Knowing what others think about your work is a wonderful writing tool, one that fuels you with the encouragement and inspiration you need to keep going. Before presenting the final two installments of
All Tomorrow's Parties, I just want to thank all of you for your continuous interest and wonderful feedback this past week. Your words really mean a lot to me, and I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
~
Chapter Eight
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The[/i] hour of midnight had come and gone when Esmé found herself standing on the veranda with her sister, father, and stepmother. After a long talk with Felicia and some cajoling from Holden, Estelle’s anger toward Esmé was no longer an issue. Estelle had even smiled at her while coming to the doors with Holden and Beatrice to bid their guests farewell.
The two Salinger sisters smiled contentedly at one another. While Holden’s hands rested on the shoulders of his youngest daughter, Estelle held those of Esmé. Not to keep her from running away, Esmé concluded, but as a way to protect her.
She loves me, Esmé thought, as she gazed up into her stepmother’s stern but caring face.
Maybe not the same way my own mommy does, but enough to not let anything bad happen to me.Loud voices filled the formally still air as Don Abramo Casanova and Maxwell Squalor stepped out onto the porch. Mr. Squalor laughed as Don Abramo slapped him heartily on the back. “You certainly aren’t in any state to drive tonight, are you, old man?” Don Abramo joked. “What do you say you let my driver escort you and your family home? After all, we can’t have San Francisco’s most successful stockbroker skidding all over the expressway because of a few too many drinks now, can we?”
Esmé was amazed to see just how strong the resemblance between Carlo and his father was. Both were strikingly handsome and had the same olive complexions. The only real difference between them was in their hair. While Carlo favored his mother’s dark hair, it was Caterina who had evidently inherited their father’s blond locks. For his hair had more of a gold than a silver tint to it. Don Abramo’s hair was cut very short on the bottom and rather long on top, so that a few strands escaped and fell into his hazel eyes. He was tall and powerful-looking, with broad shoulders that seemed to bulge beneath his red suit. Like his son, Don Abramo also wore a white tie with a pattern of red hearts. Embroidered fancily in white thread over the pocket of his sports jacket was a large ‘K’.
Mr. Squalor looked disheveled in his open-collared shirt and loosened tie. His navy blue sports jacket was unbuttoned and slightly rumpled. His dark brown hair—which had been carefully styled when he’d first arrived—was now tousled. His handsome face was streaked with sweat and his green eyes were bloodshot. He appeared to have a difficult time keeping his balance, nearly stumbling before Don Abramo’s arm tightened around him.
Trailing silently behind the two men in a pair of black pumps was a woman Esmé assumed must be Jerome’s mother. The reason Esmé drew upon this conclusion was because Jerome was with her, escorting her by the hand across the porch. The woman was pretty but far too thin, as if her nerves and confidence were constantly on edge. Her fair brown hair was styled in a French braid that wound its way across the top of her head. It was impossible to tell the color of her eyes, for they were cast downwards in the wake of her husband’s drunkenness. Her simple black gown, with its modest neckline and sleeveless cut, was knee length and hit each one of her delicate curves. Around her small shoulders she wore a matching lace shawl.
As the foursome began to make their way across the veranda toward the Salingers, the eyes of Esmé and Jerome instantly locked. She smiled sweetly at him, and he at her, then shut his mouth as if to hide his slight overbite. Esmé couldn’t wait, and found herself reaching for Jerome’s hand before the group had even reached her.
Once they had, Jerome caught Esmé’s hand in his, holding it tightly as he spoke. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to see each other again after what happened with Carlotta. I wanted to come looking for you, really I did, but my parents wouldn’t let me to leave the house. They were afraid I’d get lost.”
“That’s O.K. I was way out in the gardens, anyway. Unless you’ve explored them a thousand times before, you never would’ve been able to find me.”
“My daddy’s sick, and my mommy hates to drive in the dark, so Carlo’s parents are gonna take us back to our hotel.” Jerome blushed, and glanced up at the woman whose hand he continued to clutch. Following his gaze, Esmé saw that the eyes of the woman—who was now smiling kindly down at her—were blue. His eyes once more resting on Esmé, Jerome asked, “Will you walk with us back to the limo? Carlotta will be there, and I’m…well…” Jerome bit his lower lip anxiously as he squeezed Esmé’s hand. “Afraid she’ll want to kiss me again. But if you’re there, I think maybe she won’t try.”
“Sure.” Esmé nodded her head eagerly (
too eagerly, as Beatrice would later inform her). “You bet.”
Jerome’s face lit up with relief. “Thanks.”
“Thank you both for having us,” the woman Esmé now knew for a fact was Mrs. Squalor said to Holden and Estelle. “I hope my husband didn’t cause too much of a scene.”
“It was our pleasure, Cora,” replied Estelle. “And please, don’t fret too much over Maxwell. The important thing is that the three of you make it back to your hotel safely.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Holden said, “your son made quite the impression on my eldest daughter this evening.”
“Yes…although from what I was told, it was the other way around.”
“Well,” Estelle said, and Esmé felt her stepmother’s hand squeeze her right shoulder slightly, “as long as Esmé promises to behave herself, I see no reason why our two children shouldn’t see more of each other. Wouldn’t you agree, Holden?”
Fingering his necktie, Holden Salinger cleared his throat and then turned to smile in approval at his wife. “Absolutely.” He didn’t add that this was the first decision Estelle had made that truly benefitted Esmé. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he looked away quickly before anyone could notice.
“That was certainly one hell of a party, Holden,” Don Abramo said, giving Holden a hearty handshake and then leaning forward to kiss Estelle on the cheek. She grimaced at what she considered a much too intimate gesture from someone who was not her husband, but said nothing. “I was expecting one of those oppressive social gatherings in which everyone just stands around for hours, discussing politics and the stock market. But you’ve proven me wrong!” He let out a vigorous, booming laugh that seemed to shake the entire porch.
“Thank you,” Holden said. “But really, it’s my wife who deserves all the credit. After all, it was
she who organized this event in record time.”
Don Abramo surveyed Estelle for what Esmé felt was an unnervingly long time. “I must say, Holden: You certainly hit the jackpot when you married Estelle.” He roared, prior to heading for the stairs with his arm still wrapped around the unsteady Mr. Squalor. “The jackpot,” he chuckled, shaking his head. Once the two men were out of earshot, Esmé heard her stepmother mutter, “I don’t think Maxwell Squalor is the only person who had a bit too much to drink this evening.”
“Thank you both again for your lovely hospitality,” said Mrs. Squalor, her warm smile causing the tension to flood completely out of Estelle’s face. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning with Jerome to pick up my husband’s car. How does ten o’clock sound?”
“It sounds just fine,” Holden assured her. “We look forward to seeing you. Goodnight, Cora.”
As Mrs. Squalor and her son followed her husband and Don Abramo, Estelle released her grip on Esmé’s shoulders. Snatching Beatrice by the hand (for the two sisters did
everything together), Esmé sprinted across the porch with her sister after Jerome and the three adults.
Once Esmé and Beatrice had caught up, Esmé—whose hand was still holding securely to her sister’s—took Jerome’s hand. His mother said nothing, merely smiling as the three children pranced on ahead down the cobblestone path toward the driveway.
Felicia—who had retrieved the key to the limousine earlier from her husband—was just shutting the back door of the automobile when the children arrived. Carlo, whose seat faced the mansion, smiled sweetly through the open window at Esmé, as she halted before the limo with Jerome and Beatrice. “Hi, Esmé.”
Esmé flushed upon hearing Carlo speak her name. “Hello, Carlo.”
“Hi, Esmé!”
The second voice that echoed from inside the limousine was unmistakable. A spark of white fabric, followed by a flash of silvery hair, and the angelic face of Caterina appeared beside Carlo’s in the window. She was waving madly, as if doing so would ensure her desire of being noticed, even though Esmé’s eyes met hers instantly.
“Hello, Caterina,” Esmé said with a smile. “Have you met my sister, Beatrice, and my friend, Jerome Squalor?”
“Hello, Esmé’s sister! Hello, Jerome!” Caterina waved just as energetically to them as she had to Esmé.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Caterina,” Beatrice said. “How old are you?”
“I’m four! I’m gonna be five next month!” Caterina reached through the window and proudly displayed all five fingers on her left hand. “My mommy and daddy promised I could have any party I wanted for my birthday. Do you know what kind of party I’m gonna have?”
“What kind?” asked Esmé.
“A tea party!” Caterina spread her arms wide in her excitement, nearly striking Carlo in the face with her small hand. “Will you come?”
“Sure.” Esmé looked from Beatrice to Jerome, then again at Caterina. “As long as Beatrice and Jerome are invited, too.”
Presently, Esmé felt a gentle hand cover her shoulder. She, Beatrice, and Jerome all raised their heads to see Felicia Casanova smiling down at them. “I’ve already spoken with your parents,” Felicia said. “You and your parents are all invited to come celebrate Caterina’s birthday with us on May 21st. She just wanted to deliver the invitation to you herself.”
With a shy giggle, Caterina peered from over the rim of the window at the three elder children in such a way that only her forehead and large brown eyes could be seen.
“We’ll be there,” Esmé assured her. “You can count on it.”
“Caterina!” came an all too familiar voice from somewhere inside the limousine. Jerome cringed in fear. “Get
off me, will you? You’re hurting me!”
As Caterina appeared to topple backwards and disappear (or was she pulled?), Carlo craned his neck around. “Oh, quit whining, Carlotta! If you were really that uncomfortable, you wouldn’t have waited until now to say something.”
“My leg’s asleep!” Carlotta whined. “And Caterina’s getting too big to sit in the middle.”
“She’s smaller than
you.”“What’s
that supposed to mean?”
“What do you
think it means?”
“MA-MEEE! Carlo’s picking on me!”
“The both of you,” Felicia said in a stern voice that Esmé had difficulty believing was the same one that had spoken so kindly to her back in the gardens, “stop your ridiculous squabbling this instant, before your father sees you.”
“But Mommy,” Carlotta persisted. “Carlo, he…he—”
“Enough, Carlotta, or no ice-cream for a week.”
“That sounds more like you’re saving her life than punishing h—ow! Momma! Carlotta just hit me with her shoe!”
“It wasn’t
my shoe! It was Caterina’s! And I didn’t hit you with it! It just slipped out of my hand, that’s all.”
“Oh, right! Like it sprouted wings and flew into my face before you could catch it!”
“I’m going to tell each of you one final time,” said Felicia, whom Esmé was quickly learning could be threatening even in the most delicate of conditions. “Keep all hands and feet to yourselves, don’t say a word to one another, and remain still. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Carlotta said.
“Yes, Momma,” Carlo agreed.
“What about me, Mommy?” asked Caterina.
“No, dear. You aren’t being punished.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I didn’t do anything wrong, right?”
“Right.”
Esmé pretended to be examining the wheels on the limousine so that the two eldest Casanova siblings wouldn’t see her smiling.
“What’s going on here, Felicia?”
The Salinger sisters and Jerome all spun to see the approaching figures of Don Abramo Casanova and Mr. Squalor. Trailing slowly behind them was Mrs. Squalor, whose eyes were once more directed at the ground.
“Oh, nothing, Abramo. Carlo and Carlotta were just having their typical daily quarrel. But I’ve taken care of it.”
Leaving Maxwell in the care of Cora Squalor, Don Abramo strode toward the limousine. “As is your forte,
la mia fidanzata.” Capturing his wife’s delicate hand in his own broad one, Don Abramo took equal care with his other in pulling back the bell sleeve of her gown. Raising her hand to his lips—which were full and magnificently shaped—he began an assortment of slow, seductive kisses. The kisses lasted for several moments each, beginning at her knuckles and ending at her elbows. The result of such unguarded affections left almost everyone in the presence of Don Abramo and his wife scarlet-faced. This included Jerome, who blushed as easily as a love-struck schoolgirl, and his father, due to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed that evening. Even Carlo, who sat peering through the window of the limousine, was in eminent awe. Esmé could tell from the expression of admiration on his face that he was no stranger to the tender demonstrations of love conducted by his parents. The only ones not affected were his sisters, who were paying no attention to anything that occurred beyond the limousine’s Corinthian upholstery.
Don Abramo moved forward to open the second passenger door in front of the one behind which his son sat. Before allowing her husband to escort her inside the limousine, Felicia smiled benevolently down at Esmé, Jerome and Beatrice. “Well, children,” Felicia said, her once ashen face now a conspicuous crimson, “I’m afraid the time has come for us to say goodbye. But never fear; for we’ll be seeing one another again very soon.”
“Come along, Felicia,” Don Abramo ordered kindly, his arm resting on top of the open door, “you’ve had enough excitement to last you at least a week.”
Placing one hand over her stomach, Felicia turned toward her husband, letting him guide her by the other into the limousine. He waited until she was safely tucked away inside before climbing in beside her. Before he slammed the door behind them, Felicia smiled one final time at the children from the far end of the limousine.
“I’d better go, too.” Jerome’s voice was repentant, as he watched his mother struggle to support his mostly unconscious father.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, though,” Esmé asked, “won’t I?”
“Oh, yes!” Jerome’s face brightened immediately at the reminder.
“You two are seeing each other
tomorrow?” inquired Carlo. He sounded surprised and, from what Esmé could tell, a little jealous.
“Yes,” she replied. “Jerome and his mother are coming by tomorrow to pick up his father’s car.”
“Oh.” Slipping his head back inside the window, Esmé heard Carlo say, “Papa, I think I left my watch-chain inside the Salingers’ parlor, but I’m too tired to go and get it. Can I come back tomorrow instead and look for it?”
“Your mother and I are taking the limousine and going shopping for the baby’s nursery tomorrow,” Don Abramo replied.
“Then can I take a taxi?”
“Absolutely not. No twelve-year-old son of mine is going to travel unescorted halfway across town. I’ll call Mr. Salinger in the morning and ask him to mail you the watch-chain.”
Esmé watched Carlo cross his arms over his chest and pout, just before Mr. and Mrs. Squalor circled the limousine. “Jerome,” his mother called softly, “will you get the door for your father, please?”
“Yes, Mommy!”
Before going to join his parents, the formerly timid Jerome threw his arms amorously around Esmé. She blushed as she had when Carlo had kissed her hand, and when she’d witnessed the affections between Mr. Casanova and his wife. Lifting her two, small arms, Esmé hugged Jerome back, squeezing him as she did her teddy bear every night.
Eventually Esmé and Beatrice found themselves standing before the opposite side of the limousine, watching Jerome get in. Carlo, who had switched places with Carlotta in order to see Esmé one last time before the windows rolled up, joined Jerome in a smile for the two sisters. The four children waved goodbye, not stopping until the tinted blue windows had separated them. The engine began to purr, and soon enough the limousine had begun its descent down the long, spiraling driveway to the front gates. The gates sprang open, and Esmé and Beatrice watched the limousine go forth and fade into the night.
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Epilogue
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It[/i] had been half an hour since Esmé Salinger had bid a temporary farewell to Carlo Casanova and Jerome Squalor. In that time, she and Beatrice had said goodnight to their mothers and father, washed their faces, brushed their teeth, and changed into their pajamas. Now, they were laying snugly in the comfort of their respective beds. Quietly they watched the glow from the nightlight that Beatrice insisted she couldn’t sleep without, as it illuminated the shadows of the branches from the trees outside the window. Esmé was just starting to feel herself grow drowsy, when Beatrice’s voice penetrated the darkness:
“So, who do you like better?”
“What?” Esmé turned her head over on the pillow to watch Beatrice prop herself up on one elbow to meet her sister’s eyes.
“Is it Carlo you like best, or Jerome?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters
lots! So, tell me: Who’s your favorite?”
For a moment, Esmé said nothing. Alternatively, she folded her hands together behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. When she did speak, it was a mere, single word—one which received a conventional sigh of disapproval from Beatrice. “Neither.”
“Neither! How can you like neither?”
“I like
both of them. Not any more and not any less than the other. But the
same.”“Oh.” A brief silence lingered, before Beatrice said, “Sort of like how Daddy loves your mommy and my mommy the same, huh?”
There was no need for Esmé to reply to Beatrice’s question. For the quietness that ensued was more than answer enough.
When Beatrice spoke again, Esmé found herself being jolted away from the boundaries of sleep. “Esmé?”
“Hm?”
“Will there be other parties? Not just Caterina Casanova’s birthday party, but parties like the one we went to tonight?”
“There will be
lots of parties, Beatrice,” Esmé replied sleepily. “Lots and lots and lots.” She yawned. “So don’t worry.”
“What kinds of parties will there be?”
“All kinds.”
“Costume parties?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Oh, goody! I’ve always wanted to go to a party where you get to dress up. Costume parties are almost like Halloween, except without the trick-or-treating. When we go to a costume party, I’m gonna dress up as a dragonfly. What will you dress up as?”
“Mm…a peacock, probably…”
“With feathers and things?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Esmé?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Goodnight, Esmé.”
“‘Night, Beatrice.”
Esmé fell into a deep sleep almost from the moment the last word had rolled off her tongue. Not long after that her mind began to coast along, and soon enough was filling with visions of all tomorrow’s parties.
~The End~
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