things out, to love, and to live.”

Everything would be alright—more than fine. Therese had melted.

The train blasted a final warning horn, and Carol linked arms with her as they strode toward their passenger car with a new sense of purpose. Drawing her close, Carol had mumbled, “What should I call you now? Now that I know? Therese? Lisette?”

The question had given Therese pause, unsettling her slightly. “I’m afraid I’m stuck with the name Therese Belivet Aird for this lifetime, but… but…” Therese gambled on Carol’s love. “But I would like it so very much if you’d call me yours. Hopefully forever. But if you‘re not ready, then–” It was her greatest gamble so far in life. She bet everything on Carol’s love.

“Mine,” Carol seemed to answer easily. 

As Carol steadied Therese on the first rung of the passenger car steps, she whispered, “Mine. Forever.”

Yes, perfect. A perfect evening. A perfect reunion. A perfect Carol. Perfect. Perfect. Per– Hmm, but something wasn’t quite right. What was it? Something didn’t fit neatly. Smoothly. Gliding into place as it should have. And it was her! Therese Belivet Aird…or was it Lisette Freyer?

So, the problem wasn’t The Plan. It wasn’t Carol. 

From her window perch, Therese’s eyes caught three red-winged blackbirds swooping and circling in a playful spring dance, distracting her momentarily. When her hand came to her mouth, three of her fingers’ nails found their way between her teeth.  

Lately, during her day-to-day of ordinary wakefulness in Montréal, a strange feeling would arise, creep in, and hang over her, saturating every cell in her body, drowning her. Therese couldn’t pinpoint the minute it initially appeared or the incident that triggered it, but something had snuck by her. Building. Building. Gathering steam. She had been too deliriously happy, reunited with Carol and Rindy, to clock the weird uncertainty, the apprehension, at its first appearance; therefore, it grew exponentially in force, becoming almost too much to bear until eventually, it had landed her here. 

Therese summoned a tiny, spare speck of energy, concentrating: What was this duality of frenzied flight, the overthinking, her mind scrambling a mile a minute. It was as if her brain chattered relentlessly with intrusive thoughts. Her being was overwhelmed by rapidly shifting, irrational worries and utter physical lethargy. What was it all about? How had she allowed it– whatever it was– to interrupt her joy and excitement with Carol and Rindy? Yet, in some bizarre way, it was as if she had walked hand in hand for a very long time with this feeling– a slowly draining journey. 

Oh, not the latest physical journey. Not the actual travel from Manhattan to Montréal with its rhythmic, sensory experience. That had been delightful! There had been panoramic views of ever-changing landscapes– meadows and fields, forests and woodlands, sleepy rural towns and dynamic cities. They– Therese and the three: Carol, Mary March, and Rindy– relaxed into the thrumming and clacking of the wheels on the rails. It soothed her soul after weeks apart from Carol and her little sister.

They read. 
They napped. 
They found one another anew. 
They talked. 
They laughed. 
They planned.
They shared bites of food.
They sat, limbs intertwined.

The four experienced the charmed world of the traveler– jostling passengers, queues of chatting people swapping stories, all while listening to the hypnotic sound of the wheels lulling them into a peaceful existence. 

But this current feeling that had commandeered her body and soul harkened back to a different journey– an older one. 

So why was she here? In this room? At this window? A part of her knew, yet a part wouldn’t acknowledge the presence in the room: Truth. 

Therese’s mind drifted back… back to the meeting at Penn Station. She rehashed it once more: The pacing outside the station. The realization that Carol wasn’t coming. The walk along the platform. Then the shock when Carol called her name. Rindy’s overt joy.

In retrospect, maybe that was the moment. That was the trigger. Therese should have examined that juncture more closely. But no. Therese had been carried away by Carol’s romanticism, like a soul taking flight on the wing of a goddess. So she had said, 
“I’m afraid I’m stuck with the name Therese Belivet Aird for this lifetime.”

but… but… 

Her thoughts couldn’t escape the loop; it was lodged, like a phonograph’s needle in a groove. Wedged. Frozen. Embedded. Jammed.
“I’m stuck with the name Therese Belivet Aird.”
“I’m stuck with the name.”
“I’m stuck.”
“I’m stuck.” “I’m stuck.” “I’m stuck!”

How could she be so genuinely happy and so… so stuck in the same moment? A moment that morphed into an abyss– dark. Threatening. Terrifying. A gloaming of the nightmarish type. She rubbed the rabbit’s foot. The nursery rhyme again wormed its way forward:

Promenons-nous dans les bois
Pendant que le loup n'y est pas
Si le loup y était
Il nous mangerait
Mais comme il n’y est pas
Il nous mangera pas
Loup, y es-tu? Entends-tu? Que fais-tu?

The buzzing and whirring progressively reached an intense pitch, aligning and crescendoing in three words: 

Loud:
…táta…
…john… 
…aird…

Therese’s eyes flew open. 

Louder:
…Táta…
…John…
…Aird…

They widened impossibly larger. 

Deafening:
Táta! 
John Aird!

“You’re Therese Belivet Aird now.” Those were his words. Táta’s. John Aird’s. How many times had he said those words over the years whenever she faltered? Times when she doubted the road she was on? The times she wanted to stop the silly charade.

“You’re Therese Belivet Aird now.”

But was she? Wasn’t the heart and soul of her someone else? She was sure. Well, almost sure. 

Therese’s bottom teeth grazed her top lip, pondering and chewing it over. Deliberating. Then, she ruminated, turning the thought over and over and over in her mind. Yet wasn’t this behavior akin to ultimate disrespect? Disloyalty? Ungratefulness? Let alone selfishness, insolence, and rudeness. Táta would never forgive her for these thoughts. 

It was heresy in John Aird’s world to think like this. 

Wasn’t Táta a kind and generous man? Wasn’t he a giant among men? A saint among mere mortals? He had offered refuge to an orphaned child– a girl no one would claim or want. No person had stepped forward to pressure Táta to assume that burden; no one required it of him. If not for Táta, circumstances would have cast her into the worst of the worst orphanages. That’s what he said; that’s what he continually stressed. Sister Alicia confirmed it. Lisette was nothing. John Aird alone had made her everything. 

Táta loved her. Loved her like a father. Was her father. 

Even when there was a marked shift in his demeanor as the cancer weakened him, Táta was still the virtuous man who had saved her. Right? Right, right, right? 

Yes, he had to be. And he had asked just a tiny favor in return. He assigned Therese a single task in life: solidify a plan in the Aird name. A plan that would save his legacy and, in so doing, give her own existence meaning. 

Oh, sure, Táta had shaken her by the shoulders once or twice and threatened her. That was her fault, not his. She certainly had tried his patience… though she couldn’t really remember doing so. But John Aird had to be all the things she deemed him to be. He had to be! Must be! Otherwise… Otherwise… What did this mean for her? About her? Who she was. Who she is. Who she could be.

Could she have danced with the Devil so easily? Therese? Where was her childhood friend, Therese Aird? She needed her to tell her what to do 

Therese lay her forehead against the window pane, beginning to tap her head against the glass in measured beats, each one slightly more assertive. It was a gesture mimicking her need to break through the barrier of whatever gripped her, an unseen force rattling her body, mind, and worse, her spirit. These were wasted moments; instead of reveling in the happiness of Carol and Rindy, she was burdened by…

Promenons-nous dans les bois
Pendant que le loup n'y est pas
Si le loup y était
Il nous mangerait
Mais comme il n’y est pas
Il nous mangera pas
Loup, y es-tu? Entends-tu? Que fais-tu?

Someone knocked. Therese hadn’t secured the door lock. No, never. To lock a door here, especially in this room, in a sanctuary such as this, would be reproachful, an unwarranted criticism heaped upon her hostesses. 

The knob tentatively jiggled, a tinkling, and the door opened ever so slightly, barely a crack.

Therese held her breath, sensing the identity of the presence on the other side. She turned, still failing to breathe, when she saw who entered.

“Hello, there,” the voice greeted her calmly, then pushed a leather valise into the room with an elegant foot. “I hope I haven’t interrupted. Mary guessed that I would find you here. Of course, she called to make sure. Your lovely friend Ruby drove me. Would you mind if I–” A finger gestured toward the window, silently asking permission to approach. 

Therese nodded slowly, stunned that she was worthy enough for anyone to care about her this much. This woman knew who she was, and still came. How did Lisette Freyer deserve the person who gazed across the room at her with such love? 

“What a beautiful view you had from here each passing season. No wonder you sought shelter here.”

A most pleasant fragrance drifted from the woman and filled her senses, and Therese’s eyes glanced upward, beholding the balm to her wounded being, perhaps an antidote to all that failed her, her salvation from the endless buzzing. “You’re not…” she drew a breath. “You’re not angry with me? Or are you? I can’t remember if I told you where I was going. I think… I think I mentioned the bakery– Joséphine and Henri’s bakery. The baguettes. Did I?” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m… I’m not sure even I knew until I looked around and… and here I was somehow.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Therese. I pushed you– too hard, I fear. We’ll work this out, but you have to slow down. Quit outrunning who you truly are. You are more than an identity that John foisted on you.” The visitor looked at this loveliest of young women, wishing she could absorb the girl’s pain. “I love you, no matter your name. I was wrong not to make that clear in Rumson. In Manhattan.” She eased a thumb across the redness on Therese’s forehead where it had repeatedly struck the window. “Let’s sit a spell, then talk. Alright?” A hand swept back the hair that fell across Therese’s face. “We’ll work it out, Darling. The two of us.”

The bed seemed so far, far away from where they stood at the window that Therese couldn’t comprehend reaching it. Her eyes longingly darted across the room, as if by magic she could conjure one closer. And then, in an otherworldly motion, a chair appeared, two arms gently guiding Therese back into it. 

“Carol,” Therese sighed, closing her eyes. “He… I thought… but no. No, he didn’t. Not really. And… And… Promenons-nous dans les bois, pendant que le loup n'y est pas. Si le loup y était, il nous mangerait. Mais comme il n’y est pas, il ne nous mangera pas. Loup, y es-tu? Entends-tu? Que fais-tu?”

“Hm. I’m afraid my French isn’t that proficient, Darling. Is it a nursery rhyme? Something someone taught you when you were small?” Carol threaded her fingers through Therese’s hair. Quieting her, alleviating the pain, and calming her nerves. 

Therese mumbled:

“Let's go for a walk in the woods
As long as the wolf isn't there
If the wolf were there
He would eat us
If the wolf isn't there
He won't eat us
Wolf, are you there? Do you hear? What are you doing?”

She lifted her head, staring up at Carol. “Do you understand why I’m afraid? The reason I feel so empty.”

Carol took in a breath through her mouth. A lungful. What to say? How to comfort? There was a compounded threat upsetting Therese. Real or imaginary, it didn’t matter. It was all in what Therese perceived as danger. A menace capable of harm. “Let’s start at the beginning and try to figure it out. Together this time. Shall we, my love? You can only run so far,” Carol bent to Therese’s ear, whispering, “Lisette.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Fragile Dream

‘Fragile Dream’ from the album ‘Un Conte De Fées– Fairy Tale’
Composed by Joe Hisaishi for Angèle Dubeau
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)

“Carol,” Therese sighed, closing her eyes, her long, dense eyelashes accentuating the dark circles beneath her lower eyelids. 

But despite Therese’s weariness, Carol found her face evoked beauty, innocence, and a harrowing need for deliverance. Deliverance? How much like the word Salvation. Was that the reason Therese sought refuge here? Carol’s eyes swept the small, bare space. How like a prison cell it seemed to her, except for the magnificent view. How many hours had Therese… No! Lisette!… spent deliberating her fate at that window? 

Therese’s raw voice broke the spell: “He… I thought… but no. No, he didn’t. Not really. And… And… Promenons-nous dans les bois, pendant que le loup n'y est pas. Si le loup y était, il nous mangerait. Mais comme il n’y est pas, il ne nous mangera pas. Loup, y es-tu? Entends-tu? Que fais-tu?” Therese opened her eyes. They were in the small attic room, the place she had fled to when the buzzing in her head– Sa sanctuaire, École Sainte-Thérèse de Lisieux de Québec.

“Hm. I’m afraid my French isn’t that proficient, Darling. Is that a nursery rhyme? Something someone taught you when you were small?” Carol stood behind the seated Therese, threading her fingers through the thickness of Therese’s hair. Quieting. Alleviating. Calming. 

Therese mumbled:

“Let’s go for a walk in the woods
As long as the wolf isn't there
If the wolf were there
He would eat us
If the wolf isn't there
He won't eat us
Wolf, are you there? Do you hear? What are you doing?”

She lifted her head, staring up at Carol. “Do you understand why I’m afraid? The reason I feel so empty.”

“Let’s start at the beginning and try to figure it out. Together this time. Shall we, my love? You can only run so far,” Carol bent to Therese’s ear, whispering, “Lisette.”

Therese blushed at the sound of her given name, the one her parents had bestowed upon her at birth, formalized at her baptism. Therese returned to a startling realization, one she’d experienced before she’d left for Montréal. She’d been carrying around a silent, brooding weight within her for so very long that it felt as if it had always been a piece of her, from a beginning she could scarcely remember. It conversed in half-whispered sighs and barely audible moans. It wasn’t until she was older that she realized that it was in this silence where she could find her– Lisette. Because within that hidden part of Therese Belivet Aird was where the essence of her true self dwelled. Lisette lived among the quiet pauses of life in a stillness that was too rare but so precious. A part relegated to hushed interludes. 

Yet presently? It seemed as if Lisette Freyer struggled to break free– at least with the people she could trust: Carol, Mary March, and Lorenz Leonard. Sister Alicia and the nuns from Lisieux, France, too. Ruby Robichek knew only fragments, but she was bound by an oath never to reveal things. She had trusted the Harrison woman to keep her secret. And she might even… Yes! She would trust Abigail Gerhard. “Start at the beginning? How far back? The very beginning? My beginnings?”

“Well…” That gave Carol pause. She eventually wanted to learn everything about this captivating young woman: for instance, why she wore loafers without socks. The fact that she said less than necessary, unlike Abby. The reason Therese loved squash and Brussels sprouts but picked at the tomatoes on her plate. This girl knew a fascinating story behind every trinket she held dear, and Carol never tired of hearing the winsome details. She wanted to memorize everything about Lisette Freyer at four, five, and six. Seven, eight, and nine. Be led on a tour of the streets of Paris through a youngster’s perspective. Other matters, too: When did Therese gravitate toward the violin? How did her first recital go? And horses! Carol wished to learn more about her love of the magnificent creatures. These were only a handful of the questions Carol eventually hoped to have answered. 

However, for now, maybe they should fast-forward to those blurred years when the fine line between a girl named Therese Aird and another who had once answered to Lisette Freyer disappeared. Carol knew a few unfortunate snippets, some passed along by Mary March and others by Ruby Robichek. Things that made Carol squirm uncomfortably when she learned of her late husband’s grand machinations. John Aird never did anything halfway; some things hurt her heart.   

“Tell me about–” 

She didn’t have a chance to finish when Therese quietly asked, “Can we sit for a while? Just sit? I could–” she swiveled her head around, as if seeing the tiny bedroom for the first time. “I thought… Wasn’t there… There should be another chair in here.”

“There’s one in the hall. Your sweet Sister Penelope carried up a school chair for me; it’s still in the corridor, just outside this room.” With the mention of the room, Carol glanced around, taking in the sparse accommodations. How thoroughly unlike this space was to Therese: barren walls except for a framed religious piece of a young woman, shrouded in heavy garments and holding a crucifix and roses. Undoubtedly, she was the famed Thérèse for whom the nuns had dedicated this school. There was a bed, a nightstand, and a simple dresser. A low bookcase and desk. A tiny closet. The only mirror was the one bolted crookedly above the bathroom sink. But it was clean and tidy; it was where John Aird had stashed the newly anointed Therese Belivet Aird for several years. Unbelievably, he had even provided a framed photo of himself for the bedside table. 

Carol picked up the framed photograph, wanting simply to smash it. So, only a picture of Táta. John Aird. How must Therese have felt seeing his likeness, day in, day out? A savior? Her savior. A benefactor? Her benefactor. Christ! He was nothing but a con man. A thief. He had stolen the girl’s identity. Swapped it with a child’s that he wasn’t even 100% certain was his. The shares. Anastázie’s shares. An heir of the Aird name who would redeem his reputation. 

“Stay there, Darling. I’ll grab it. We can sit and gaze… But eventually, we should discuss why you became so upset. Why you…” The last thing Carol wanted to do was hurl an accusation at the already defeated Therese. Nonetheless, she had to reach that part of her that was colliding with unstable behaviors. “Forgive me, Angel, for being so blunt, but you bolted! I was so very worried; we all were.”

“You were?” Therese crinkled her forehead. “I’m sorry…I am. I don’t know what’s ailing me. The buzzing in my head. This incredible weight is pressing down on me. I can barely move.” Wide-eyed with a burst of self-awareness, Therese blurted, “Carol, I feel… I feel… hmm, like a part of me is…” Therese shook her head no, as if completing the sentence was tantamount to tearing down her entire late adolescence and teenage years. The thought was too frightening.

Carol, with one hand on the bedroom door, ready to fetch the chair in the hallway, immediately stopped and turned. “Say it, Therese. Say what you’re thinking. Give rise to the emotion. Define it.” Carol hooked a thumbnail between her bottom teeth, suddenly unsettled, unsure of her next move. “Okay. Your friend Ruby has a theory about all of this, but we can save it for later. Right now, I want to know what you think.” Instead of an answer, Carol saw Therese, eyes unfocused, pretending to stare through the window. What was she thinking? 

Finally, Therese barely uttered, “Like a part of me is b-b-buried.” Then, surprisingly, out of sync with their conversation, Therese asked, “Tell me. Tell me again what you said.”

“Just now? I believe I said–”

“No, at Penn Station. And again on the train, once we were alone in our compartment. It was as if I were in a dream. A most pleasant one. It’s what I’ve been searching for my entire life. What you said gave me– gives me– so much hope. I’ve reminded myself of it whenever the crushing sensation becomes too much.”

Determined to fetch the chair in the hallway, Carol’s memory flipped back through the days and weeks to the past– April 17. She could still recall Therese’s instructions by heart: “I reserved a sleeper compartment on both trains. I’ll be there at the main entrance on West 34th and 7th Street. Meet me. God, please meet me there, Carol.”

Naturally, Abby had hit every red light between East 52nd Street and Penn Station trying to get Rindy and her there on time. What should have routinely taken fifteen minutes any other Saturday evening, somehow stretched past twenty minutes, then twenty-five, threatening to turn into thirty-five. Cruelly, Madison Avenue clogged itself with traffic, the street stretching before them aglow in red signal lights. Meanwhile, the second hand on Carol’s wristwatch seemed to speed up.

“This tardiness is your fault, Abby.” Carol impatiently inched forward on the passenger seat, her hand gripping the dashboard, urging the car forward. “Can’t you drive through the light? We’ll be late.” And in that moment, Carol cursed herself for being such a fool. Such an ass. If she failed to meet Therese before the North Star chugged away toward Montréal, then she would never forgive herself for the mess she’d made with Therese over the last several weeks. 

“Give me a second. I want to grab that chair.” Carol took her time in the corridor, still reflecting on the night of April 17. 

Rindy had amused herself by scanning the passing landscape. “Who are you looking for, Rins?” Abby had asked.

Who are you looking for? Abby’s question to Rindy resounded in Carol’s head deeply– resonating within her soul. Her definitive, final answer might not be waiting at the train station, Carol supposed, but it was where she could begin. Must begin. It was where she knew she should start: The distance between. The two of them– she and Therese, she and Lisette– must learn to trust one another, meeting somewhere in the space that lies in the middle of two very different women. Therese’s words echoed: “Find one’s comfort spot– somewhere between what people demand of you and where your heart lies.”

Her daughter had babbled, “I try to find Tress everywhere we go, Aunt Abby. Maybe she’s looking for us, too.” 

Carol once again pondered her daughter’s words. Rindy always had a better sense of who Therese was. Maybe they had always been searching for one another? Fate had intertwined the two of them in a hypnotic state of complex entanglements. Love had placed them in a bubble this past year, foregoing reality, embracing the romanticism of lust and seduction. But perhaps, the real trick was turning that passion-filled fantasy into a day-to-day reality. That’s why she was presently here in Québec City. An attic room in a convent. That night at Penn Station, she had panicked when she didn’t see–

A French-accented voice cut through Carol’s musing. “Would you?” someone asked tentatively, repeating the request that had blown past Carol. 

“I’m sorry,” Carol’s head snapped to the moment at hand, focusing her attention in the direction of the speaker. “Would you mind repeating your–” 

“Would you care for a pot of tea, Mrs Aird? Perhaps a bite to eat? I did bring a pitcher of water and two glasses.” 

Carol awkwardly pivoted, her hands gripping the school chair. It was the nun, Sister Penelope. 

“Therese–” Sister Penelope leaned toward Carol conspiratorially, “I mean Lisette– looks so thin. She was always a slight girl, but she needs fattening up. We have a pound cake in the kitchen that Sister Sophia baked. Cookies, too. I will gladly return with some sweets.”

“Thank you, Sister. I would appreciate that,” Carol responded warmly, but her glance was skeptical. Was the nun’s use of the name Lisette a slip? A ploy? Or a recognition that Carol was privy to the secret that bound Therese to this place? To these nuns?”

Sister Penelope smiled, then hesitated. “How… How is she? I’m afraid she won’t talk to any of us. It’s good you’re here, Mrs Aird. Our girl in there,” Sister Penelope pointed to the bedroom door, “never had many close friends while she was under our tutelage. But, of course, you… Well, you do understand. Do you?” Sister Penelope had the face and presence of a European actress. She approached Carol cautiously, lightly touching her arm. “Do you understand why, Mrs Aird?”

“Please, call me Carol. No, no,” Carol spoke over the nun’s protest. “I insist. And yes. I fully realize why Ther– Lisette Freyer couldn’t allow others to become too close to her. Yet, it’s a shame, isn’t it? Maybe, if she had even a small group of trusted confidantes, things might have…” Carol gave the nun a sad smile and shrugged. A fragment of a message Therese had written to her flitted across Carol’s memory:

‘The truth is the truth. Our history is the story we tell ourselves. When we distort it, we distort our own narrative. We lose our voice. Lies are a part of my story. This story. Small pieces. Large pieces. Pieces that run together and blend. But the truth is also there. I never meant to evade the truth with you.’ 

She had shown the note to Abby, and her friend noticed that Therese hadn’t signed her name– either name, Therese Belivet Aird or Lisette Freyer. Abby had summed it up succinctly: “I don’t think she knows what to do. Who to claim to be at this point.” 

“Are you alright, Mrs A– Carol?”

“Hmm. Uh.. Yes. Thank you, Sister. And Sister,” Carol spoke over her shoulder. “I appreciate you looking in on Ther– Lisette. There is no one, except for my daughter, that I hold so dear.”

Sister Penelope mulled over Carol’s declaration, the nun’s face betraying her benign agreement, morphing into a spark of awareness. She recovered quickly, though her cheeks blushed pink. “Alright. Good to know our former student has a… a… devoted friend. I sensed something hidden in Lisette. Now, you take the chair, and I’ll carry the pitcher and glasses.” 

Therese was still seated by the window, her figure slumped, her back to them, her arms lying crosswise on the sill, her head seemingly propped on one curled fist. Sister Penelope set the pitcher and glasses on the desk, nodding at Carol. But at the door, the nun silently made the Sign of the Cross in Therese’s direction, a little blessing, and quietly exited. It was good, Carol thought; Therese needed all the help she could get, both from the physical world of reason and logic and from the spiritual realm. 

Carol poured water from the pitcher and asked Therese if she had taken any classes from Sister Penelope. “She’s such a beauty in an understated way,” Carol chattered on, trying to lighten the mood in the small bedroom. “There’s something about her expression. She radiates such sincerity. Were you in any of her classes?” Carol approached the brunette with a glass. But what Carol mistook as Therese’s avoidance or maybe even preoccupation was actually napping– the girl had fallen totally asleep. She was out like a light, slouched, her chin precariously resting on a fist. The girl didn't stir when Carol leaned over her; Therese’s sleep was heavier than Carol had first suspected.

“Okay, my darling, rest.” She debated waking her, but why? “You probably need it, my love,” Carol whispered. The room was devoid of much of anything to occupy her time, so while Therese dozed, Carol perused the only interesting piece in the room– the bookcase. She stooped, her hand trailing down the shelves, her fingers walking from book to book. She rolled her eyes at an unabridged dual-language school copy titled Les Vies des Saints de Butler. In English, Butler’s Lives of the Saints. Flipping it open, she saw that a priest or monk, Father Alban Butler, had compiled it. The original copyright was sometime in the 18th century, but this edition boasted a fairly modern date– 1920. It seemed to be a monumental, scholarly effort documenting the lives of over 1,600 saints, organized by their feast days. Carol couldn’t help but wonder if some devotion-crazed, tyrannical nun had made the students memorize them. 

She was about to arrange it back into its slot on the shelf when something fluttered from the pages to the bare floorboards. Carol carefully lifted it, presuming it was a bookmark or a– 

“Uh-huh,” she muttered. A photo of Therese on a pony. She couldn’t have been more than six. Carol hesitated at the bookcase. Wondering. She riffled the pages of Butler's Lives of the Saints, skimming rapidly. Another item tucked between pages. Another. Yet still another. Therese had filled the book with little items: photos, scraps of paper that yielded drawings and writings, pictures cut from the newspaper– some of Myrna Loy, others of Vivien Leigh and Mary Astor. It appeared to be a hidden diary.

Carol began arranging the heavy book back in its place, wanting to respect Therese’s privacy. With a jolt to her sensibilities, she recognized that these secrets weren’t Therese Aird’s doing, but, rather, the child who was once Lisette Freyer. She rubbed her brow. If this matter of identity proved difficult for her, imagine the enormity of it for a youngster. 

Instead, she kicked her low-heeled shoes off and made herself comfortable on the narrow twin bed. She cut her eyes to Therese, wondering how the poor young woman, or for that matter, any child or adult, could sleep on such a lumpy mattress. Maybe the entire student body was relegated to these nightly tortures as some form of penance for sins they weren’t even old enough to commit yet.

She settled against the headboard, but needing something to support her back, Carol grabbed the pillow. She lifted it to her nose; it still held a faint scent of Therese. However, beneath the pillow lay a flat, playful, odd little creature. Carol smiled, raising it to the light. “And who do we have here?” 

A little chocolate-colored, velveteen, straw-stuffed animal with obsidian eyes looked back at her. Someone had hand-sewn a rough approximation of an animal outline that a child could easily clasp. It still had its faded yellow ribbon tied around its neck. “You seem to be a dog. No! You’re a pony! Look at your white tail, ears, and forehead blaze.”

Carol planned to set it aside carefully, then reconsidered and placed it on her lap. “Any loved object of Therese’s is a friend of mine,” she cooed to the pony. Content and comfortable, Carol wondered if there was any rhyme or reason to where she might find more hidden gems lurking within the book. Were they chronological? Random? The young woman sleeping just a few feet away from her was certainly intriguing. 

It took a bit of browsing, thumbing, and leafing through, but Carol eventually hit on a system. The school-aged Therese had tucked special items between the pages of female saints, especially those who died and achieved sainthood at a young age: Bernadette of Lourdes. Maria Goretti. Agnes of Rome, Joan of Arc. Germaine Cousin. Edith of Wilton. Rose of Viterbo. Perpetua and Felicity. 

Although the book was in French with an English translation, Carol was uninterested in reading it, which was fine. She didn’t care about the particulars of these pious martyrs; it was information on Lisette she was on the hunt for. And within those pages, she found it. Childhood snapshots. Wishlists for Father Christmas. Little drawings of horses and ponies. An original French limerick about a girl named Therese that Carol could figure out from the cute drawings; a funny English poem about Sister Sophia’s cooking. There was an inventory of filles she thought were jolie. Carol smirked. At least she knew enough French to translate that checklist! Pretty girls!  

But it was under Thérèse of Lisieux that Carol unearthed a treasure trove. 

The first was a series of quotes written on small pieces of what her grandmother referred to as “onion-skin paper”– exceptionally thin, lightweight, and almost translucent. Therese had written each saying in English and French:

I belong to myself. 
Je m'appartiens.

No is a complete sentence and worth repeating. 
Non est une phrase complète et mérite d'être répétée.

I am deserving of my place in this world… 
Je mérite ma place dans ce monde……

But am I of any worth? Really? 
Mais est-ce que je vau quelque chose? Vraiment?

Who am I? 
Qui suis-je?

Do I exist anymore? 
Existe-je encore?

Have I replaced her? 
L'ai-je remplacée?

Or has she replaced me? 
Ou bien m'a-t-elle remplacé?

By each hand-printed assertion, Therese had sketched flowers, some blooming, others wilting. It was obvious where the demarcation came. Carol blew a long sigh between pursed lips. Christ! Then, another find– a handwritten version of the poem Therese had recited earlier today, before she fell asleep. Her handwriting on the unlined paper, even as an adolescent, was unmistakable and meticulous:

Promenons-nous dans les bois
Pendant que le loup n'y est pasSi le loup y était
Il nous mangerait
Mais comme il n’y est pas
Il nous mangera pas
Loup, y es-tu? Entends-tu? Que fais-tu?
Loup, y es-tu?
Loup, y es-tu?
Loup, y es-tu?
Loup, y es-tu?

Carol concentrated. Between her limited French and Therese reciting the poem in English, she translated the repeated phrase: “Wolf, are you there?” Hm. So who was this wolf in Therese’s life? Lisette’s buried past. No doubt the wolf haunted her dreams. It didn’t take reading a book of fairy tales to tease forth the answer. Carol shuddered. It could only be none other than John Aird. It had to be.

She gathered the articles she had collected, touching each one lovingly. What Therese probably regarded as ephemera– items never meant to be kept beyond her years here, Carol held as valuable memorabilia– windows into the soul of Lisette. Carol gave the heavy book one last skim; surely she had missed more tiny offerings from Therese, but she apparently found them, all that were there. Should she return the pieces to their hiding places among the women saints? Did she even remember what went where? 

Then, Carol startled at a new notion– the other books on the shelf. Were they repositories for equally informative clues about Lisette? After all, what she had discovered so far were the thoughts and feelings chronicled by a confused youngster. 

Her obsession honed, Carol left the bed and lifted each book as if it were a fragile egg: Latin, Niveau Deux. 
À notre époque: Histoire du Québec et du Canada. 
Algèbre Scolaire: III. 
Le Catéchisme Expliqué. 
There were others, too. Science textbooks. Novels. Grammar books. Literature anthologies. 

On a hunch, Carol seized on William Shakespeare: Intégrale et non abrégée. Like the Butler's Lives of the Saints, it was in both French and English. And there it was– Jackpot! Within the pages lay a school assignment written by an older Therese, one with a more mature hand. It was a quote Therese had pulled from Act 3, Scene 1 of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. How unlike Therese she was; Carol had dreaded every Shakespearean play her teacher forced her to study at school, earning her a poor first mark.  

‘To die, to sleep–
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.’

She did remember that the soliloquy was an expression of Hamlet’s thoughts on the subject of death. Carol sighed, climbing back atop the twin mattress to settle in and read the essay. For a young person, Therese had deep, troubling introspections. But it was no wonder. She hadn’t grown up like Carol, safe on a quiet, tree-lined street in New Jersey. Carol’s childhood home was on a pleasant stretch of the block, filled with joyous memories. In contrast, Therese moved about, forced to uproot every time a death intruded on her life. 

Therese’s essay chronicled, albeit in couched, vague references, all the traumatic, disturbing, and painful aspects of life, and fantasized about just the luxury of falling asleep: Sleep– an avenue to dream peacefully. Carol read the entire assignment, then circled back to reread:

‘It would be so incredible to fall asleep and drift away into unconsciousness, as we do when we place our heads on our pillow at the end of our school day. No disruptions. No ordeals, no anguish. No mazes to scramble through endlessly. No lies and distortions to uphold to survive.

When we experience a good day, we have sweet dreams. What would they be? A reunion with those we have lost too soon? A revisiting and reliving of the most precious moments of our lives? But on those days when our mind is overworked, and the bad memories resurface to assault our consciousness, Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, leaves us with nightmares. 

It gives one pause. We often equate Death as nothing more than a sleep, but a sleep from which one cannot wake oneself, at least, not into the world of the living. Could it be? Perhaps in the sleep of death, we would have grotesque dreams, the monstrous Wolf rattling our closet doorknob– a vision of hell.

Is it the fear of the unknown that makes us behave, as Hamlet says, and leaves us hesitant? Do we, therefore, knuckle down and accept the dreadful things in life rather than seek to solve the riddle of what awaits us after death?’

Disturbing, because on paper, it looked like any bright student’s logical assertions to explain a soliloquy and earn a top mark. But instead, Carol gasped as she read an English teacher’s scribbled notation in red ink at the bottom: Sister Alicia is expecting you in her office after lunch. She demands an explanation of your essay. 

The total, incomprehensible creation of an individual– Lisette Freyer to Therese Belivet Aird! John Aird: Doctor Frankenstein himself. And in this selfish, foolish invention, lay a rub of a different sort. A manufactured personality… Unless… Unless someone has, mercifully, found the strength to etch a trail from the prescribed path, creating a makeshift, bootlegged means of egress– a way out. That’s what Lisette Freyer was currently struggling with: a voice from within that screamed, “You have somewhat of a choice now. Who to be. Whom to love.”

And it was in that moment, Carol conceded that her happiness with Therese, their well-being as a family with Rindy, depended on her helping Therese Belivet Aird and Lisette Freyer become whole again. The young woman couldn’t ignore her years as Therese Aird, nor could she bury Lisette Freyer as if she, too, had died in Westminster. 

In a flash of recognition, Carol remembered part of what she had said to Therese that night on the platform before boarding the northbound North Star. “It’s the journey, Therese. Not the destination.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Journey, Not the Destination 

‘The Journey, Not the Destination’ from the album ‘Portrait: Max Richter’
Composed by Max Richter
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)

Carol was irate. Seething actually. She was also frustrated. Not at Therese. No. It was the situation Therese found herself in after John Aird's death that rattled Carol’s nerves and enraged her. She had reached her boiling point, her anger threatening to spill out and over her facade of calm.

Furthermore, Carol was furious with him. John, the Machiavellian puppet master. Her former husband. But it was a moot point. John was no longer here for her to point a finger and condemn. Perhaps he had finally received his just rewards. Carol smirked, envisioning a flaming, roasting reception for him, greeted by none other than Lucifer himself. 

She set aside the thick volume of Shakespeare’s work, the one she’d been thumbing through, checking closely for more of Therese’s hidden treasures. The little straw-stuffed pony’s glass eyes seem to follow and study Carol. “Huh. I love your iris color,” Carol joked to the toy, occasionally glancing up from the book to the pony. “Obsidian eyes, black and shiny as volcanic glass. Many people believe those colored eyes represent protection and the ability to see through the charade. What can you tell me about the sleeping beauty by the window? More importantly, what do you know about the bizarre entanglement my late husband has foisted upon us– especially Therese? Obsidian eyes act as a mirror to the soul or a portal to spiritual knowledge. C’mon. Tell me, little pony.”

There had been no love lost when John Aird died; what little Carol could conjure up for him in the way of love had evaporated soon after they married. So when the man died, it was hard to fake grief in front of the household staff and outsiders. Carol felt none– not really. She could only portray a slim serving of sorrow. Grief carried more weight. Instead, she had found herself performing, acting out what people expected of a newly widowed wife. She realized with a bit of irony that she had fallen out of love with John before she had truly fallen in love with him. John Aird had come to represent security– a safety net from a world that could harm her, leave her destitute, and alone. That was the sum of it. 

The two, she and John, had worked through an odd companionship and a familiar routine centered around Rindy. Sometimes there was moderately pleasurable sex, but more often, not. Carol had been mildly content, somewhat satisfied. If this were the best Life could offer her, then okay. She’d take it. But back then, she had no way of knowing all that John had kept hidden from her, especially the real reason he kept his older daughter sequestered in a convent school. 

But Therese! If something happened to her, there would be grief– a stinging, torturous heartache of the loss that would continue to torment Carol the rest of her days. Her love for Therese wouldn’t cease with death. No! Carol would carry that all-abiding devotion and yearning for the young woman in every breath, every shared memory, in every waking sunrise and quiet sunset.

The beautiful brunette brought warmth and tenderness to Carol’s life, a sense that each day was precious, and each evening held a unique experience. Therese represented a second chance, one she’d given up on ever having. With Therese, there was passion. With Therese, there was love. She’d been a fool not to recognize it sooner. How could she have separated herself from her for those ridiculous six weeks? 

Carol scanned Therese’s high school Hamlet essay once more and refolded it. But one paragraph stuck in her brain:

‘It would be so incredible to fall asleep and drift away into unconsciousness, as we do when we place our heads on our pillow at the end of our school day. No disruptions. No ordeals, no anguish. No mazes to scramble through endlessly. No lies and distortions to uphold to survive.’

The passage rattled Carol, unsettled her, and, more than anything, left her acknowledging that Therese craved safety and security as much, if not more than, she did.

Security versus safety. Carol worried about the future; the troubled past consumed Therese. Carol had never bothered to think through a concept so deeply. If she expected Therese to rise to the challenge of keeping Rindy and her secure, then she, in turn, must take measures to keep Therese safe from all that haunted her. 

She glanced at the window at the sleeping Therese. She should rouse her and have her lie properly in bed. In a flash of recognition, Carol remembered part of what she had said to Therese that night on the platform before boarding the northbound North Star. “It’s the journey, Therese. Not the destination.” Even their current situation, peculiar as it was, hunkered down in an attic room in Québec City, was part of their journey. There might be stops. Starts. Side trips and unexpected delays. But it would be an adventure. They were moving forward– together. And the grand part? Therese always included Rindy in any plan!

Carol organized Therese’s memorabilia: the photographs, notes, lists, poems, and sketches, and gently inserted them between the essay’s folded sheets. Carol would ensure the winsome collection wouldn’t be left behind. “You’re coming too,” she smiled at the stuffed pony, laying it atop the entire compilation.

“It’s the journey, Therese. Not the destination.” The phrase echoed in Carol’s head. From the outset, Therese’s name had become synonymous with the idiom. She had met Therese Belivet Aird as she disembarked the train, the last leg of a journey from Montréal to Manhattan.  Then there was the figurative journey the two of them also traveled. At first, there were cautious inroads, a bit of polite sparring, then a gradual settling into a warm friendship. But the spark of something lay between them, always present, biding its time from the very beginning of their journey. That one word– journey– encapsulated it all. And in the end, the invitation to travel from New York to Montréal, a journey not to be missed… although she almost had. Carol smiled at Abby’s madcap driving to deliver her and Rindy to the train station. This juncture would mark the start of the next phase of their lives. An exhilarating journey of the heart.

Carol crushed the papers and the small soft pony to her chest and reminisced:

“Mommy! There! There There There!” Rindy screamed, pointing a few yards ahead of them. 

The conductors had begun a call for early boarding. The porter checked Carol’s ticket for the train car and compartment number, gesturing to go ahead. Yet Carol was too busy, standing on tiptoes to see where Rindy pointed. 

And then she saw her… saw Therese. She hadn’t a clue what madness had descended upon her. Just one glance more. Maybe another before she rushed ahead. The young woman captivated her curiosity, and Carol sensed she was in the presence of something beyond reason or control. Oh, how she wished for a lifetime with the young woman– or even merely to share a train ride with her to Montréal. The girl was Carol’s stranger from a faraway universe; there, on the outer platform, just a few feet separated her from Carol. She was Carol’s faerie; Carol’s vision of Love, no matter her name– the same.  

Carol breathed out: “Therese.” She was right there; they could try again. No secrets between them. Therese had explained. Now, it was her turn.

And though but a whisper, Therese turned in that moment, at the sigh of her name. One hand was already on the railing, one foot poised on the first rung, ready to board. They stared at one another across the masses. Therese and Carol remained frozen, the scene around them– frenetic travelers bumping and jostling, hurrying along the platforms – all gradually faded. Therese leaned back from the train, nodding and smiling at Mary March, and stepped down from the train vestibule.

Carol’s heart had raced, though her lips trembled. “Hello,” she managed to squeeze the greeting from her diaphragm as Therese neared. 

Recalling the scene nudged Carol’s memory. She thought back to Therese’s earlier question today, asking her to recite what Carol whispered to her at the train station. She remembered the entirety of what she had said, repeating it to the stuffed toy: “Oh, I told our Therese over there,” Carol pointed at the napping figure, “‘We have met before in a hundred previous lifetimes. We’ll meet in a thousand more. Continually. Eternally. But right now, we’re here. In the glorious present. We have time– to talk, to explore, to figure things out, to love, and to live.’ I must remind Therese of my words… words I truly believe.”

For the pair, considerable work remained. She and Therese must restart– at the beginning, Truth leading them this time. And, in light of Therese’s crisis, they also must sift through John Aird’s wild machinations. They needed to trust one another. Communicate their fears, worries, hopes, and dreams. No more secrets. It needn’t be hard; they had to remain open to one another. This place. This time. Both were good starting points.

“Listen, my little pony, and I’ll describe our marvelous adventure on our train ride. So, we headed on a new journey– northbound this time– the Boreal region. The Great White North… at least it is in winter. I’m certain you’re aware of the cold! Someone’s sewn your outer hide out of velvet. How many nights did Therese cuddle up with you under these covers?

“The four of us sat there on the North Star Line– Therese, Rindy, Mary March… and me, of course– waiting for the train wheels to engage with the track, anticipating the moment of motion. We were happy; we were ecstatic. Rindy bounced on her seat, overjoyed that her precious Tress was beside her. And her enthusiasm was contagious. We heard the air brakes release, then a heavy mechanical shudder. We were on our way. My doubts about everything faded, as if by magic. Therese was the magic! Therese is the magic!”

She bit and sucked on her bottom lip, pensive and brooding. “In hindsight, I should have seen the signs. You know what they say, don’t you? Hindsight is 20/20. It’s so much easier to understand and correct the event after it happens. But how could I…” She stared the pony in the eye. “Sure, there were little signs on the train. But I was too excited, too relieved, to be back in Therese’s universe. So I– consciously? subconsciously?– refused to break the spell. I didn’t question; I saw what I wanted to see– what Therese hoped I would see. A confident Therese. An assured young woman up to the task. But beneath it all, she was suffering. Therese was unraveling in minute ways.” 

Carol took a huge, mournful breath. “It’s one of the things we must work on. It’s why I’m here. By the way,” she tapped the pony’s nose. “Did you see what the Reverend Mother told Sister Hortense to give me?” Carol withdrew a circular string of beads. “God forbid they make me recite the rosary.” She tossed the beads at the pony. “Go ahead. You figure out how to use them. A little prayer might not be a bad thing.”

That’s that, she mused. Life is much like a map, Carol conceded. It was similar to a Manhattan city diagram, with intersecting lines etching the landscape. Life should encompass the easy routes, the well-established streets and avenues. Yet, when Life became difficult and the path impassable, it was good to know the alternate routes to travel, the ones circumstances compelled people to take, no matter the yearning to stay the course. Therese had been journeying these off-road detours since she was a youngster. No wonder fatigue gripped her in a stranglehold. She had spent so much of her energy implementing her grand plan at John Aird’s bequest that she hadn’t saved back enough stamina– her body and mind’s fuel– for the return journey to her own life. Lisette‘s life. She was currently running on empty. 

Unsure what to do next, Carol decided to forego waking Therese; she could benefit from a little more sleep. Acclimated to the tiny attic room, she stretched out on the bed, her mind drifting to the train ride, reliving the best parts. But, undoubtedly, it was all grand! 

Initially, Rindy dominated the conversation. So many questions. Observations. Exclamations. She needed the information that Carol and Abby withheld:
“Where are we going?”
“When will we get there?”
“How long does it take?”
“Do people live in igloos up there?”

She peppered her monologue with logistics: 
“Why is the train going so fast, Mommy?”
“Tress, how do the wheels turn?”
“How does the train stay on the tracks?”
“Miss Mary, where does the train man sit?”
“Who’s driving this train, Mommy?”
“Mommy. Mommy! Excuse me, Mommy, but is Aunt Abby steering the train?”

When the adults settled those operational aspects, Rindy popped off with the next series of remarks: 
“Tress, I’m six years old now!”
“Where have you been, Tress?”
“Tress, can I sit on your lap?”
“Are the horsies coming to Canada?”

Then the requests hit:
“I’m hungry. Is there a restaurant that moves with us?”
“Can I walk there?”
“Will you hold my hand?”
“I think I need to potty. Will the train stop for me?
“Tress, will the train wait while you find us a bathroom?”

They ate a late dinner on the premier North Star Line, which offered white-linen, fine dining with full-course meals, and a more than adequate bar. Therese shared the signature dish, fried chicken, with Rindy, while Carol ordered a broiled steak, and Mary March requested the lamb chops. 

Attendants served freshly baked desserts on fine china plates. There was Railway Cake, a non-gooey dessert made with raisins, nuts, and lemon ingredients. Or one could choose a flavored custard or fruit pies. Carol’s dessert was Therese. Seated across from one another near the window, furthest from the sight of adjacent passengers, Carol slipped one stockinged foot from her low heels, and slowly, painstakingly, let it gradually roam Therese’s leg from ankle to shin. For her flirtatious moxie, Therese rewarded Carol with a heavenly and coy dimpled grin. Carol swore her body was vibrating apart and separate from the thrum of the wheels on the steel track.

And Carol took it all in, eyes wide and gleaming, every bit as much as Rindy’s. This trip, this evening, this minute was everything. It heralded a new life, one she could share with Therese. They’d be lovers; Rindy was the dearest addition that completed the family. Carol felt whole in a way she hadn’t since the night before her parents’ death. Why had she resisted Therese in February? What had taken hold of her during March, keeping her from phoning Therese, allowing Therese to explain, so the two could have reached a compromise and started over. 

Finally, Rindy signaled the next phase:
Yawn. “I’m tired, Mommy. 

Another yawn. “How do we sleep on a train? Does it take us back to our tiny apartment, Mommy? To my bed?”

A third and fourth yawn. “Do we sleep sitting up? All night?”
“Did Aunt Abby pack Mister Sprinkles, my kitty?” 
“Tress, Mister Sprinkles showed up at Mommy’s house in a box! On my birthday!”
“I’m not putting my jammies on in front of people.”

A prolonged yawn stretching into the next month! “Tress, are you putting your jammies on where people can see us?”

“We have two special little rooms on the train, Sweet Pea. One for–” and here Carol faltered. She was desperate to sleep with Therese. Frantic. Nerves tingling. She was of a one-tracked mind tonight, none of it to do with trains. Carol shot a look at Therese, who glanced up from her plate, a forkful of peach pie halfway to her mouth, suddenly blushing, embarrassed that her thoughts ran the same course.

“Can we go now, Mommy? I wanna sleep with Tress,” Rindy whined. “Right, Tress? You and me.” Her head bobbed until it drooped against Therese’s arm. “Wanna go to sleep now, Tress?”

Mary March tried to hide a knowing smile. “Tell you what, Rindy. How about we get your pajamas from your cabin and change in Therese's and my compartment, only one space down the aisle. You can get the bed all cozy for her.” Mary leaned into Carol and whispered, “I’ll make sure things are… arranged. I’ll keep Rindy with me.” She winked at Therese.

That left the pair alone at their table, suddenly shy, unexpectedly nervous. 

“Well–” they simultaneously spoke. 
“Uh, um–” they cleared their throats at the same time, staring at one another.

“We should probably talk,” Carol broke the silence. “I have so much to say to you, Therese. Things I want to– need to– tell you.”

“Please, Carol. Not tonight. I don’t want anything but… but just…” Therese resorted to her usual unfinished sentences, then resolved to push the words out in a soft hum of a murmur: “I just want to hold you. Tightly.” She set aside her plate and tea cup. “Are you finished?” Therese ducked her head, eyeing Carol. “May we talk in the privacy of your compartment?” Then she added her coquettish kicker, “But I warn you, I talk with my hands.” She mouthed, My fingers.

Carol abruptly rose from her seat, biting her lips to keep from joyously giggling like a love-sick schoolgirl. 

But now, from the attic bed, Carol glanced at the figure by the window. Sometime in the last forty-odd minutes, Therese had rearranged herself in sleep. A fist no longer propped her head as she dozed. Rather, she rested it in the crook of her folded arms. Perhaps it was the perfect time to rescue Therese and have her spread out on the twin mattress. She hesitated. Which Therese would awaken? The somber, disheartened Therese that Carol found in this room earlier? Or the mad dash, manic one from the past weeks? But if the girl stayed there much longer, she would have a serious neck cramp. 

She was on the brink of gently awakening Therese when she heard a cautious knock, hesitant tapping at the door. God! Carol hoped it wasn’t the Mother Abbess, Sister Alicia. From Mary March’s recounting of details, the Mother Superior had a heavy hand in the transformation of Lisette Freyer into Therese Belivet Aird. Carol reviewed her options quickly. If it were Sister Alicia at the door, she could run, or she could use the rosary beads as a weapon. Carol plucked them from the bed, depositing them discreetly in her pocket. 

The knob slowly twisted, and the beautiful Sister Penelope barely poked a head through the opening, asking in her heavily accented English, “Am I disrupting you? I’ve brought the promised delights.”

“Let me help you, Sister,” Carol whispered, offering a hand. Then her eyes caught sight of the slight disarray she’d made of the bookcase and the pile of Therese’s papers gathered on the bed. “I–I– Well, I was only… I’m afraid I’ve created a mess.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re curious. It’s good. You should know about the girl you say is your close friend. Just make a bit of room on the desk. Sister Évangéline is with me; she has the tray of food, and I have the sweet treats.” 

Carol swore the nun’s eyes twinkled. “That’s kind of you, Sister Penelope,” she said, rearranging the desk, accepting the tray of food and carafe of hot tea.

“Sister Évangéline, this woman is our visitor, Carol Aird. She came in search of–” Sister Penelope nodded her head in Therese’s direction.

“It is a pleasure, Madame.” The second nun’s accented English was equally as heavy as Sister Penelope’s, but like the latter’s, it sounded melodious to Carol’s ear. “Some Camembert and Brie to have with Sister Sophia’s freshly baked baguette and cake. Soup, too. Vichyssoise. It means…” The nun struggled with the English wording… “Umberto, désigne une soupe onctueuse et froide à base de purée de poireaux, de pommes de terre, d'oignons et de crème.” Sister Évangéline mumbled to Sister Penelope for a translation. 

“It’s a French chilled soup. You know, potatoes, leeks, onions, and cream, Carol. During her time here, it was a favorite of–”

“Lisette’s?” Carol inserted the name, a little probe– a tiny jab, gauging if the nuns were amenable to discussing Lisette rather than Therese. Sister Penelope seemed open and responsive earlier. However, Sister Évangéline physically withdrew. 

“Oh non! La Révérende Mère sera contrariée d’entendre ce nom!” Sister Évangéline appeared stricken. 

“Shh!” Sister Penelope hushed the nun. “Sœur Évangéline, veuillez m'attendre dans le couloir. Je vais avoir besoin d'une minute pour parler avec l'amie de notre ancienne élève.”

“Faites attention à ce dont vous discutez avec cette femme. Si vous en dites trop, la Révérende Mère sera mécontente.”

In return, Sister Penelope made a shooing motion, guaranteeing that Sister Évangéline was outside the room before speaking softly to Carol. “Sister Évangéline is afraid to disobey Reverend Mother’s orders. Sister Alicia forbids talk of Lisette. We must hold fast to her peculiar fantasy of Therese Aird surviving that terrible night.”

“Yet you rebel?”

“It’s harmful. We are all fond of our dear Lisette. Always. Right from the start, back in Lisieux. But what John Aird… um… impliqué– I don’t know this word in English. Um…” 

“Involved her in?”

“Stronger!”

“Embroiled her in?”

“Oui. Yes. What John Aird embroiled her in was… um… in French we say nuisible… uh, harmful or detrimental to Lisette, despite Sister Alicia’s opinion,” the nun tutted.

“Aren’t you afraid of Sister Alicia’s wrath? Don’t you believe she is one of God’s stand-ins on Earth?

“Sister Alicia would be the first to remember what God says about putting no false idols before Him. That includes wealthy men and their riches,” Sister Penelope said with no malice or anger. The woman had only a genuine devotion to a higher form of ethics.

“Touché, Sister.”

“Shall we steep the tea and set the desk top for your meal?” 

“Thank you. But I’ll do that while you tell me more about Therese… rather, Lisette.”

“She arrived in Lisieux much like I had. I came to the school as an orphan, and I stayed and became a nun.”

“Oh, was that part of the bargain?”

“It was my decision. When Lisette confided that maybe she should follow my lead, I successfully dissuaded her. That remains our secret, Carol. I didn’t have the strongest vocation; I used the convent as an excuse to hide away from the world. But I had no interest in a conventional life of marriage and children. Nor was I cut out to be a nurse, a field open to women. Yet I did have a deep devotion to a spiritual life. Lisette was merely looking for an escape through any means possible. But she is the silent rebel, Carol. I learned from her.” 

Before Carol could interrupt, Sister Penelope explained. “Diaries are strictly forbidden here, in particular, in Lisette’s case. The Reverend Mother wanted Lisette to forget her identity, yet who can do that, especially a child? But you know our Lisette, so willing to please.”

Yes, I’m afraid so. Though Therese– er, Lisette, does have a stubborn streak.” 

“What you have gathered in your tidy pile is Lisette’s version of a diary, hidden among the pages of her textbooks. What a clever girl! The unlikely Rebel!” Then Sister Penelope frowned. “But there is more. I know there is. Did you check the books in the closet?”

“No, I didn’t realize there were any more.”

“Save them for later. Explore them with Lisette. She should take them to her home now that she has a family.” 

“Do you mean–”

Sister Penelope stood back with a self-satisfied grin. Then Carol noticed the nun did that trick that all nuns seemed to be able to do. Sister Penelope placed her hands behind the long, shoulder-width piece of cloth that fit over her tunic-length habit, where they seemed to disappear magically. 

“Tell me, Sister, do you have little pockets behind that swath of cloth? It has always fascinated me where nuns’ hands vanish.”

“My scapular? That’s what we call this draping over our tunic. My hands are typically resting within the folds of my habit, often holding a rosary, or, like now, folded. Yet, with Lisette’s return, I find myself doubling my efforts, praying my rosary for her peace of mind.” The nun picked up the velveteen toy. “You found Fripon! I didn’t know that he was left behind. I thought perhaps Fripon had sought refuge in her school bag and relocated to Montréal. He was Lisette’s most treasured item besides her violin. John Aird swept her away after graduation, promising she could return for her things. Somehow, sadly, it never happened.”  

Carol’s heart sat with the nun’s words. “No wonder she’s so terribly conflicted. So very fragile at times. Fripon? What does that name mean?”

Sister Penelope’s quiet laugh lit her face. “Rascal. I believe her–” She turned as Sister Évangéline rejoined them. “Oh, Sister, I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting in the hallway. Look, it’s Rascal.” 

“La mère ou la grand-mère a cousu le poney pour Lisette. Fripon la protégeait des mauvais rêves.” 

“Did you understand what Sister Évangéline said, Carol? It was her–”

“– mother or grandmother who sewed the pony? Yes? And something about dreams?”

Sister Évangéline smiled and nodded, “Lisette… uh, I mean Therese, loved her pony. She hid him beneath–” 

“I found him tucked under the pillow, Sister Évangéline.”

“Have a pleasant rest of the day, my new friend,” Sister Penelope handed Carol the stuffed pony. And again, the Sister silently blessed the sleeping Therese before leaving the room. “I hope to see you before you leave with Lisette, Carol. The two of you have been on a pilgrimage of discovery. I’ll say a prayer tonight for both of you to Saint Brendan the Navigator, the Patron of Journeys– the one you’re on… especially with Lisette.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Particles in Space

‘Particles in Space’ from the album ‘Portrait: Alex Baranowski’ 
Composed by Alex Baranowski
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)

“What you have gathered in your tidy pile is Lisette’s version of a diary, hidden among the pages of her textbooks. What a clever girl! The unlikely Rebel!” Then Sister Penelope frowned. “But there is more. I know there is. Did you check the books in the closet?”

Carol Aird stood in the room, alone except for the sleeping Therese, huddled by the window. No. She hadn’t inspected the closet yet– but she planned to momentarily. Carol realized she had deviated from her initial pledge to Mary March and Abby: find Therese and bring her home to the apartment in Montréal immediately. But now that she was in the here and now with Therese in Québec City, perhaps she could scratch away the surface of long-held secrets that would expose the terrors Therese ran from. Carol suspected one was of a psychological nature, the other, a very human threat. 

She thought about the nun’s frank words; Carol’s search so far had been limited to just the bookcase where she stumbled upon a cache of the young Therese Belivet Aird’s handwritten reflections and sketches. Some were humorous. Others plumbed the depths of the tragedies she had endured so far in life, desperate to make sense of them. 

Lisette’s version of a diary, hidden among the pages of her textbooks. Did you check the books in the closet?”

A diary! Of course, Carol knew the standard definition: “A personal, chronological record of daily experiences, thoughts, and feelings, used for reflection, emotional release, and memory keeping. Like a notebook or journal, describing one’s day is typically jotted down daily or at regular intervals. The focus– consistency rather than perfection.”

Right, except what Carol had unearthed– Therese’s rendition of a diary– so far surpassed expectations of the typical teenage scribblings of silly gossip, crushing on boys, smoking pilfered cigarettes on rooftops, and detailing escapes at the local soda shop. No. Therese’s diary embodied an excellence that transcended the conventional term. She, with her wide range of talents and skills, redefined what it meant to leave a lasting mark. Therese hadn’t understood it, but these nuns had.
 
Now, Carol angled her head toward what was more of a cabinet than a closet, and dwelled on Sister Penelope’s parting words: 

“Have a pleasant rest of the day, my new friend,” Sister Penelope handed Carol the stuffed pony. And again, the Sister silently blessed the sleeping Therese before leaving the room. “I hope to see you before you leave with Lisette, Carol. The two of you have been on a pilgrimage of discovery. I’ll say a prayer tonight for both of you to Saint Brendan the Navigator, the Patron of Journeys– the one you’re on… especially with Lisette.”

“Okay,” Carol glanced at the toy horse. The nun had called the soft animal hiding under Therese’s pillow Fripon. Earlier, Carol had organized Therese’s memorabilia: the photographs, notes, lists, poems, and sketches, and gently inserted them between one of Therese’s high school essays’ folded sheets. That particular Shakespeare assignment still bothered Carol, the subtle despair hurting Carol every time she thought back to it. But she would ensure that Therese would package and take the entire winsome collection this time. Nothing would remain behind. “Don’t fret, Fripon. You’re coming too,” she had promised the stuffed pony, laying it atop the entire compilation.

After the nun’s assertion that more items were itching for discovery in the closet, Carol rotated in a circle, unsure. “Perhaps a quick peek in the cupboard before I wake Therese. How about it, Fripon?” Carol justified her snooping to the stuffed animal, which was looking up at her from the bed. “Everything we learn of Therese’s past helps her present and future. It’s all part of the journey, as Sister Penelope said.” Then the obvious realization landed, “I must be daft, conversing with a cloth pony. But you’re all I have at the present. Wait there on the bed, Fripon. By the way, I like your name,” she muttered under her breath. “What did Sister Penelope say it was in English? Rascal?” Carol knew she was talking nonsense, a bit of silliness to cover her insecurity about foraging further into Therese’s past life– Lisette Freyer’s past life.

But first, Carol poured a cup of tea, the liquid kept hot and soothing in the Thermos carafe. She broke a tiny edge off the generous piece of pound cake and nibbled on it. “Sister Sophia is a good baker, Fripon.” A sip of the tea. “Ah, just what I needed. Shall we investigate?”

The blonde acknowledged that this room was basically a recreation of Therese Aird’s secret room on the Rumson property. Lisette had learned about it through Therese Aird before the child died. Was Lisette even aware that she had replicated the intent?  

She stealthily moved to the wardrobe, much like an Agatha Christie detective, gingerly opening it. There, on the inside of the cabinet door, Lisette had traced her hand in chalk. Surprisingly, clothes still hung on neatly arranged hangers: a few school uniforms, a sweater, and a jacket with the convent’s namesake embroidered on a sewn patch, alongside two expensive dresses and a full-length wool coat. Of course, the last items would be of tasteful and excellent quality. This girl was, by all accounts, John Aird’s daughter.

Carol fingered the garments, then ran her hand down the length of each, a desire to absorb by osmosis everything about Therese. A feeling had arisen when they met, then a fragile bond formed, one they painstakingly nurtured over the past year. It was all something refreshingly new and bright in Carol’s life, yet it had taken her too long to see it, to understand it, and she had risked losing Therese before she even understood it. 

Love first. Trust, a close second. Security and everything else would follow. It was a simple revelation, but startling given Carol’s past. With Therese, maybe she had finally based her desire for a relationship on love rather than her usual, immediate need for safety and protection, and Carol acknowledged that she had almost ruined everything with Therese, broken that connection with her with endless worries, negative rumination, and fits of impatience in the previous months in Manhattan. 

At times, the young woman’s introspective nature and hesitancy to reveal her emotions made it difficult for them to resolve issues; those simmered beneath the surface. Words would fail Therese. But presently, Carol wanted nothing more than to help Therese break through those barriers, support her as a partner should, and use their journey to grow even closer. 

Was there a genuine possibility that Therese could include Carol in her very real struggles? Would Carol’s declared love be enough? Where before Carol would eventually become frustrated with Therese’s lack of communication, she would now vow to be patient, allowing them to find a path together through the difficulties. Yes, together, Carol nodded. Not apart. That’s why she was in this room.

“Ready to probe further, Fripon? Let’s have at it.” Her quest for answers eventually led Carol to push aside the clothes in search of the textbooks Sister Penelope mentioned, which might contain more hidden writings and art. The nun said diaries were forbidden here at the school by the Reverend Mother. No doubt, Sister Alicia wielded a stern hand, fingers wrapped around a ruler, over her charges. How many other students devised such a clever method?

And tucked into the back of the closet was a neatly stacked tower of books. Jackpot! 
 
Carol dragged the pile along the floor to the bedside, lifting each book one at a time. Most yielded tiny treasures– sketches of grazing and galloping ponies, flowers in stages of blooming, and the neatly illustrated architecture of the buildings and rooftops of Québec City. The drawings were a bird’s-eye view of the world from her bedroom attic window, a gorgeous high-angle perspective looking down on Basse-Ville, Lower Old Town, Québec. 

There were a few poems, more serious in nature than the ones Carol had discovered in the books from the shelf. These appeared written by Therese at an older age than her funny limericks, penned in early adolescence. No, this batch of poems and snippets of prose spoke of a longing and a continual searching: friendship, a home, what it meant to love and be loved, and identity. These writings halted Carol temporarily as she sat with the powerful impression of Therese’s quest, trying to put herself in the brunette’s position, here in the attic space. 
 
Toward the bottom of the stack were two biographies: composers Niccolò Paganini and Antonio Vivaldi. Within those pages, Therese had concealed original musical compositions in her own hand. Carol was hopeless at reading music; the artistically drawn squiggles, notes, and lines inked on the pages meant something, though. Of that, she was certain. Perhaps later she could entice Therese to play these compositions. Undoubtedly, they were meant for the violin. 

She laid the pages gently aside, then reconsidered and drew them close again, admiring the artistry. Carol tilted her head slightly, noticing the notes felt quiet on the papers she held, the musical marks seemingly suspended on the sheet: The staff. The whole notes, half notes, quarter notes. The treble clef and alto clef. The eighth rest and the sixteenth rest. Tied notes and the ghost note; the bar line and the bold double bar line. They were all present, all notated on a handy diagram the teenage Therese had illustrated.

Carol twisted on the bed, holding one of the pages up to the light that streamed from the window. It gave the sheet music a magical quality. Now, the notes and symbols were like enchanted flecks, frolicking across the page. She imagined the markings momentarily becoming animated, drifting delicately. She fantasized them gliding– tiny and shimmering, like particles trapped in the light. She tried to hear what Therese’s musical compositions’ harmonies must sound like– probably flowing rather than surging. The experience elicited a deep, sensory feeling in Carol, as if she herself might take flight from the bedroom window and soar over Québec City. She could almost taste each note’s melody on her tongue and feel the unplayed song reverberate within her. 

Therese had once said that music came to her as colorful, floating dust motes caught in a sunbeam. She was right. And remarkably, a strange pride in the young woman’s talent took hold in Carol’s soul. This bright spark of a girl, brilliantly clever and captivating, had, thank the gods, persevered. This woman was hers– her Therese. Her Lisette.

She studied the paper until her vision blurred, overcome with a welling of love. Carol shook her head; had she simply been dreaming? A slight nod off, carried away by a dream-like hallucination?

But one last discovery brought her sharply into focus. It yielded the pièce de résistance– the crowning achievement of young Therese Belivet Aird, the creative showpiece of Lisette Freyer. Carol uncovered it from its hiding spot in a slim novella, Le Petit Prince– The Little Prince. An allegory written by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the book was heralded as an intellectual fable. Carol remembered reading a review in The New York Times when it appeared on the bestseller list a few years back, then stumbling across it in the children’s section of the local bookstore three or four Christmases ago. She had wondered if Rindy would like it, but it seemed beyond her daughter’s grasp. She hadn’t read it, but she heard the author wrote his fable around a deep philosophical message. If any place was a receptacle of the girl’s words, it was here!

Carol’s fingertips first skimmed the edges of the book for any telltale sign of added paper. Then cautiously, she plumbed each two-page leaf, until notepad paper after paper revealed draft upon draft of what was later to evolve into Therese’s plan– Agape House. Carol held the beginning seeds of The Plan. She found: Doodles. Drawings. Words. Sentences. Cross-outs. Revisions. Suppositions. Questions. Lists. And paragraphs!

“Wow,” Carol emitted a low, soft exclamation. “Will you look at the early drafts, Fripon?” She set each piece she read by the pony. “Tell me, Fripon–”

A sleepy whisper, “Carol, tu parles à Fripon? Vous l'avez trouvé?” 

The quiet voice from behind startled Carol. “Gracious! You’re awake.”

“Comment as-tu su son nom? Vous l'a-t-il dit?” A pause upon waking. Therese bent over the mattress, her arms supporting her weight. “Oh, sorry. I think I dozed off for a few minutes. I’ve been dreaming– in French,” Therese tried to stifle a yawn and failed. “I asked–”

“I think I understand, Darling. Something about Fripon.”

“Fripon… You know. He’s a male pony, so Rascal.”

“Surprisingly, my high school French classes are proving handy.” Carol smiled, turning to kiss Therese on the cheek. “Yes, while you napped, Fripon galloped from beneath your pillow to keep me company, and Sister Penelope told me his name.” Carol extended her hand to Therese. “Come, sit by me.” However, realization dawned that she’d been caught red-handed rifling through Therese’s personal papers. “I… I… It’s not what you think.” Her hands tidied the piles; she gazed guiltily at Therese, “But, yes. I guess it is exactly what it looks like. I’m afraid I’ve been snooping through your unbound diary.”

“Unbound diary? I like that description.” Therese's upper lip twitched into a bit of a smile. That’s alright. I hid all of this from only one person– Oh, two. Two people. Neither are you. Certainly not you.” Therese flipped through a few items, “I suppose most teenage girls keep a diary. At least the ones not locked in a convent school. Am I correct in thinking so?”

“Mmm. Carol swiveled her hand. I guess so. No telling what Rindy will write one day in a diary. Knowing her, it will be outlandishly witty and comical. A bestseller featured in The New York Times.”

Therese laughed lightly. “Did you? Have a diary, I mean?”

“For about a week,” Carol chuckled. It was a gift from my godmother for my birthday or Christmas… or maybe because I pestered her for one. I did attempt to write in it faithfully, but frankly, nothing much of interest happened to me.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. After all, your best friend is Abby. You two were probably fugitives from the law by age thirteen.”

“Fair point. It must have been the daily routine that bogged me down. I fancied myself a free spirit. But then, look at you. Sister Penelope indicated you were a rebel in your own right. In fact, she claims you showed her the path.” 

“Who? Me? No, no. I was compliant; I followed the rules and kept a low profile. I wouldn’t allow anyone too close for fear….” Therese swallowed with difficulty. “… for fear… for fear that…” She tried to push the words from her diaphragm, “… for fear that-that he… that they… Well, you get the idea.”

Carol pursed her lips, her mouth caught in a funny little twist. “It’s fine. Take a minute. Gather your thoughts. She combed her fingers through the collection she had gathered of Therese’s work. “Really. Seems like you broke one of Sister Alicia’s major commandments: Thou shalt have no diary!” She grinned. “Right? Now, what were you saying? I’m listening– with ears and heart.” 

Therese took in such an impossibly long and deep inhale that Carol thought it nearly impossible, and that the girl might burst like a balloon. “For fear that Sister Alicia would disapprove. Reprimand me.”

“Hmm.” Carol opened her mouth to question the statement, then stopped herself. If she kept silent and actively listened, Therese might answer the question herself. And if she kept talking, Therese, herself, might discover the reason she bolted from Montréal.

“Sister Alicia paved the way for me to… Well, we haven’t talked about those years much yet. We had other activities that kept us busy on the train. And, our sightseeing in Montréal took priority.”

The not-so-subtle switch in topic. Typical Therese, Carol thought. She shook her head. “Yes. I remember,” she winked. “Our train ride was magical.” Carol also understood that the frenetic schedule was an avoidance of the truths Therese had promised to explain. “So–”

Then, surprisingly, a little more squeezed from Therese: “Without Sister Alicia in charge of the day-to-day logistics, and likewise, the support from the nuns from Lisieux, everything would have fallen apart. Everything.” Therese nodded, more to assure herself than Carol. “Don’t you see? That’s why I didn’t want to displease Sister Alicia. Make her upset by disobeying her rules.” A sigh. “Well, that’s that.” 

Carol debated. Should she pounce? Swiftly follow up on those last remarks. Prod? Poke? Or let matters rest for now? 

“But… But…” Therese licked her lips, averting her eyes. Abruptly, she clenched one hand into a fist, shaking it minutely, trembling.

“But what, Darling?” Carol worried Therese was afraid to uncork her tension. Unsure what to do, she held Therese’s fist gently in her hands. “You have a powerful grip. I would lose any arm wrestling match to you in seconds!” Which, of course, was a bald-faced lie. Therese was a weakling. However, the stress in Therese’s fist eased, and her hand uncoiled. “But sometimes I… just… Oh, are those cake crumbs on the coverlet?”

“I’ve made a mess. Sorry. Let me–”

“No, that’s not what I meant. You can make as big a mess as you’d like, Carol; I just need a bite of something. A taste. I can finally eat a little.” 

“You have eaten since you arrived?” The pair sat closely on the twin bed, Therese with her legs folded beneath her, Carol’s long legs dangling off the edge, her feet touching the floor. She asked Therese again, “Sister Penelope didn’t bring you a tray?”

“I… um, I think so. Honestly, I don’t remember. Yes, probably. But I didn’t feel like eating. Just tea. Now, there’s… well, there’s cake?” The spell haunting Therese partially lifted, and Carol took advantage, pressing forward. 

“Here. I’ll make you a little plate of food and cake. Sister Penelope brought your favorite soup, though I imagine it’s not as chilled as it once was.”

“Soupe vichyssoise? Or velouté de châtaignes… um, sorry. Chestnut soup? How long did I sleep? It seems like forever.”

“Darling, it was only about 40 minutes. Your soup is vichyssoise. Bread with Camembert or Brie… or both.” Carol busied herself efficiently arranging a bowl, bread with cheese, and a large slice of Sister Sophia’s pound cake on a cloth napkin. The tea was still hot, and she poured each of them a cup, adding sugar and cream from the cut glass pitcher. “This should do nicely.” Then Carol held her breath. Now that Therese was waking, would the mania from the last few weeks rise to the surface? “I’ll just set the tray on your bedside table. You need to eat something.”

Therese paid it no mind except to break off a corner of the pound cake slice. “Hmm. It’s delicious. How I remember it.” 

Carol was concerned. Therese spoke in a slow, flat tone, as if a heavy weight still pressed on her. She fretted. Which was worse? This dull, sedate version of Therese or the frenzied, feverish one. “Listen,” Carol grabbed Therese’s papers and sketches she’d collected from various books, “we can take these home and find a way to bind them, or maybe we can search for the perfect box– something decorative, something a wood carver has created for ephemera and memorabilia. But first–”

“You want to keep my nonsense? Really? Why?”

“Why? Do you need to ask? These are precious– your artwork, your poems, your musings on life.”

“I… I… I don’t know what to say, Carol. They were left behind when Táta took me away after graduation.” Therese stared at her lap, fidgeting with her fingers. “We shouldn’t bother to keep them.”

“Why? They’re lovely. I was stunned by your creativity. Your intellect.”

“Because I’m… I’m unsure… uh, unsure who wrote these?”

“Unsure? Why, you did, Darling. See?” Carol held a handful of the papers, positioning them for Therese to look.

“But were these the thoughts of Lisette or Therese Belivet Aird?”

Carol stilled the impulse to cry out, to grab Therese and hold her tight, but she feared a sudden, dramatic gesture might scare her, perhaps trigger Therese into withdrawing again. Instead, Carol calmly said, “You are one and the same. Do not lose track of that. Take a minute and go through them with me. I want to hear your thoughts on two of the things I found: the musical compositions and your drafts of the plan for Agape House.” Carol was desperate to discuss the essay. That essay. The startling one from Shakespeare’s quote. To sleep perchance to dream. But for now, it would keep.

“Am I?” Therese reached a hand for the musical scores. “Yes, I wrote these,” she said incredulously. “I had forgotten.” Her eyes swept the page; the melody she could hear brought a twitch of a smile. “Through my violin, it’s as if I’m in a most beautiful dream. I soar through the sky, no worries of my wings melting from the sun like Icarus. I can believe in something. I can touch the heavens. I can escape.”

Carol’s eyes misted. 

“This one. Yes, I remember. This one I wrote after Sister Penelope explained something controversial she read in a science journal, something she dared not tell Sister Alicia or the other nuns. It’s highly contrary to their beliefs about how God created humans.”

“Then it sounds intriguing,” Carol said. “Tell me.”

As she picked at the food on her plate, Therese grew pensive. “Sister Penelope read that scientists are coming close to an unbelievable discovery. A hypothesis. They– the scientists– theorize humans are stardust. Stardust, Carol. Can you imagine? Isn’t that the loveliest image? We, humans’ origins, were forged from ancient stars and dispersed across the universe.”

“And that was what you drew your inspiration from to compose this piece? You’re remarkable, Therese. You have no clue how special you are.”

“Mmm-hmm. I don’t understand all of it, just that it’s somehow a peaceful notion, a soothing thought. To think that at one time, our origins were particles in space. Every speck created inside a star before Earth was even born. At least, I think that’s how the theory goes. I pondered that while I wrote this piece,” Therese handed the composition back to Carol. “We aren’t just in the universe, but we are the universe. For me, for Sister Penelope, it’s a sense of… of immortality and connection, I guess. I hope someday science proves the theory.

“Think of it. You and me. Floating out there in the vast universe at the same time. Bumping and ricocheting off objects, but the two of us always land together. Timeless. Boundless. In fact,” Therese stopped, sniffling, and rubbing her eyes. “That’s why I hold the words you said to me when we boarded the train so dearly. Say the words to me. Please, say them again. Please.”

Carol scarcely breathed. “What you said… just now… It’s beautiful, Therese. Will you play me your music when we return to Montréal?” She narrowed her eyes, somehow tickled that Therese was so sentimental. “I said that we have met before in a hundred previous lifetimes. We’ll meet in a thousand more. Continually. Eternally.” Carol breathed. “But remember, we are presently here, Therese– the glorious present. We have time to talk, explore, and figure things out. You frightened me when you bolted as you did. We have love, but to live a joyous, fulfilled life, we must sort our pasts. Understand?”

“I do. I don’t take what you’re saying lightly.” It was hard to let go and fully open herself as Lisette. She knew that instinctively, that’s what Carol wanted. She’d get there. She would. Just not now. Instead, she appeased Carol, “Yes, I will. I promise.” Therese held the cup of tea two-handedly, sipping. “What did you want to talk to me about? Agape House?

“These notes and lists. The draft. The sketches. How long have you been preparing for this moment?”

The question gave Therese pause. “I guess… Forever? At least it seems like it.” 

“And you chose this book to hide it in? Is there a meaning behind that decision? Or, was it the first book you picked up?”

“No. It was a conscious decision. Le Petit Prince is a wonderful fable, Carol. We should read it to Rindy. It reflects on life’s meaning and childhood innocence. I loved the message of The Little Prince.” Therese summoned a breath, “The most important things in life are invisible to the eye. Only the heart understands: love, friendship, and the true purpose of life. Therese rubbed her neck, sore from her awkward sleeping posture by the window. 

“And so you thought of a music academy for girls– the important things in life. One that will grow and expand on the very grounds you inherited. Harge will be seething,” Carol couldn’t hold back a little laugh, “but what can he say without seeming like the world’s biggest miser?”

“That bothered me. I don’t want Hargie to think it was some petty move. What I did and how I decided to use the money were purely motivated. Honestly.”

“Silly, I believe you.” They sat beside one another on the twin mattress, sipping the tea, Therese picking at the bread and cheese. Carol lightly bumped Therese’s shoulder. “Let’s talk about that magnificent train ride to Montréal. How ‘bout it? Two particles of stardust igniting the track to the Great North.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Beauty

‘Beauty’ from the album ‘Portrait: Alex Baranowski’
Composed by Alex Baranowski
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)

They sat beside one another on the twin mattress, sipping tea, Therese picking at the bread and cheese. Carol noticed that Therese was quietly withdrawing again, seemingly all talked out, her energy once again sapped with the explanations of her musical compositions and her draft of her plan. But they had barely skimmed the surface of the Aird inheritance, what it meant to be Therese Belivet Aird, and what was to become of the brilliant but reticent Lisette Freyer. Carol needed answers, but she knew not to push; Lisette’s identity was at stake.

Carol comprehended there was so much more. She’d been astonished and dumbstruck by how detailed Therese’s plan was, the complexity of it all. How was it possible that a young woman was this generous, this forward-thinking? She’d received a copy from Jeanette Harrison, the private investigator, before she’d left Manhattan. Her lips had trembled as she read of the MoMA Endowment in her name; it took her back to the day they had spent there. She had been in love with Therese Belivet Aird even then, before she knew that the girl was a fantasy, a delusion of John Aird’s creation.

But what was notable, what made Carol’s heart leap, was that Therese had remembered something from that day at MoMA– something Carol had told her, keeping it tucked in her heart until she was ready for the unveiling. 

“Then I have the ideal starting point,” Carol grinned, “Do you trust me, Therese? Close your eyes. Let me guide you through the short distance. I’ll be careful.”

And the girl did. Trusted her completely. The museum was Carol’s domain— the world of the Arts. Therese had put her faith in her. “Okay. Let’s walk. You can explain modern art to me, Carol. I want to learn.” Therese seemed to study her, taking one long last impression of Carol as she appeared in the elevator before the doors opened– breathless, excited. Carol sensed Therese would immediately close her eyes, trusting her.

“And I want you to teach me… about art.” Therese had said, offering a heartfelt smile, shutting her eyes, and clasping Carol’s hand as the blonde steered her from the elevator.
 
Carol remembered thinking, Do people always fall in love with things they can’t have?

It was only a quick turn to the right and straight ahead, and she had positioned Therese just so– a tiny movement to the right, then an iota to the left. “There. Open your eyes.” 
When Therese’s lids fluttered open, Carol saw that they had widened. The two beheld a swirling sky with its dramatic curves and exaggerated forms, suggesting movement, turmoil, and cosmic energy. It was as if someone tried to capture an intense inner emotional turbulence. 

“My very favorite– Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night,” Carol reverently announced. “I often visit just to stand before this one painting. Van Gogh creates this lasting image of the night sky dominated by the bright moon on the right, Venus at center left,” Carol pointed out. The two were side by side, their bodies touching, swept into the painter’s embrace of mood, expression, symbol, and sentiment. “It was inspired by the view from Van Gogh’s window at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum in Saint-Rémy, in southern France. He spent twelve months there seeking reprieve from his mental illnesses. The Starry Night is both an exercise in observation and a clear departure from it. What do you think?”

“It’s breathtaking,” Therese had whispered. “It’s as if the bright stars are symbols of hope, light, and a connection to something greater than oneself.” 

Spellbound, as much by Therese as the painting, Carol breathed, “Thank you.”

“For what? I should thank you, Carol.”

“Just for being here and experiencing the painting with me. But we can also thank Lillie Bliss.” Carol clarified at Therese’s quirked eyebrows, “That’s how the museum acquired the painting in 1941. I’ve told your father he should become a benefactor, but no. He guards his fortune.”

They remained motionless, staring at The Starry Night. The painting drew them together; their thoughts, while formulated separately, invisibly and mysteriously rose and intertwined in the bubble of air surrounding them. Gradually, Carol tore her eyes from the painting, focusing them on Therese’s adorable profile. When the brunette sensed it, she had turned her face, and the look she gave Carol filled the blonde with such hope that she dared not examine it.

“‘What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?’” Therese mumbled, reverently pointing at the painting.

To think that Therese gleaned from that experience– that lovely day at the Museum of Modern Art– how much the art form meant to Carol. The beauty of it, the symbolism it embodied. They had spent their road trip visiting other museums, appreciating varied forms of art. And Carol realized that Therese understood her! That counted for much because, for Carol, art and its beauty served as a medium for expressing and immortalizing the intense emotions of all love: familial, friendship, romantic, and enduring. A soulmate! Therese realized how deeply Carol felt about art, how art could mirror a depth of love. Art and Love. Hand in hand. The two were deeply intertwined. 

Carol was a romantic, still looking for love, the eternal soulmate, not bound by death. And now? Now she had found Therese– someone who appreciated these same values. Through Therese, she now understood another type of love– agape. A selfless love. An unconditional love. Their journey to this point had been rocky at times, but beautiful.

Here they sat, a little over a year later. Much had changed; Carol had learned several things along the way– about Therese, about herself, about life. Christ! Therese had even introduced her to the essence at the heart of Therese Belivet Aird– Lisette Freyer. Although Therese was currently floundering, out of her depths, this girl had grit, a core of courage. Of that, Carol was certain. 

“Hmm. I can’t help thinking back.” Carol lightly bumped Therese’s shoulder. “Let’s talk about that magnificent train ride to Montréal. How ‘bout it? Two particles of stardust igniting the track to the Great North,” she smiled at Therese, patiently waiting for a response.
 
“Did you enjoy the trip, then?” Therese asked. “I hoped you would. I was afraid you would see it as a trick to lure you back to me. And, in a way, I guess it was.” Therese had bent her head, her fingers finding anything for distraction– the crumbs of pound cake, Fripon’s soft velvet coat, and the feel of the blanket beneath them. Finally, she looked up to stare into Carol’s eyes. “I couldn’t lose you, Carol. I love you. I love you more than anything. I’m sorry things spun out of control so much that I panicked. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. Something must be.”

Carol worked on slowing her breath. The last thing she needed was to alarm Therese. She remembered Ruby Robichek’s advice: Reassure. Listen. No judgment. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing. Look at me, Therese. I mean nothing. And the train ride you planned was marvelous.” Carol sought to comfort Therese, “You’re just going through a rough patch. Too many things are colliding. The letter that arrived didn’t help matters. And… And this despair is only temporary.” Carol’s hand rubbed Therese’s back, then traveled the length of her arm, her fingers seeking Therese’s until she entwined them. “It was a wonderful trip, Darling. Memorable in every way.”

The ride to Montréal had been magical, something out of a romance novel or movie. The train. The North Star. After only thirty minutes, Carol had decided it was a relaxing way to travel. As passengers, they could stretch their legs, walk between train cars, and enjoy the spacious seating in the observation car with its large windows for viewing. Rindy was eager and curious to explore, unafraid to venture and pose numerous questions to the conductors:
“Are we there yet?”
“How fast are we going?”
“Mister, do you live on the train?”

In a way, it was a pleasant disconnect from life the past several weeks– the days and hours she and Therese had spent apart, alone and disgruntled. On a train, time was superfluous; the train was their bubble, a haven. Carol had experienced a sense of calm, her body discharging the stress she had held for the past few months. Strangely, the sound of the rails comforted her; the train rapidly thundering down the track signaled her freedom. 

But Therese… Carol’s hindsight, like every human’s, she supposed, was sharp and on point after the fact. On this leg of the journey, Carol had been only slightly puzzled. Where she, Carol, was relaxed, Therese was…? Carol couldn’t put a name to it. Therese was like a low-voltage electrical current. She practically thrummed.

The four of them checked their accommodations, little oohs and aahs emitted at the luxury Pullman sleep cars, side by side. Small and efficient, they offered elegant, comfortable berths with electric lighting, heating, and superior service. Therese had booked the finest, the Palace Cars, folding upper and lower berths for her and Mary March, and a tight but ample twin and a half bed for Carol and Rindy’s compartment.

They had eaten a late dinner on the premier North Star Line. And while Carol, Mary March, and Rindy had healthy appetites, Therese picked at her portion, already small, since she had shared half of her plate with Rindy. 

Carol’s dessert was Therese. Seated across from one another near the window, Carol decided to go bold, slipping one of her stockinged feet from her low heels, and slowly, painstakingly, letting it gradually roam Therese’s leg from ankle to shin. After time apart, she needed the physical with Therese. But, for God’s sake, Carol thought. They were on a train. Still, she needed this connection, this touch. Perhaps later, they would manage a tight hug, Therese’s breasts brushing her body. Better yet, a kiss! A real kiss would be best, all-consuming, tongues dancing, and–

“Can we go now, Mommy? I wanna sleep with Tress,” Rindy’s tired whine cued Carol to the discussion at the table. “Right, Tress? You and me.” Her head bobbed until it drooped against Therese’s arm. “Wanna go to sleep now, Tress?”

“Um… Uh… What, Sweet Pea?” Carol had tried to regroup, worried that Mary March could easily read her lustful thoughts by the very way she held her body, the hint of dark pink blushing her cheeks as she dreamed of Therese’s nakedness. 

Mary March tried to hide a knowing smile. “Tell you what, Rindy. How about we get your pajamas from your cabin and change in Therese's and my compartment, only one space down the aisle. You can get the bed all cozy for her.” Mary leaned into Carol and whispered, “I’ll make sure things are… arranged. I’ll keep Rindy with me.” She winked at Therese.

Thank the gods! Thank the gods! Thank the gods! Carol had sighed. There might be a way after all to sneak in a few minutes of alone time, enough to steal at least a kiss. 

That left the pair alone at their table, suddenly shy, unexpectedly nervous. 

“Well–” they simultaneously spoke. 
“Uh, um–” they cleared their throats at the same time, staring at one another.

“We should probably talk,” Carol broke the silence. “I have so much to say to you, Therese. Things I want to– need to– tell you.”

“Please, Carol. Not tonight. I don’t want anything but… but just…” Therese resorted to her usual unfinished sentences, then resolved to push the words out in a soft hum of a murmur, barely speaking the words: “I just want to hold you. Tightly.” She set aside her plate and tea cup. “Are you finished?” Therese ducked her head, eyeing Carol. “May we talk in the privacy of your compartment?” Then she added her coquettish kicker, “But I warn you, I talk with my hands.” She mouthed, My fingers.

Carol abruptly rose from her seat, biting her lips to keep from joyously giggling like a love-sick schoolgirl. 

Therese first led them to the observation car for a late-night drink, enhancing the anticipation, the sense of longing, and the desire building. Tomorrow, there would be scenic views from these windows, routes often bypassed by car. The mountain ranges, forests, and rural farm landscapes would present a colorful patchwork to dazzle their eye. For now, it was night, the moon majestic in the evening sky, almost a full moon, but not quite. The stars were luminous, like strings of pearls, painting a picture reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It capped the evening, and Carol couldn’t remember feeling this happy and optimistic for weeks.

“I thought we might like a drink before we head to our sleeper car. Would you? Like a drink? Maybe a Crème de cacao or a Brandy Sidecar? Or, would you like something else? Perhaps a… a… Well, I don’t know many other after-dinner drinks.”

Carol noticed that the eagerness bouncing off Therese was palpable. “This is where I met Abby, Carol. She tried her darnedest to engage me in a conversation, but I’m afraid I merely focused on getting through… getting through… getting things absolutely correct as Therese Aird,” she whispered and took a breath. “It’s over, isn’t it? No more… No more… But, yes. The masquerade has to continue. There are all the charities and foundations, and… and…”

“Shh. Take a breath, Therese. We’re here tonight, Darling,” Carol leaned close. “All of that is behind you.” At least Carol thought it was. John Aird. The nickname– Táta. Anastázie Belivet. Fooling Harge. Outwitting Jennifer. Convincing the household staff that she was indeed Therese Aird, the child they had all known from birth until age ten. 

Therese stared lovingly at Carol. She hadn’t known whether she would ever see Carol again. Even so, she knew she would continually search for her, and if that produced no results, she would return to the memory of Carol like a cherished sheet of music or a rare work of art, experiencing Carol again and again, as if for the first time.

 Carol gazed at Therese. The young woman was always her rising star in the sky. She redefined femininity with her wit and even her restraint. Their age gap and contrasting styles sometimes caused missteps, but their differences worked; they suited each other: Carol’s generational, old-guard gravitas meeting Therese’s postwar, fresh, forward-thinking attitude. It cemented Therese’s persona: a European poise with a gamine intelligence. 

“Come with me to your compartment,” Therese took the initiative, whispering with a quiet fervency. “Now, Carol. Forget the drinks.” 

The pair traveled the aisles, the train jostling them slightly. At one point, Therese used the motion to sway into Carol innocently, looking up at her and smiling like the Cheshire Cat. 

“Will Mary wonder what we’re up to?”

“I’m certain she’s aware.” A few more steps and Therese rapped lightly on her shared compartment with Mary March. “Did I wake you? I thought that–”

Hushed tones emanated from Mary: “It’s fine. I’m reading before bed, and Rindy’s asleep. There’s no need to disrupt her. Here’s your night kit. I’ll see you in the morning.” Mary leaned forward, kissing Therese’s cheek, then retreated, “Sweet dreams.”

“That’s that,” Therese turned and grinned at Carol, barely able to contain herself. She depressed Carol’s compartment latch, hurriedly drawing the woman inside with her. Suddenly bold in her movements, she pressed Carol against the closed door, locking the mechanism from inside, brushing her lips against Carol everywhere she could find bare skin.

“You’re so beautiful, Carol.” Therese's fingertips trembled as they lightly skimmed Carol’s neckline. “Beautiful,” she couldn’t help but repeat, then peppering Carol’s neckline with tiny sweet kisses. She broke the flurry of caresses with her lips and met Carol’s mouth with hers, open and passionate. Carol pursued Therese’s mouth with an intense, lingering pressure, her lips parting, setting a deep, rhythmic tempo with her tongue. It signaled a physical urgency. Therese could taste Carol, smell her partner's scent; she could hear the soft, breathless sounds, creating an overwhelmingly electrifying moment.

“Shh. Shhh.” Carol paused for air, cautioning, “We must be quiet. These compartment walls are impossibly thin, Darling. Tonight is lovely. You’re so very lovely, Therese.” She held Therese by the shoulders, pushing her back just a little so she could see Therese’s face. “I’ve missed you terribly, Sweetheart. The last couple of weeks are my fault. All my fault.”

There was a sharp intake of Therese’s breath. “I don’t care about that. I love you.” 

Carol’s words caught in her throat. Before her was the girl she had desperately sought months ago. A girl who could break her heart– but whose heart she had broken. Carol was uncertain about what to do, so she quit anticipating her next moves, calmed her thoughts, and did what felt natural and right in this instant. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Therese. I do love you so very much.” She sat on the edge of the narrow mattress, clasping Therese’s hand and tugging Therese to sit beside her. “God, I love you more every day.” Carol smoothed Therese’s hair back, her palm lingering on a cheek. 

Therese leaned into it and kissed Carol’s hand tenderly. “I’m unsure what to do, Carol; it’s almost like our first night in Pittsburgh again. The William Penn Hotel– our special place,” Therese whispered, a lightly seductive tone in her voice. Her body thrummed with desire; it was as if she could feel individual nerve endings fire down every limb, electrifying every cell.

“It is, isn’t it? Yet it isn’t Pittsburgh, Darling. We’ve traveled far from that night; we’ve learned how to please one another. We can read the other’s thoughts from across the room. God, I love you,” Carol repeated.

“I would suggest you take me to bed, but here we are,” Therese nudged Carol onto her back, Carol’s head on the pillow. Carol sensed that Therese’s movements were rushed, excited, and frenetic. Without hesitation, Therese stood, kicked off her low heels, shrugged out of her bolero jacket, and lifted her blouse over her head without popping a button, her hair adorably mussed. She stepped out of her skirt and half slip, standing in her bra, panties, garter belt, and stocking feet.

“Take it slowly, Darling. We should–”

“Carol, it’s just… It’s just that I’ve missed you so much.”

“Come here. Lie by me. We should relax into our lovemaking. Shh. Stop thinking and over-thinking, my angel,” Carol cooed. She brushed her lips against Therese’s. “It’s the two of us. Safe. We can merely cuddle if–” But Carol felt a tug on her hand, and then Therese intertwined her fingers with Carol’s. Therese slowly dragged Carol’s clasped hand down the span of her body, until it reached her pelvis, then closer to her center as her head arched to meet Carol’s mouth. “I need this. You need this,” Therese sputtered between tiny kisses.“I’ve missed our intimacy.”

“Do you remember what I told you that night at the William Penn Hotel? Do you know the effect you have on me, Therese?” Carol whispered. The fingers of Carol’s free hand traveled to Therese’s throat, reverently gliding upward, grasping her lightly beneath her chin. “Do you? I told you I have never trusted anyone like this before, Therese. Not ever. I meant it.” Carol leaned forward from the pillow, seeking entrance again to Therese’s mouth with her tongue. Her eyes locked with Therese’s as her younger lover bent towards Carol and opened hers. 

“Therese,” Carol breathed, closing her eyes. She sat up, made quick work of losing her sweater, skirt, and nylons. “Help me with these brassiere hooks, Darling.”

The brassiere flew off, landing atop a heap of discarded clothing, and Therese instantly latched onto one of Carol’s nipples, attempting to impart her pining and aching for a deep and physical lovemaking, an almost feral passion consuming her.

“Ohhhhh, Therese,” Carol moaned as the brunette continued suckling, her hand kneading the other breast. “Let… Let’s… Ohhhh, Darling, that feels… feels divine. Help me out of this damn girdle and these stockings. I… I’m…” Carol’s eyes rolled back, a simple smile on her face. “Take… Take the rest of my underwear. That’s it.” 

Nude, Carol flipped the bedspread and sheet fully back, and stretched the length of the bed, her head resting next to Therese’s, nestled beside her on the shared pillow. Then, alluringly, she slithered down Therese’s body, easily lifting the young woman’s hips, ensnaring the waistband of Therese’s underwear and garter belt, and slowly and sensually dragging them and her nylons down and off the lithe frame. Then she watched as Therese removed her bra, the smaller breasts flushed pink with arousal, the nipples erect.

“I love you,” Carol took her time, drawing lazy, ever-widening circles on Therese’s lower torso, inching closer and closer to Therese’s throbbing core. Occasionally, her face would tilt to graze Therese’s nipples. But soon, she sensed Therese’s first tell-tale signs of arousal: a quiet undulating of her loins, a tiny mewl, a momentary hitch of her legs. Still, Carol proceeded slowly with sensual touches– a feather-light massage to her upper thighs. 

But Therese was suddenly plagued by a series of what-ifs. The last time they had made love, Carol had never heard of Lisette Freyer. She had made love to Therese Belivet Aird. What if? What if it somehow mattered to Carol? What if Lisette wasn’t good enough? What if? What if? What if? 

“Should we be doing this here, Carol? On a train? Will someone catch us? What if…”

“Not if we’re quiet. Do you want me to stop, Darling?” Carol patiently waited until a shift on the narrow mattress, and Therese’s legs opened, inviting and ready.

Therese’s mind raced at a feverish pitch before a familiar feeling seized her, her body yielding and responding to Carol as she felt her fingers stroke her. She gave up thinking, emotionally merging with her lover, who continued to softly strum her clit. 

Even then, Carol kept her movements unhurried, gentle, and undemanding. We have time, Carol reminded herself. If Therese needs me to stop, I can and will. Eventually, Carol sensed Therese’s body relax and discharge the nervous energy she held; Therese replaced it with a fierce carnal passion– a yearning and burning for a release of a different sort.

Carol’s fingers moved millimeters to Therese’s wet opening, delicately slipping a finger through Therese’s folds, her wetness only making it all the more pleasurable. And Therese felt glorious, the sensitivity when Carol touched her clitoris, setting a firmer rhythm, making Therese quiver, her body responding with abandon as it matched Carol’s tempo as the blonde rode her thigh. Therese whispered words in her ear, urging her, “My God, you’re beautiful, Carol. I want you. I need you. All of you.”

Therese’s words caused Carol to choke on a sob as she gradually but deliberately entered Therese with a second finger. Only when Carol heard a satisfied groan did she set up a different pace that would lead to a final climax. She rubbed the aching nub while her fingers darted in and out, making Therese shudder. Carol changed the angle of her fingertips, hitting the sweet spot that made Therese abandon logic and constraint; she recognized her lover was on the brink of an orgasm. It would be fast, over too soon.

Then, Therese strained as Carol moved in quickening thrusts, Therese keeping pace with surging thighs, shamelessly chasing the pleasure. She rolled her hips, grinding against Carol’s fingers, riding the wave until she submerged into a pool of bliss, her walls clenching, her limbs taut. She couldn’t keep a strangled moan from escaping her throat, the heightened sensation reverberating throughout her, tingling and dancing like pinpricks along her nerve endings, a joyful song humming in her ears. This moment was hers. This woman was hers, and no one could, or nothing could, breach their love. It would be alright. It would be alright. It would be alright. Everything would be. Therese gasped and relaxed in Carol’s arm, at peace. 

Carol lazily moved her fingers slightly upward to Therese’s chest. “You look a million miles away, Darling. Tell me what you’re thinking, Therese.” Then, Carol kissed her again, her strong, long hands and fingers stroking the brunette’s face. “Tell me, Darling.” Carol’s mouth dared to dust Therese’s ear. She whispered, “Tell me, what you’re thinking, Lisette.”

And now, here they were. Québec City. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Therese. A hand went to brush Therese’s cheek. “Tell me.”

Carol remembered a snippet of an article she’d read in a movie magazine. She never bought them, but wasn’t opposed to reading them at the hairdresser’s salon. It was an interview with the film director, Orson Welles. Most of it was Hollywood gossip, but one quote stood out, one she remembered: 

“If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: A Fairy Tale

‘A Fairy Tale’ from the album ‘Un Conte De Fées– Fairy Tale’
Composed by François Dompierre
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)

“If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” 

Carol reflected on the quote. Where would their story end? Hers and Therese’s. She stared at the young woman beside her, and Carol acknowledged that she would do everything in her power to ensure their story would never end. A happy one. A fairy tale in the making. She glanced over at the framed photograph propped on the nightstand. John Aird. He cared only about how his story ended, not about the girl whose life he stole. It was his fault that Therese was in the shape she was… that Lisette was in such emotional turmoil.

She sought to break the awkward silence: “So, our train ride was magical, don’t you think?” Carol gauged Therese’s expression, hoping for some insight into her state of being. It was like Therese had surrendered control, existing only in a fraction of the present, afraid to look back into the past or worse, ahead to the future. Carol regrouped. “I swear, I’d never been so happy to see you in my life. I was afraid that Abby’s driving and the Manhattan traffic would cause us to miss the last call to board.” Carol entwined their fingers, jiggling their hands. “Thanks to the magic of Shirley Wong’s fortunes, we made it.” Carol nudged Therese with her elbow, “You still haven’t told me what you’re thinking.”

Surprisingly, Therese mumbled, “What am I thinking?” She stole a glance at Carol. “What would you have done if the train had left and you hadn’t boarded? What if we had missed our one chance?” Therese took a sharp, shaky intake of breath, stressed by the notion. “Would you have been secretly relieved?” She gazed at Carol, waiting for a reaction, her eyes conveying such a weary sadness. “Hmm, maybe your life would be simpler, happier, without me.”

“Oh, no,” Carol answered immediately, without hesitation. “You are the silly one, Darling. Never. Never, ever. I would have been devastated. And, I’d already made up my mind. If the North Star had left the station, Rindy and I would be on the very next train headed to Montréal. But we made it. I found you.”

Finally, a genuine smile from Therese. It was a small smile, Therese’s lips tight, but it reached her eyes momentarily. Carol would take it. 

“Yes. Yes, our trip meant everything to me, Carol. I was just so thankful that you met me there. That we boarded the train together.” Therese’s bottom lip twisted, her smile contorting as her top teeth bit down on her lip, her emotions clearly surfacing. “For those hours aboard the North Star, time ceased. You were… You were mine. Mine.” Therese knew it was a rather absurd thing to say, but there it was. There was a noticeable catch in her voice.

“Oh, Darling. No, no. You needn’t worry about that. I am yours. You are mine. I’m sorry I–”

“Really? Even after I’ve made such a… such a mess of things? I have… You know it.”

“You’ve done no such thing, Therese. It’s… It’s just a confusing time for you. Like I said earlier, a rough patch. The letter that arrived didn’t help. It was the final straw. You should have shown it to me when it first arrived.” But truthfully, Carol knew there was nothing she could have done. If anything, the fact that she was in Montréal at her step-daughter’s apartment might draw suspicion. 

At the mention of the letter, Therese’s free hand went to her stomach, her hand fisting the fabric of her clothing, her eyes squinting as if to ward off the urge to heave it all up… Doubtless, her past. In this moment, it was difficult for Carol to believe that the Therese who sat beside her was the same confident, passionate woman from the train. Carol sought to steer the conversation to more pleasant matters. 

“So about that train ride. It was enchanting, wasn’t it? Um, what’s that quote? ‘Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.’ I think that’s how it goes.” Carol couldn’t remember which author said the words; it was inconsequential, but it was true. Of course, real life could be sadder… messier, more angst, but also more passion. “But Montréal! Now, there is a living, breathing fairy tale. A fantasy come true.” Carol impulsively kissed Therese’s cheek. 

And, truthfully, it had been. All of it! Every minute of their journey was as if they were in a magical bubble from a fairy tale:

The foursome had gathered in the observation car for an early breakfast snack, Rindy quizzing Therese endlessly:
“Where were you last night, Tress? I waited forever!”
“She was out like a light in three minutes,” Mary March mouthed.
“Where did you sleep, Tress?” 
“I looked for you, Tress. I kept the bed warm.” 
“Your room has bunk beds! Did you know that? Real bunk beds! Do you wanna play on them?”
“If we ride the train again, can I sleep in the top bunk with you, Tress?” 
 
They had departed on the last leg of their train trip, leaving from Toronto’s historic Union Station. Rindy was overcome with childhood enthusiasm, jumping and hopping excitedly, while Carol tried unsuccessfully to corral her into a seat. The child hadn’t a clue what it meant to be visiting Montréal, why, or for how long. But it was perfect for Rindy because she was with her sister; that was all that counted, making the six-year-old happy and complete. 

Greater Toronto Area’s downtown hurtled by, the train soon leaving the populated urban area, then thundering through the suburban landscape. Within an hour, their route passed through Guildwood, Rouge Hill, and Rosebank with frequent glimpses of Lake Ontario to the south keeping them company. The scenery shifted again: rolling fields, dense woodlands, and rocky terrains as the train whistled periodically, taking the gentle curves between Napanee and Kingston at a clip. The lake views continued until Kingston, where one body of water drained into another. At Therese’s direction, out of the south side windows, they watched as Lake Ontario released its waters to the Great Saint Lawrence River.  

Therese’s exuberance was contagious. Carol sat back, enjoying Therese’s description of each landmark, each small village, each island they passed. “There are 1,864 of them in the Saint Lawrence River. Can you imagine!”

“Let’s count them, Tress! I see one, two… Is that an island, Tress? Three, four… Tress, look. Are you counting, Tress? Five, six… is that a reindeer?”

“How about some orange juice and maybe a bagel or pastry, Rindy?” Carol rolled her eyes at Mary March and Therese, waving over a server. “An orange juice and hot cocoa for my daughter, please. Three coffees and three mimosas for the grownups,” she glanced at Mary and Therese, who nodded, “and a plate of pastries.” 

The drinks arrived, and before the women could sip, Rindy called for a toast. 

“What should we drink to, then, Rindy?” Therese was game, radiant, and in the mood to spoil her tiny sister. “It’s not every day we ride the train to Montréal.”

“Let’s do cheers ‘cuz we’re together and all in love! Very much in love! L… O… V… E…”

“Well, Sweet Pea,” Carol was unsure where one of Rindy’s toasts would land them. “That’s a–” 

“I love Tress, and Tress loves Miss Mary, and Miss Mary loves me, and I love Mommy, and Mommy loves Tress, and–”

Carol cut the litany short, a deep flush of pink reddening her cheeks. “Cheers,” she clinked glasses with Mary and Therese, and at the last minute, with Rindy. “A beautiful toast, Sweet Pea.”

“It’s true, huh, Mommy. We’re all in love with each other. I love you, Tress loves you, you love Tress…” The refrain continued, but Carol smiled. After all, it was true. 

Their table of four settled in for the remainder of the trip, the cities gradually shifting from traditional English names– Prescott, Cornwall, Dundee– to the romance language of the French– Saint Anicet, Rivière-La Guerre, Saint Zotique.

Carol found herself pleasantly disconnecting from the fast-paced world of Manhattan and the stuffy pretense of Rumson, and sank into a fairy-tale existence. The gentle, rhythmic clickity-clack-clack, clickity-clack-clack of the wheels on the tracks lulled her. There was a certain old-fashioned appeal to train travel, Carol decided. Travel by rail had this unique blend of convenience, scenic beauty, and the serene aura of a daydream. 

She gazed over at Therese, reflecting on their lovemaking last night. Therese must have read her thoughts because a sly, knowing smirk flashed across her face– it was momentary, fleeting, but in that acknowledgment, Carol felt she had lived a thousand different lives with Therese… would live a thousand more. She had half a mind to guide Therese back to their compartment for another round of ecstasy. Therese had easily brought her to a heart-pounding climax the prior evening, Carol’s body surging in rhythm with the thundering train. The image of it–

“Mommy, are you okay? You keep getting red on your face and neck.”

“Uh, yes. Yes,” Carol swallowed. “It must be all this sun from the train windows.” And Carol smiled. Somewhere on the train ride, she had decided to simply… let go. As if to emphasize the thought, Carol blew out a long, satisfying breath. She would lean into a life with Therese, forego the worries about money, security, and lifestyle. She pledged to take each day in a joyful stride with Rindy and the evolving relationship with Therese, and with this new idea of family. She felt at peace, maybe for the first time in forever. 
 

Those were her thoughts on the train ride to Montréal, and Carol, now seated on a bed with Therese at the Québec convent, didn’t regret them. She somehow knew, somehow sensed, this juncture was inevitable; they’d survive if they stuck it out together, worked through it together. 

“I can’t tell you how impressed I am with your city. Well, both of them– Montréal and Québec City. Where Montréal is more cosmopolitan, this city is quainter, more European. 

“The City of Québécois. That’s what we say. It’s much more French, steeped in history. 
I loved the old-world charm, the romance in every inch of the city. It’s in the architecture of the buildings, the food, the people.” Therese’s fingers played with the stuffed pony in her hands.

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay here and find an apartment. Surely–”

“Well, you know. Táta...” Therese’s forehead creased, a lifting of her lip in a sign of displeasure, though she couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, say the words that were on her mind. “He said Montréal was a better fit. It’s so much colder here. I wouldn’t be a focal point in Montréal– a wealthy man’s daughter. So many more people in Montreal to… to… to lose myself in.” Silence. A tired sigh. “Besides, I needed to leave.” A breath. “Do you like my apartment?”

“I do. I love it. Truly. I don’t know what I was expecting, and frankly, I decided that whether you lived in a tent or a shack, I would be happy. But your apartment! The fairy tale continued for all of us.” The ensuing silence was weighty, and Carol looked for a distraction. “Would you like one more cup of tea? There’s enough.” Carol didn’t wait for an answer, pouring the hot liquid and slicing two more pieces of pound cake. “Sister Sophia is quite the baker. I found your limerick about her. You must have been the cleverest girl the nuns had ever taught.”

Carol noticed Therese still held the tiny, hand-sewn pony. “Who made your sweet toy, Darling? Fripon? Did I pronounce that correctly? Neither Sister Penelope nor Sister Évangéline could remember. He’s in remarkable shape, having survived so many moves. He’s seen more countries than I have.” As she set the cups on the nightstand, she suddenly wondered, “Someone made him for you. Yes? Not for… Not for Therese Aird. He’s your favorite toy, I assume.”

Therese’s face as she lifted it to answer Carol was achingly vulnerable. Her lips trembled. “Ma mère était catastrophique avec une aiguille et du fil; c’est donc ma grand-mère qui l’a terminée. Fripon– Rascal– est à moi. À moi. À Lisette.” Despite her demeanor, she said it with authority; there was no room for error. Fripon belonged to her! To Lisette.

“I… I see. I do.” The French reply confused her, but Carol was certain that Fripon was Lisette’s childhood toy, created by her mother and grandmother. He was only a scrap of brown velvet, sewn into the shape of a pony. A white tail, ears, and a stitch of white for a forelock, but the damn thing was Lisette Freyer’s. The French and English child, not Therese’s, the child of Rumson Manor. Carol licked her lips, sucking them in, making a smacking sound for emphasis. She reaffirmed her decision; the toy was coming to Montréal with them. 

She knew Therese had another precious pony, a tiny ceramic one that Mary March had gifted her in London. That would have occurred after the bomb blast in Southampton. It traveled with Therese in her suitcase, then Therese would reverently place him on a dresser or bookcase until, presumably, the next trip. She had watched her complete the ritual in Montreal when they reached Therese’s apartment. It all led to the conclusion that this young woman grew up with so little of her own despite being one of the wealthiest girls on the continent.

Carol couldn’t help but sneer disapprovingly at John Aird’s photo by the bedside. How he could compartmentalize his life so easily still bothered her. 

Too many disturbing emotions currently surrounded them; Carol could feel them in the air, almost tangible, almost palpable. Yet she perceived that Therese wasn’t ready to abandon her odyssey, this complicated, psychological quest to regain parts of herself. Carol had been fortunate enough to hitch a ride with Ruby Robichek to Québec City, and she’d listened attentively as Ruby doled out her informed assessment of Therese. Had she not heeded Ruby’s advice, Carol might have been tempted to say too much, to rush Therese along in sorting her thoughts and feelings, or immediately insist that she leave behind her doubts and worries in this room.

Instead, Carol took a bite of bread and drank some of the cooling tea, waiting patiently. When she spoke, she highlighted Montréal's magic and charm.

That question sparked a quick bob of Therese’s head. “You liked it? My home didn’t disappoint you?” 

“No, not at all. You can tell that you put your heart and soul into it.”

“You’re not just saying that? I mean, it’s nothing like the one in–”

“Didn’t you hear Rindy?” Carol hummed a soft snicker, “Mind you, you and I both have fairly large apartments in the heart of cultural and cosmopolitan cities. Rindy calls your home The Castle. She barely tolerates my apartment as a cardboard box.”

And it had seemed fairy tale-ish to both Rindy and Carol. And Therese was their own Fairy Ballerina, spritely pirouetting and dancing en pointe her way through this enchanted land, more French than France itself. 

Approaching the Gare Centrale– the Montréal Central Station, Therese became noticeably animated, her eyes sparkling, her mouth in a broad grin. “There’s my landmark, Rindy. We’re almost here! Look, Rindy! Look!” Therese pointed, her index finger on the train window. “The most prominent, easily seen landmark in Montréal. It’s the large cross atop Mount Royal. The mountain itself is special in the skyline, but the cross is its jewel, its crown! At night, by magic, the cross illuminates; it glows! The cross has been a welcoming sign in the sky since 1924 for people arriving in Montréal.”

“So, it’s there for me! It’s welcoming me!” Rindy clapped repeatedly, under Therese’s spell. “Can we see it when it glows at night? Will you take me, Tress? Please? Please, please, please?”

Carol watched with dumbfounded amusement. They were living in a fairy tale, for where else could her child have found an unrelated sister from a continent away? An American child, her paternity mired in doubt, and a young woman from Europe, an orphan no less. Yet the two were so similar, and when they were together, as now, people would easily mistake them for biological siblings. No doubts. No uncertainties... Except they weren’t sisters. Carol shook her head, refusing to dwell on the negatives. For now, she chose the fairy tale, the fantasy. Their myth was the beginning of the imaginary universe.

As they prepared to disembark, a fleeting, last-minute, bittersweet sentiment washed over Carol. So far, this train was the known, the last link to New York City. Manhattan. The familiar. Her world. Once she stepped from the last rung, her feet planted in Montréal, she was entering Therese Belivet Aird’s world. Lisette’s domain. Which young woman would appear? Who would guide her through the maze of longing and passion in this new setting? Carol’s hand clung a fraction too long to the railing. Her foot hesitated for a minute on the train step. But there was Therese, already on the platform. Beaming. Confident. “C’mon, Slowpoke. I’ve got you.”

And then a playful, chaotic rush occurred on the station’s inner platform. Rindy giggled and skipped with excitement as the adults gathered their belongings. Mary March, ever the mother hen, counted their luggage pieces, then double-checked, and even triple-checked. A train conductor disembarked and delicately delivered Therese’s violin case to be hand-carried, while porters ferried their baggage on handcarts, the foursome following behind.

Carol sniffed the air, noting that it smelled differently here: fresh. Adventuresome. Foreign. 

But Mister Sprinkles, the stuffed kitty, was momentarily lost in the shuffle. “Mommy! Wait! Mister Sprinkles! He ran away! He got lost!” However, a most unusual person rescued him. 

A commanding, physically imposing, matronly woman bellowed in an accented voice, “Child, the people of Montréal can hear your kitten’s meowing in every inch of the city! Koteczku needs its Matka!”

“Um… Um… No!” Rindy gaped, torn between running from the woman and rescuing her black kitty. “His name is Mister Sprinkles,” she shouted from a safe distance. “He’s a boy kitty, not an it kitty!”

“Well, what will it be? Do I keep him or–” The woman made Mister Sprinkles dance in the air, dangling the stuffed toy from one of her beefy hands. 

Distressed, Rindy tugged Therese’s arm, pointing at the looming figure. “Help, Tress. The stranger stole Mister Sprinkles. Kitty-napped him! That giant lady!”

But as Therese turned, she screamed in delight, launching herself at the figure. “Ruby! I was hoping to see you at the curb! But you’re here! You found us… and Mister Sprinkles as well.”

“Of course, I’m here, Księżniczko! This runaway koteczku needed someone to save him.” She made Mister Sprinkles sway and bop his way to Rindy, imitating a cat’s voice. “Mew. Here I am, Matka. Mew. Mew. Mew.”

Mary March amusedly watched the scene; there would be built-in entertainment for Rindy, she silently chuckled. “Ruby, it’s so kind of you to play chauffeur. Look at these suitcases.”

“That’s quite a load of luggage, Mary. Good! It means you’re back for a while. I’ve borrowed Jean-Paul’s station wagon,” Ruby winked. “He’ll be back from his conference trip soon. Everything will fit. We’ll make it! Even if Mister Sprinkles rides on the hood as a car ornament.” After quickly directing the porters in the direction of the double-parked Renault Juvaquatre estate station wagon, she greeted the last person in the entourage.

“And you, Madame! You must be Carol Aird, Therese’s Królowa Kier– Queen of Hearts. Welcome to Montréal, home to everyone.” And before Carol could register that the woman’s babbling was her form of an introduction, the blonde was crushed by the massive arms in a hearty hug. 

Amidst the bedlam of arriving travelers and departing passengers, Ruby Robichek led the group through Gare Centrale, the porters astounded by the woman’s bravado, as she called out, “Odsuń się. Szybko! Make way. Quickly. Move aside. Now. Important visitors have arrived in Montreal. That’s it. Step aside. Szybko!”

But after her sister whispered reassurances, the child agreed with Therese that the blustering giant had stepped out of a fairy tale. A good giant. One who would battle dragons to protect them. 

“Why does she call you that name, Tress? C-Ci… Ksie… Ski… I dunno what she called you, but it wasn’t Tress!”

“Księżniczko. She loves to add Polish words when she talks to people. Ruby comes from Poland, another magical kingdom. She calls Mister Sprinkles, Koteczku. That means kitten. And me, she calls Księżniczko or Princess. And Matka means–”

“Mommy or mother. I remember. It’s what you said you called your mommy.” 

Her little sister’s remark tripped Therese. Figuratively and literally. “No, I called her Maman…” The toe of her loafer caught a crack, and Carol swiftly righted her with a quick hand to the elbow. “I… I mean, yes. Matka. Silly me.” The invented but necessary alarm in her brain buzzed slightly. Maman. Maman. Matka. Matka.

Despite the twists and turns inside the station, they were soon outside, and despite a light, cool breeze, the Montréal sunlight did its best to warm their skin with gentle kisses. “Okay, lovely passengers! Your limousine awaits. Ready, Myszko?” Ruby shot a look at Rindy. “Would you like to ride on top of the car? In the back, squashed with the loaded suitcases? Or upfront with Księżniczko? And, of course, Koteczku.” 

“Um. You don’t fool me, Miss Ruby. That word you call Tress is Princess. The other word is kitten! But my name is R-i-n-d-y.”

“That’s what I said– Myszko!”

Therese winked, easing Rindy’s hesitations. “Ruby likes you. She gave you her favorite nickname, Little Mouse.” 

Carol loved that it didn’t take much to captivate her daughter: extra attention, a willingness to indulge the fanciful, and a promise of a fairy tale. “Ohhh! I’ll ride up front, please.” Rindy beamed, then courageously tugged Ruby’s hand. “If I’m a mouse, I need some cheese, please.” 

“Oh, Rindy,” Carol frowned. Manners, she mouthed.

“No, it’s fine. As soon as we arrive at Księżniczko’s castle, Myszko will have a cheese plate.” Ruby tapped Rindy, “Cheese at the Castle only on the finest China!” But for her next comment, Ruby spoke above the child’s head, her words directed to Therese. “Everything is prepared, my dear Princess. Linens changed. Food restocked. Jean-Paul’s cleaning lady helped me. There is cheese for our Myszko. And, I have officially moved to my apartment around the corner on Rue-Saint Vincent. I assume,” Ruby rolled her eyes at Mary March, who was directing the porters as to the proper placement of the suitcases, “that our Fairy Godmother will stay with Jean-Paul?”

“Hmm. I imagine,” Therese’s eyes twinkled. “Carol, I’ll have to fill you in on that when we are alone. He is a lovely man who lives in our building.” 

While the entire city of Montréal was a mix of European-like charm, bustling shopping districts, and even a lively, illicit Red Light District, no section was as vibrant as Vieux-Montréal. Old Montréal or Vieux-Montréal was home to beguiling flats and lofts converted from centuries-old buildings, blending with local shops and markets. This area was the 17th-century core, serving as Montréal’s hub for shipping, shopping, cafes, banking, trade, and residences, all located within the borders of Ruelle des Fortifications to the north, the Saint Lawrence River boxing it in on the south, Rue Saint-André to the east, and Rue McGill to the west. The area was home to Notre-Dame Church, Place Jacques-Cartier, the Bonsecours Market, and the Champ de Mars.

“Look! We’ll see Mount Royal, Beaver Hall Hill, the shopping areas, and the tourist spots like the Botanical Gardens. There’s Notre-Dame Church, Bonsecours Market, and the Old Port. Oh, we should visit Saint Joseph’s Shrine, shouldn’t we!” Therese was truly in her element, proudly directing the passengers’ gazes, this way then that, because this was her private Wonderland, away from the pretend world of Therese Aird– the scheming Puppet Masters’ orchestration of a grand masquerade. John Aird. Sister Alicia. No, Lisette Freyer lived and breathed here.

Ruby made a wide swing deeper into the heart of Vieux-Montréal, the dense locale characterized by historically named stone-and-brick buildings, splashes of color everywhere the eye sought splendor. Trellises arched over the entrances and exits to the streets, with plants blooming and flowers intertwined on the iron lace. These were cozy residential lanes, narrow and cobblestoned, in a large city. 

“Now this avenue is mine!” Therese squealed. “This is my street, our street, Rue Saint-Paul!” Therese scooted forward on the front seat, one slim wrist angled for her hand to grasp the dashboard. “It is the prettiest one in all of Montéal! Maybe all of Canada!”

Rue-Saint Paul reveled in its reputation as Montréal’s oldest street– a shopping avenue filled with galleries, boutiques, bookstores, and restaurants, touristy in spots, undeniably picturesque, and enjoyable to wander. The shoreline with its piers, warehouses, and railway lines was a mere stone’s throw away. Rue Saint-Paul acted as a central commercial route. And amidst the lively atmosphere, picturesque residences were nestled beside flower marts, bistrots, brasseries, and boulangeries.

“Yes, my lovely passengers, this avenue is where Księżniczko and our Fairy Godmother, Miss Mary, live when they’re in Montréal.” Ruby’s enthusiasm was as contagious as Therese’s. “And, yours truly, now lives around the corner, thanks to Księżniczko Therese!”

The architecture of Rue Saint-Paul was like that of most of Vieux-Montréal. A new labor force of turn-of-the-century immigrants continued the transformation of the old stone, mortar, and brick buildings into three- and four-story townhouses, divided into three, four, or even five private apartments, accessed through distinctive curving exterior or interior staircases. 

“Here we are! #34 Rue Saint-Paul. My flat,” Therese glanced back at Carol, shrugging her shoulders playfully, and pointed through the windshield at an exquisite building. 

“Mommy! Tress lives in a fairy tale. She is a Princess!” 

And she did, indeed, seem a princess, Carol thought, presently seated next to Therese at École Sainte-Thérèse de Lisieux de Québec. Carol leaned over and bussed Therese on the cheek again. A silly notion crossed her mind, and she chuckled, “Is it a sin to kiss another woman in a convent? I suppose so.” She took another nibble of the pound cake, offering Therese her last bite. 

Yes, the last weeks on Rue Saint-Paul had seemed fairy tale-ish to both Rindy and Carol. Therese was in her stride, the Princess– the Księżniczko, as Ruby Robichek called her– of an enchanted land, more French than France itself. More Lisette than Therese. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Time Lapse

‘Time Lapse’ from the album ‘Ludovico Einaudi: Portrait’
Composed by Ludovico Einaudi
(Angèle Dubeau and La Pietà)

“Trying too hard to manage everything often… Well, Darling, it often triggers a faster downward spiral. I-I- I’ve done that myself.” Carol sat as motionless as Therese on the twin bed, both of them staring straight ahead at the bedroom wall. “We haven’t talked about it. I think you know what I’m referring to… my secret. I thought you would circle back and ask, but you didn’t. We have time now.”

Therese slowly turned her head to face Carol’s profile, which she had set in a rigid but calm determination. She breathed one word, “Rindy?”

“Yes. I must face the fact that I don’t know who my child’s father is. Maybe, John. A long shot, it’s Harge. With Harge, it was a once-and-done. I promise you that. It was a frantic desire to get pregnant with an Aird heir. Save my marriage.” Carol was uncertain what to do. Keep explaining? Let Therese process the truth? 

“Your father… I mean, John. You should refer to him as that– John. You don’t have to claim him as Táta. John must have known Harge wasn’t his. He was not about to entrust a fortune to Sophie Corby.” Carol shrugged, “Anastázie’s daughter– now there’s a dilemma. If Abraham DuBois is the biological father of Therese Aird, then… It’s all rather muddled, isn’t it?” Suddenly, a burst of recognition, a wild speculation finding root within Carol’s soul. “It is so confusing. Maybe that’s why this notion of fantasy, fairy tales, and flights of fancy is so a part of our fabric– Rindy, you, me. We’ve created our own whimsical world. Like Ruby says– Rodzina. Family. You truly are the Księżniczko.”

“It doesn’t matter who her father is, Carol. For some odd reason, I wanted you to tell me. But I realized it was unfair. I held back so many truths from you.” 

“I would have kept your secrets, Therese. Lisette would have remained under lock and key. I hope you believe me.” Carol lightly bumped Therese’s shoulder.

Therese studied Carol, then nodded assent. “Yes. I should have risked everything sooner. Maybe in Pittsburgh. You know, I think all along– somewhere in the back of my head– I somehow worried about this–”

“This? Explain this to me,” Carol tried to modulate her voice, keeping the urgency and fear out of it. “Can you put it in words? If not, don’t–”

To Carol’s surprise, Therese imperceptibly inclined her head and said, “This… This… as in what’s happening to me now? Right now? Such a weird sensation. A collision of sorts, maybe when I began to reveal myself. When I completed Táta’s agenda. When I finished the Plan. Tick. Tick. Tick,” Therese made exaggerated check marks in the air. “Then… Then there was no longer this… this framework on how to live my life. This life. A carefully crafted life. Presently, I seem to be…” When more words failed her, Therese struggled to explain, her fingers moving spastically as she tried to convey her thoughts. “Something has caught me in its web– a time lapse. Parts of my life… parts that I’ve lived, things I remember as evolving slowly, replay in my mind… my brain… much… um, much faster.”

“Huh. I see.” Though Carol was unsure, she understood and gave it a try. “Doesn’t that happen as we age, though. What seemed like an eternity waiting for Santa Claus, now flies by and–… That’s not what you mean, is it, Darling?”

“No,” Therese picked at a thumbnail cuticle. It’s more like… like a projector or a… a time machine. I’m stuck watching rapid, fluid photos of my life slide by in an endless loop. I’ve fallen through time somehow.” Therese clenched her teeth. 

“When you left, all I had was that peaceful moment when I first awakened. The day would seem limitless. I’d sip my coffee, watching the sun rise. There’s hope in that. Then, that last sip of water at night, crawling into bed– safe, guarded, protected by guardian angels. Sinking into the mattress. Cozy. Content.”

Therese grimaced, “But what lies between daybreak and sunset was becoming harder and harder to navigate. Insurmountable tasks like walking to the sink. Fetching the mail. I tried desperately to hide it, but… I thought the change of scenery would help—you and Rindy joining me. And it was wonderful. Refreshing! Stimulating. Until something in me careened out of control. There was no brake to set my foot on.”

“My darling. I had no idea you were suffering so much. You hid it… Even from yourself.  You just kept–”

“Spiraling, no matter how hard I tried to exert complete control. And to think, it fell apart in what I call home– Montréal.”

At the mention of her city, Therese’s fingers slightly grazed Carol’s. “But did you like my home? Be honest, Carol. Could you live here part of the time? It’s a much different life.”
  
“Therese, simply strolling down a street in Vieux-Montréal, one I haven’t discovered before or one I’ve walked ten times, is like entering the pages of a fantastical book… or movie scene! Exploring the city with you and Rindy, Mary March, and even Ruby is beguiling.”

And Carol meant every word she said to Therese. From the moment she had stepped from the foot rung and firmly planted her feet in Montreal at Gare Centrale, Carol felt an emotional pull to this fairy world, as well as a sense of home. The feeling only strengthened as they arrived in Vieux-Montréal. However, when her eyes beheld #34 Rue Saint-Paul, Carol knew for certain. It was a dreamy dejá vu moment, as if the building was from a long-ago vision of what her life could be, should be. She felt in her deepest core, the stone edifice on Rue Saint-Paul, awakening something in her.
 
“Here we are! #34 Rue Saint-Paul. My flat,” Therese had glanced back at Carol, shrugging her shoulders playfully, and pointing through the windshield at a beautiful 4-story, stone building. The bottom floor, a double-height, commercial mixed-use space, emitted a warming glow from chandeliers from the high ceilings– roughly twice the standard height. Even from the car windows, Carol saw the open, luxurious, and grand expanse of two shops, one on either side of a double glass-and-wooden doorway. Just below the retail spaces, but peeking up above the sidewalk level, was a row of pristine double-hung windows. They, too, glowed, no doubt directing light into a basement. 

On one side of the doorway, an artist had stenciled in a vintage script, L'Amour en Fleurs, on two of the almost floor-to-ceiling fenêtre cintrée– arched French windows, rounded at the top. A flower shop! The artist likewise decorated the windows on the other side in a Parisian style, with the inscription Maison du Pain. A boulangerie!

“Mommy! Tress lives in a fairy tale. She is a Princess!”  

“Indeed!” Carol’s eyes swept the exterior. There was a copper sign above the doorway, but a natural green patina had already beautifully transformed it into an everyday work of art. “Château de Rêves,” Carol read aloud, hoping her accent was on point.

“Do you understand the name, Carol?” Mary March asked. “It means Castle of Dreams.” 

“That’s beautiful.”

Therese gestured for Ruby to veer the Renault Juvaquatre to the curb and waved the group to the sidewalk, “C’mon. Step out and see it up close. We named it one night: Mary, Jean-Paul, Ruby, Henri, Joséphine, and I. Mélanie and Florian were there, too. We made a game of it, everyone throwing names out to see if any sounded worthy of such a handsome home and businesses. I loved it so much, I immediately ordered the plaque!”

Ruby blustered through, “Królowa Kier… that’s you, Carol. Remember? Queen of Hearts. Take notice: the clever sobriquet for the residence was all Therese’s idea. Now, we unload the car here so I can pull Jean-Paul’s car into the side alley to park.”

“Well, it suits the old building. It’s a marvelous name for a grand residence. How old is it, Therese?” 

“The records say 1850, so not as old as some in Vieux-Montréal, but it's perfect.”

Above the shops, two floors matched the same architecture, rows of the fenêtre cintré. Five on a floor. Glorious! And then, on closer scrutiny, Carol realized that some were French doors opening to the five, verdigris, Juliet balconies. “They’re gorgeous! The balconies!”

Therese edged beside Carol. “The third and fourth floors have 14-foot ceilings, stone walls, and yes, expansive windows and Juliet balconies, even on the sides.” 

“So which apartment is yours, Therese?” Carol easily slipped a hand through Therese’s arm, held akimbo, pulling her even closer. “I’m excited to see it. Shall we gather the suitcases? Is yours the right, left, or middle one of the third or fourth level? I’m surmising there are more than a few apartments up there.”

“Jean-Paul has most of the third floor. Henri and Joséphine have a smaller flat next to his. Mélanie and Florian live in a cozy apartment behind the flower shop. The… The… um… top floor is where I live. Mine.” Therese was suddenly embarrassed. “The entire top floor and the two,” she made a little circle with her index finger, “greniers, um… French garrets. One garret is my violin room, where I won’t disturb Jean-Paul, Henri, and Joséphine on the third floor. The other is for my neighbors to store items. I told Táta I would take the small apartment behind the flower shop where Mélanie and Florian now live, but…”

“Yes, I can just imagine. I’m surprised John didn’t buy the entire building and–” Carol read Therese’s expression. “Well, damn. He did, didn’t he! Good for you. And, hopefully, he included the property in the Will and Trust?”

“It was there in Táta’s Will, buried under personal considerations and necessities for me. Hidden from Hargie. Concealed from Jennifer. Táta transferred a portion of dividends to Anastázie’s assets to mask it.”

They managed to unload the baggage with the help of Henri and Florian, who rushed out of their shops to greet the group of travelers, Ruby directing, speaking in a jumbled mix of Polish, French, and a handful of English sentences.

“Should we start our ascent to the top floor?” Carol looked up, imagining the stairway to the fourth level. “Okay, then, let’s begin! Rindy, stay close.”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Therese smiled. “It’s several steps. I should know; I’ve counted them when I take them. But good news: there’s a small elevator.” Therese leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “That was a minor repair Táta arranged– the lift. You’ll see.” 

And as with everything at Château de Rêves, the elevator was a work of art. Initially installed in an era later known as the Golden Age of elevator installation, the flowery Art Nouveau cage-style lift was part of the building’s character, like another beloved tenant, not just a functional luxury. Adapted to fit a narrow shaft in the building, the lift transformed the walk-up units into splendid flats– with a bonus! 

After fumbling and juggling people and suitcases, trip after trip in the small elevator, Therese finally opened the door to reveal her home, a European–style residence in the heart of Old Montréal. Like Abby Gerhard’s apartment, it had eye-catching elements: an arched entryway and doorways, and an expansive foyer and hallway. The apartment had a spacious layout, from what Carol could see: the sweeping high ceilings, the hand-finished plaster walls– some with patches of exposed historic stone and brick peeking through, and eastern white pine floors in a chevron pattern, worn to a rich patina. There were also subtle Art Nouveau decorative architectural details: intricate, flowing millwork; artistic ceiling medallions in the living spaces; embossed crown moldings and baseboards; wide wood frames around the doors and windows; and subtly curved wall corners, which highlighted the movement’s focus on fluid forms.

“I adore your home, Darling.” Carol spun around to face Therese, who was watching anxiously. “The soft, muted tones, the touches of color.” Carol’s smile was glowing, full of pride and surprise. “And your furniture! Abby would be jealous! The mix of antique and modern pieces gives it a well-lived-in, well-loved home sensibility. But the pièce de résistance,” Carol stepped to the row of large arched French windows, the wrought iron balconies teasing for a look-see, “are these! You would think we’re in France.”

“Except in the dead of winter,” Mary March laughed. “But we’re lucky. The fireplaces are in working condition.”

Rindy wandered the room, quietly discussing matters with Mister Sprinkles. Finally, she tugged Therese’s sleeve. “I like your castle, Tress! It’s the nicest castle I’ve ever been in. It’s so pretty.” 

Therese bent and kissed the top of her sister’s head. “Thank you, but you and your mommy are giving me too much credit. Carol, really, I didn’t have to do this transformation on my own. Mr Leonard helped me shop for furniture, Mary sorted the fabrics, and Joséphine’s mother has an eye for arranging pieces. Then, Jean-Paul took me on an adventure to seek art. Ruby kept me on track with a list.”

“It’s beautiful. I didn’t know what I expected, but your home here in Montréal is stunning.” Carol sweetly ran a hand down Therese’s arm. “And this Jean-Paul? I hear his name, but will I meet him?”    

“Of course! He’s the art professor, sometimes writer, and food enthusiast who lives on the floor below.” Therese cut her eyes to Mary March and innocently smiled. “Right now he’s–”    

“That’s everything, Księżniczko.” Ruby burst through the door, puffing, and set down one last bag. “My rodzina can relax and have a snack now. And you, Myszko, may have your cheese!”    

“Ruby, you shouldn’t have carried things up here. We were going back down to–”

“Księżniczko, you have guests. Besides, I made Henri and Florian do the lifting and toting. I just walked them through the door,” Ruby boisterously guffawed. 

And within forty-five minutes, the makeshift family had sorted baggage and rooms, prepared a light platter of cheese, bread from the boulangerie on the ground floor, grapes, and fresh vegetables that Ruby had thoughtfully bought from the farmers’ market at daybreak, and poured glasses of Vouvray. It was a modest feast blending camaraderie in the kitchen with a gratifying sense of family and engaging storytelling of Château de Rêves. Unwittingly, they created a page torn from a real-life fairy tale at #34 Rue Saint–Paul in Vieux-Montréal, the breeze gently blowing in through the French windows, the aroma of baking bread and flowers wafting upwards from the shops below. 

Château de Rêves: Therese Belivet Aird’s hideaway… Lisette Freyer’s Castle of Dreams.

And, now, sitting in the attic room with Therese, Carol reflected that maybe, perhaps, that was the last moment of peace for Therese... For all of them. Over the following weeks, the shift within Therese had been subtle and gradual– until it ruptured, leaving her ill-equipped to cope or reach out for help. 

Carol swung her head to gaze at Therese. “Shall we talk about the lead-up to… Well, you know. Ending up here.”

“I… I… Honestly, I… I don’t know what–…” Therese’s hands again went to the velvet pony, an attempt to soothe herself, her fingers lightly skimming the fabric of the loved object.”

“You carried this little treasure with you for years, it seems. Fripon calms you,” Carol said, a statement of fact, not a question. “I imagine he saw you through some serious times. Things children shouldn’t experience… Things no one should.” She tucked her upper lip behind her bottom lip to hide her stress and tension at the thought of such atrocities that war caused.

Therese focused on the pony, the un doudou, so much more than a toy. “Maman’s death. Papá’s death. The bombs in Lisieux. The bombs in Southampton. Therese Aird. Uncle René. I was lonely here as an adolescent. I carried him until… until…” A sigh. “It’s not important.”

“Everything you tell me is important, Therese. Don’t you know I love you? How much I love you.”

“Yes, yes, I think I do. Each day, I understand your love in new ways, Carol. You’re here. For me. Not because of what I can do for you, not for money or security, but simply for Lisette, stripped of her usefulness.”

That last bit hurt Carol’s heart, and she slipped her arm around Therese’s shoulders, kissing her hair. “Okay, your pal, Ruby, thinks it would be beneficial to talk about it– your bolt out of the door. Maybe try to frame it in a context, for yourself, not me. If you can’t, then–”

“I ran because I…” A tiny shrug. Then, Therese organically muscled through, amassing momentum. “I lost control over the narrative of who I was. And that… that created the bigger, underlying dilemma– Who was I? Who am I? To you. To Rindy. To Mary. To… To myself. And once the spiral started, I strained to keep it at bay– the drowning buzzing noise and flashes of light. The harder I tried, the more difficult it became until…” Therese inhaled a seriously long and deep breath. “Then the letter arrived. I should have shown you right then, but I wanted to keep you and Rindy and Mary clean.”

“Clean?” Carol shook her head in bafflement. “That’s an odd choice of words. I’m afraid I don’t know what you–” An ungodly silence ensued while Carol berated herself for not fully comprehending just how intense and serious, how very bottomless Therese’s distress was.

“Untainted. Pure. Morally virtuous. Not contaminated by the lies Táta spun around me.”

“Oh, I see. Okay, Darling, I think I’m beginning to grasp what you’re saying fully.” Therese’s explanation warranted some thought. Finally, Carol narrowed her eyes, seeing the crisis from a different angle– Lisette’s. “Hmm. Yes, the letter was quite problematic. But all is not lost.” Carol picked up one of Therese’s hands, threading her fingers through the brunette’s, Carol’s index finger tracing a little heart on their conjoined hands. “It’s nothing we can’t talk about, Darling. Untangle it. Resolve the situation together… if you’d like. However, first, it might be beneficial for you to… I don’t want to stress you further, but when you fled to Québec City, we were alarmed.” Carol licked her bottom lip, worried about how Therese would respond. 

“I’m sorry. I am.” Therese closed her eyes and squeezed Carol’s hand. “When… When one is planning… When I’m planning, there is an illusion of control. An internal sense of staying on a path. Focused. Observant. And I have planned meticulously over the years: What to say. How to act. When to speak and when to remain silent.

“There’s a cautionary voice in my head reminding me: ‘If you answer this way, then what is the consequence? If you reply that way, will the outcome be different?’ Here, with Sister Penelope, Sister Évangéline, and Sister Hortense, I can mostly be me– a child who roamed the streets of Paris with her grand-mere, one who learned to play the violin from her uncle, and a happy youngster who rode ponies with her father.” 

A thoughtful pause. A painful admission:

“Then… Then, there’s The Plan for Táta’s wealth. But… But… when The Plan finished, when I set it in motion to be directed by a trusted committee, well, that’s when the cracks started. I landed here, and strangely, I’m not sure how.”

And the crevices had breached, breaking through Lisette Freyer’s already fragile defensive boundaries. Delicate hairline fissures at first, splintering minutely, tiny branches, like oozing arteries, seeping outward, feeding on the panic since the return to Montréal. Within days, they splintered further, diverging, then frightfully widening, tearing, and splitting until a deep chasm surrounded the heart and soul of Therese Belivet Aird, leaving her stranded on an island of confusion. Or was it Lisette who experienced the growing chaos and cacophony of sounds? She didn’t know.
 

The initial, tiny inkling Carol had that microscopic chinks were forming came on their first night in Montréal. She’d planned on snuggling with Rindy in the guest room until she and Therese worked through a strategy to sleep together. There were daily and nightly routines that neither of them had completely thought through. Concerns that were bound to arouse Rindy’s inquisitiveness, accompanied by a barrage of questions from the six-year-old. So much as she desired to be in Therese’s room, she dozed beside her sleeping daughter, Mister Sprinkles poking into Carol’s ribcage.

She was floating in a twilight sleep, the window ajar, an open invitation to the spring flowers’ fragrances, when a dreamy phantom brushed her arm. Something– a hand?– loosely covered her mouth to catch any startled noise she’d make. A wispy breath tickled her ear. “Shh. Wake up, Sleepyhead. Rindy’s asleep. Come with me.” 

Carol’s hazy, wine-induced brain tried to make sense of where she was and what heavenly creature was murmuring sweetly in her ear. Were they still on the train? Her arm lifted to feel in the bed for Rindy, but the dream angel caught it in time, tugging lightly.

The honeyed voice sang its siren song again: “Come with me,” promising forbidden desires.

And although fatigued from travel, the heady excitement of #34 Rue Saint-Paul in Old Montréal, drained from new faces surrounding her, and the slight drunkness from late-afternoon bottles of Vouvray, Carol roused herself to pad barefoot through the flat, the siren’s hand extended, the minute glimmer of fingertips somehow causing a well of passion to roil in her erogenous zone. Realization struck that she was wet, her core a puddle of damp craving. 

A hallway. A door. An opening and a closing. A room. Therese’s bedroom.

“Are you finally awake enough for me to kiss?” The siren’s breath was warm on Carol’s skin.

She shook her head, blonde waves mussed and tousled. “My siren. I was dead to the world, then–” Yet, as diminutive and gentle as Therese was, she pushed Carol forcibly against the back of the bedroom door, kissing her mouth in hungry nips and nibbles, her hands with their long, skillful fingers trapping Carol’s breasts, a thigh squeezed between Carol’s legs.

“H-Ha-Hang… on…” smatterings of Therese’s kisses everywhere, “… a… sec-second,” Carol tried to interrupt. A fleeting thought raced across her mind: How unlike Therese to be this bold, so thoroughly out of character. Then, Carol surrendered to the waiting pool of pleasure, returning the kisses and deepening them, grinding and riding her pajama-clad center on Therese’s thigh, the one that rocked steadily beneath the open robe, the brunette nude beneath it. Somehow, Carol was primed and ready to explode at the slightest touch, and when Therese increased the friction, well, that was that. Carol noticeably moaned, head arched, her breath hitching, coasting the waves of a quick– too quick– orgasm. Finally, she caught her breath, blew a puff between sultry, swollen lips, tingling from their kissing session. “Well, that was a sweet midnight surprise, Darling.” She leaned into Therese for another open-mouthed kiss.

“Oh, Carol,” Therese murmured. “I’m not done with you yet.” And Carol was a captive in a series of daring, aggressive, backward steps toward Therese’s bed, Therese’s wandering hands on Carol’s collarbones, guiding, directing. A hand cupped Carol’s center, teasing the pajama fabric touching Carol’s openings. “I want to give you more.” 

“W-Wh-Wha–… Th-Ther–” Carol was a curious mix of yearning and titillation, but also… In the back of her mind, she registered a tickle of concern. But the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, her spine thumping onto the mattress. Before she could make a witty remark about Therese being a fast learner, Carol was flat, her head missing the pillow by inches. 

If Therese’s previous rapid movements unsettled Carol, the following were equally mystifying, though Carol was too far sexually aroused to stop and question tonight’s escapade.  

Therese 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.

When the second orgasm of the nighttime interlude hit, Carol felt propelled into an entirely different universe, stars colliding and bursting into explosions that, somehow, rejuvenated Carol. They rippled outward, taking hold of Therese in their undulations and keeping Therese safe and protecting them both.

“My angel, flung out of space,” Carol murmured.

The morning twilight diffused, surrendering to the last stage of dawn as it began to break. A bleary-eyed Carol shuffled to the kitchen for coffee, clearly relaxed, but hungover on sex. “Ugh,” she poured from the percolator, adding a dash of cream and sugar cubes.

“Are you okay, Carol?”

Mary March’s March’s voice caught her unawares, causing Carol to jolt. “Christ! Ohh, s-sorry, Mary. I thought… I think I’m not quite awake yet, but I need coffee.” She raised her cup in a silly toast. “Cheers to early mornings.” She glanced around the rustic kitchen, traces and accents of French provincial charm everywhere. “Is Therese still asleep?” 

On cue, Therese breezed in, fully clothed, a list of things to do gripped in her hand. “C’mon, Slowpokes. We have places to go and marvelous sights to see this morning!”  Without a breath, she launched into her plan: “There’s the Marché Bonsecours, the big domed building in Vieux-Montréal. Boutiques. Cafes. Some historic buildings. We could buy you a scarf for the, uh,” Therese pointed to Carol’s neck, making a little circular motion with her finger– an obvious hickey.

“Oh, jeez.” Embarrassed, Carol turned her robe collar up. 

“Then, we should step over to Marché du Nord and–” 

“Marché–” Carol struggled to track the conversation– rather, Therese’s hectic, nonstop informative monologue. It seemed as if she was trying out for the job as Ambassador of Montréal.  

“The farmer’s market, of course. It’s mid-spring. The vendors will be out on such a beautiful day. If you’d like, we could–”

Carol looked around for a wall clock. “Okay. Slow down, Therese. It’s barely 6:45– in the morning.”

“No! I know what we should do first! A hike! Now! The Mount Royal Viewpoint Stairs! If we leave around–”

“Therese, take a breath,” Mary cautioned, her eyes flicking to Carol, the two silently communicating a first warning alarm. 

“Oh, just a short… well, moderate trek. It’s only two miles, and… Full confession. I’ve never attempted it, but now might be the perfect time for us. All of us. You, Mary, Rindy–”

“Rindy?” Carol sputtered a dribble of coffee.

“– Ruby. And, me… Of course, me. I want to be there.”

“Therese,” Mary sighed, closing her book. “You know it has a rather steep elevation gain. Uh, over 350 feet. Is that right? I’m not sure.” She glanced at Carol pointedly, “Do you have a spare hour and a half and the calf muscles to endure it, Carol?” She watched the blonde shake her head negatively. “Right. I don’t think Therese does either.”

“But Mary, it’s the Grand Staircase at Mount Royal. Such a popular landmark here,” Therese whined. “Scenic views. A… A refreshing climb up the mountain– or is it really only a hill?– to the Kondiaronk Lookout.” She pivoted to Carol, losing her balance, and sloshing a tsunami of coffee on the table. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. Did that splash you? No? Okay. Okay, but it’s this historic, stone staircase, and Frederick Law Olmsted designed it. You know. Central Park’s Frederick Law Olmsted… that Frederick Law Olmsted. Did I mention he designed Central Park?” There was an odd, long pause, Therese scrutinizing the spilled coffee on the table as if its presence was a confounding mystery. “Is one of the coffee cups leaking? Let me clean that up,” she said, snatching a dish towel from the counter.

Abruptly, Therese stilled, except to tug at her ears, an action that Carol and Mary read as a self-soothing gesture to calm down. “Do you hear that? That humming. Slight, but it’s there.” She pivoted slowly, peeking at suspicious corners of the kitchen, willing herself to find the source of the noise.

“Therese, are you sure you’re… You seem a tad…” Out of character? Wound up? Frenzied? Carol thought back to last night’s lovemaking. Was it a clue to the frenetic morning? Her mouth hung open, troubled. 

“I… I… My ears are humming. Let me… Give me a minute. It’s probably from the train ride. You know how all that jostling can cause… Can’t it? Humming in the ears?” Therese’s eyes shifted from one woman to the other. “Let me rinse them. My ears.”

Carol paused long enough to hear water running in a bathroom before she asked, “Is this the status quo for Montréal, Mary?” 

Anxiously, Mary March smoothed the cover of her book, the embossed leather somehow anchoring her. “Uh. No. No. Not at all.” Mary massaged her forehead, thinking. “Let’s give it a day or so and see if she calms down. It’s the stress. Her plan. The final dealings with the bank and investors. She’s drifting without a buoy or anchor.”

“But the buildup is over. Therese should be relieved, not wound tighter than a tick.”

“Maybe when Jean-Paul returns, he’ll help. He loves Therese. He has a way of settling her–”

That was eye-widening for Carol. The spoon she was using to stir in another lump of sugar clattered against the side of the ceramic cup. “Loves her? Jean-Paul–”

Instantly, Mary’s palms came up, stopping Carol. “That came out wrong. He does love Therese, but like a family member. I meant, Therese reminds Jean-Paul of Audrée– his child. Jean-Paul’s wife, Odette, and their daughter died at the end of the 1930s, before war broke out in Europe. Before Paris fell. They were casualties of the consumption epidemic in parts of France. Tuberculosis. He couldn’t face a life in Paris without them, and so he fled. He’s an art professor; Jean-Paul applied to McGill University, here in Montréal, arriving before Canada drastically cut its quotas when Paris capitulated to the German forces.”

“Annnndddd…” Carol drew the one-syllable word out impossibly long. “I sense there’s perhaps something special between you and this mysterious art professor.” Then Carol pulled up short. “I’m sorry. That’s rude of me.”

“Oh, look at you digging for gossip,” Mary laughed. “Yes. We don’t hide it among our friends or Jean-Paul’s colleagues. John Aird was my first love– girlish, a secret love, an improper love given our different social rankings, and quite unrealistic, but one I nevertheless carried on with too long. Jean-Paul is the sort of man you hope for as a mature woman. And, the back and forth to Rumson, my devotion to Therese… We’ve somehow made it work.

“However…” Mary’s forehead scrunched, a perplexing notion evident on her face. “I don’t know if Jean-Paul sees what he wants, or if Audrée would have really grown up to resemble Therese. Does it matter?” Mary shrugged. “We seek what comforts us.” 

“Oh. So, what Therese has lost in one place, she has, in a sense, replicated in another. Friends. Family. You, a mother figure. This Jean-Paul is more of a true father figure than John Aird could ever be. Would ever be.”

Mary nodded, “I’ll talk to Ruby, too. She’ll know what to do. The woman will–”

“Ruby? The Robichek woman? I don’t understand. She seems friendly enough and clearly adores Therese, but–”

“Ruby emigrated from Poland, Carol. She lost her husband and son during the war. But before that, she had an illustrious career in Warsaw. The woman is a–”

“Musician? I could see her bonding with Therese over music, yet–”

“Carol, Ruby studied at Birkbeck College in London and the famous one in Berlin– I’ve forgotten the name. Universities that valued and educated women. She was a renowned psychologist before the Nazis overran Poland. Don’t let her playful demeanor fool you. She has the heart of a lioness and the instincts of a mother bear.” 

“Ah, so as usual, nothing is as it seems in Therese’s world.” Carol swung her head toward the hallway opening. “Excuse me while I check on her, Mary.” 

But within scant minutes, Carol returned to the kitchen. “Therese. She’s… She’s sound asleep. I don’t know. Maybe this morning was only what she said it was– fatigue from our train ride.”

But, currently, a few months later, Carol realized that, indeed, those were the beginning signs– red flags whipping and flapping in the wind, their snapping sound a further storm’s warning.

“Therese, if I’ve learned anything over the course of our late spring and early summer in Montréal, it’s this: When we believe that we must control everything, we’re assuming responsibility for both the pain and happiness of everyone around us. And, that, Darling, is much too big a burden for any one person to carry.”

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.