|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 19, 2009 15:47:01 GMT -5
“Where’s Daddy?” Faust asked finally, her eyes focused on her worn-out pink sneakers.
“He went downstairs to find Mrs. Baudelaire,” Colette replied.
“You mean the lady with the glasses and red hair?”
Colette nodded.
“Is Daddy… mad at me?” Faust said.
Colette sighed, and looked down at her small daughter. Faust had recently begun the habit of biting her nails, and it was proving almost impossible to get her to stop. Colette had spoken to Esmé about it, and the financial advisor had suggested giving Faust a pair of oven mitts. It had been a joke, of course, and afterward Esmé had assured Colette that Faust would grow out of it. Colette didn’t like to watch her daughter’s nails— which had once been so perfect that strangers had actually commented on them —wear down to the nub like an old tire. Especially when they began to bleed, which had happened on several occasions.
“Faust, darling,” Colette said, and reached over to draw the girl’s hand away from her mouth. “Stop it at once.”
Colette didn’t expect Faust was even aware of what she was doing, and the girl’s eyes met her mother’s instantly. “Sorry, Mommy.”
“When your father gets back, I want you to apologize to him. I know you didn’t mean what you said, but he was very hurt by it. I think it would mean a lot to him if you apologized.”
Faust frowned, as if she didn’t care much for the idea. “But—” she started, and then saw the look her mother was giving her. Both of Faust’s parents had tempers— that much was obvious —and in many ways she had inherited those tempers. She felt badly about the way she’d spoken to her father, but apologizing was a very big step… one she wasn’t sure she was willing to take, regardless of the outcome.
“Please, Faustine,” Colette said, and stroked back her daughter’s limp curls. “For me.”
Faust sighed, and looked down at her hands. The tips of her fingers were a painful-looking pink from where her nails had been, and she sighed. “O.K.,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll apologize to Daddy.”
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 19, 2009 16:00:29 GMT -5
Colette smiled happily, and gave her daughter another kiss on her pale forehead. "Good girl," she said, and then wrapped her arms around little Faust to give her an affectionate squeeze.
~
Finding Fiona was a little more difficult that Fernald Widdershins had imagined. So far he'd encountered Violet Baudelaire and Kit Snicket, who had nodded politely to him, and then he had managed to find Klaus Baudelaire, who seemed to have little idea of his wife's whereabouts, and then he had once again stumbled across the three teenagers who had lured little Faust back to the pond.
"Mr Widdershins," said Emma as she saw him. Beatrice and Sunny did not, he supposed, know him quite well enough to comment on his red eyes and the way he had behaved before, but Emma had known him for over a year now. "We didn't know you'd said to Faust not to go near the pond, and we were all with her so she didn't fall in again."
"I know," he replied simply.
"And she didn't fall in."
"I know," he replied, willing himself not to grow angry at Emma. She was such a nice girl, and besides that she was Esmé's daughter, and that would cause Hell for him with Colette.
"So don't be too angry with her," Emma said, before Beatrice coughed and dragged her away to some new adventure.
But Fernald wasn't angry with Faust. He was angry with himself for ruining her fun. He couldn't deny that taking risks was no longer his thing, and he'd been seemingly punished every time he'd taken one before in his life. He looked miserably down at his hooks. He supposed he couldn't stop Faust from taking her own risks just because of the price he'd paid for his.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 19, 2009 19:07:12 GMT -5
“Fernald?”
The sound of the voice caused the hook-handed man to turn around, and he smiled at the sight of his younger sister. He was still getting used to the fact that she had dyed her hair red, as he had never stopped picturing her with a head of dark brown hair similar to his. But their faces and eyes were very much the same, and he smiled in spite of himself.
“Klaus said you were looking for me,” Fiona informed. “Is everything alright?”
Fernald nodded. “Everything is fine,” he said, though his face betrayed the fact that things were far from fine. “I just wanted to see you.”
Fiona smiled. “Well, here I am.”
Fernald couldn’t help but grin a little at that, as he put his arm around her like he had done so many times when she was still a child. She was too big now to scoop up and set on his shoulder the way he was able to do with Faust. But she was still the same Fiona, regardless of how much she had changed.
“Shall we go into the lobby and sit down?” Fiona suggested. “Or would you prefer to take a walk outside?”
“I just came back in,” Fernald explained.
Fiona peered closer to his face, and her eyebrows raised. “You look troubled. Did something happen?”
The fact that someone had pointed this out only made the lump in Fernald’s throat mount, and he turned away before Fiona could spot the tears in his eyes.
“Fernald…” she said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Fiona,” he asked. “Has someone you loved ever told you that they hated you?”
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 20, 2009 12:23:09 GMT -5
Fiona couldn't remember a time that they had, but she only had to think back to the look on Klaus's face that day he felt she'd betrayed him, and she understood exactly how her estranged older brother was feeling.
"No," she said unhelpfully, and Fernald's shoulders slumped a little more in defeat. His dark eyes--so similar to her own--were a little pink, and rather than question him about what had happened, she wrapped her arms around him comfortingly. She could still remember a time when she was small enough that she wouldn't have been able to reach up to rest her chin on his shoulder like she could now.
"What is it that's upset you?" she asked, though of course she had already figured that out. It was quite obvious that either his daughter or his wife--neither of whom she had gotten to know yet particularly well--had lost their temper with him, and the hook-handed man had been left feeling a little dejected on the back of their announcement.
Fernald rubbed his eyes with the rounded edge of one hook. "It was my own fault," he said. "I went over and embarrassed Faust in front of her friends."
"But it's still not pleasant to hear her say she hates you," Fiona finished, and then leaned in to give the brother she hadn't seen in so long a kind kiss on his cheek.
Fernald wouldn't ever have admitted it, but he wasn't sure if he was more upset about the way Faust had spoken to him or the memories her words had brought back for him. He knew all too well of course that the Widdershins and the Squalors were all friends now, even if Esmé and Colette did seem to have their sisterly arguments sometimes, and that it was really about time he got used to the way Esmé had been forced to treat him and move on from it. But it only took a little thing to bring it all back to him. It had been such a painful time of his life that maybe it was only natural he couldn't forget it.
She'd never looked quite the same without her beautiful black hair.
He snapped himself out of it. He was convinced, as usual, that he was being painfully foolish--he wasn't someone who often allowed himself to fall particularly deep into emotional ponderings--and he quickly put all his thoughts to the back of his mind.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 20, 2009 12:46:12 GMT -5
Colette had just finished drying Faust’s tears when there came a knock at the door of the Widdershins’ suite. Colette took one look at the door before her eyes settled back on the slightly sticky face of her daughter.
“That’s probably your father,” she said. “Stay here while I go let him in.”
Faust said nothing, but slid her hands into her trouser pockets so that she wouldn’t bite her nails. Her tension was still riding high, especially now that her father had returned. After having some time to mull over in her mind what she had said to him, she felt terribly at fault. The fact that so many of the children at school teased her on a daily basis was a constant reminder that words did indeed hurt. Deep down, she knew she was no less responsible than the children who hurt her feelings.
The door creaked open, and Faust glanced up. Standing there in the hallway was her father, along with the woman with the funny glasses.
“Fernald,” Colette said, and curled her long arms around him. “Are you alright?”
Hugging her back, Fernald nodded. “I’m fine now,” he assured his wife. “Where’s Faust?”
Colette nodded in the direction of the king-sized bed.
“Faust,” she asked. “Is there something you’d like to tell your father?”
Rising from the edge of the bed, Faust walked slowly over to the adults. Her head was lowered, and she could hardly bear to look her father in the eye after the way she’d spoken to him. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry for what I said b’fore. I didn’t mean it.”
Fernald felt his eyes fill with tears at the utterance of his daughter’s apology. When Faust looked up and saw that her father was crying, she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. She was so tiny that she stood just a fraction below his hips, and he scooped her easily up into his arms so that they could hug each other properly.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 20, 2009 14:14:58 GMT -5
Fiona and Colette were not well acquainted, but in that moment they discovered they had something in common. They both caught each other's eye as they were smiling delightedly at the scene before them, and it made them both like the other a little bit more.
"Do you forgive me?" Faust asked, wiping her tears with her tiny fist. Fernald chuckled, and ruffled his daughter's messy dark blonde hair.
"Of course," he said, and she smiled down happily at him. "Do you forgive me, Faust?"
His daughter nodded, and then her father set her on her feet again and gave her a kiss on her forehead just as her mother had done.
"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," the hook-handed man said sincerely. "And I'm glad you can forgive me for it. I'm sure if you found Beatreic, Emma and Sunny now and told them that your father was just being silly, they wouldn't think anything more of it."
Faust nodded excitedly, hoping that his words would ring true, even if maybe the credibility she'd lost with the teenagers was probably irreplacable. "I'm sorry I said I hated you, Daddy," she repeated, picking up a thin jacket and fastening it around her before skipping happily towards the door. "I didn't mean it!"
Fiona caught the door before Faust shut it behind her, and, knowing that they had solved the problem her brother had faced her with, waved to him and Colette before returning downstairs herself.
Before Fernald could possibly comment on what had happened, Colette had started to laugh. His eyebrows raised, and then she threw herself into his arms with a grin.
"You are so sweet," she said, and ruffled his hair affectionately as if he was only Faust's age. Then her smile evened out and turned down into a little frown. "But you were very upset after what Faust said, weren't you? You know she didn't mean it."
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 20, 2009 15:48:44 GMT -5
“I know that, ‘Lette,” Fernald said, as the pair took a seat on the edge of the bed. How could he tell his wife what he was really thinking? How on some nights when he couldn’t sleep from worrying about how they were going to pay the bills, he spent countless hours thinking of Esmé and what may have been? He knew it was an inappropriate contemplation to have, but he couldn’t help it, either. “What?” Colette asked. “What are you thinking of?” “Nothing,” the hook-handed man said. “Please, Colette. “Let’s leave it at that.” Colette always knew when not to press Fernald for answers he wasn’t willing to give. He had a temper as fiery as hers, and she of all people understood what that was like. Rather than provoke him, she simply coiled her long arms around his and laid her head on his shoulder. *** “Darling, no matter how much powder you apply your nose is still going to stay the same shade it’s been since this morning.” For the past ten minutes, Esmé had stubbornly insisted on covering the pinkish tint of her nose with facial powder. But so far, all it had done was cause her eyes to water and her nose to run. Her cold had forced her nose to become incredibly sensitive, and she raised her hand to her face as she felt a sneeze coming on. Jerome couldn’t keep the smile from his lips as his wife squeaked twice into her hand. “Perhaps you’re right,” Esmé sighed from her place in bed. She was bundled up in her pink bathrobe, while her loyal husband sat staring back at her from the foot of the bed. “What’s the point, anyway? I’m going to look dreadful no matter what I do.” Jerome reached down and tickled Esmé’s foot through the blanket. She responded with a high-pitched shriek, before kicking her foot through the blanket. He seized her foot between his hands, and then lowered his head to kiss each of her toes. “You’re so weird,” Esmé teased, pressing her big toe against the tip her husband’s nose.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 21, 2009 11:11:27 GMT -5
"Hey!" Faust cried, and jogged over to the three older girls, who had been wandering near the edge of the lake. She swore she saw Emma sigh, as if the return of Faust was really going to cramp her style, but the un-observant eleven-year-old convinced herself that she'd been mistaken.
"Hello, Faust!" said Beatrice. The four girls couldn't know it, of course, but she effortlessly had the same warmth and good humour as her namesake. "Did you speak to you father? I'm sorry if we upset him."
Faust shrugged. "I don't think he was too angry," she said honestly. Her father had never flown into a rage at her ever before, perhaps afraid of his own temper, but she'd seen it happen once, and she knew she had never done anything to make him that angry, let alone simply hovering near the edge of a pond.
~
"I was thinking," Esmé said. "That maybe because I'm feeling a little better, I might go downstairs just for a little while later. It's been warm all day, and so it probably won't be too cold out in the evening. I just feel like some fresh air."
Jerome didn't look like he approved much of the idea. "Well, only after you've seen the doctor," he said, after a moment's deliberation. He hated to sound like he was keeping her from doing what she wanted, but it was for her best interests that if she was too ill that she should refrain from taking a walk around the Hotel's courtyard that evening.
His wife nodded, and then turned back toward the mirror and examined her nose critically. "I'm going to have to do something about my nose," she said, and reached once again for the powder. Jerome merely rolled his eyes: his wife would never stop trying to make herself look perfect, even if she had the worst cold known to man. There was simply no use in trying to stop her.
Jerome coughed, and wondered if bringing up what was bothering him would really help much. "Darling," he said, a little more confident now that she seemed to be able to sit up without too many serious consequences. He would have felt guilty for asking the question if she was really too ill to answer it. "I want to talk to you....about James Fitzgerald."
He saw his wife's brow furrow in the mirror before she turned around to actually look at him. "Why?" she asked confusedly, and lifted a hand to her nose as if to rub it, before realizing that doing so would ruin all the work she'd been trying to do to improve it's appearance.
Jerome swallowed. "Do you think it's a good idea to introduce him to Emma?" he babbled. He knew she would think he was being unbearably foolish, but he had to voice his concerns. They hadn't really discussed what the consequences of introducing the man who had once broken Esmé's mother's legs in a jealous rage might involve. He knew James Fitzgerald was old now, but he still felt a little uneasy about allowing his treasured wife and daughter to associate with a man who had the ability to do something so terrible.
"...Why wouldn't it be?" Esmé asked. She often failed to understand that her husband perhaps did not believe in reformation as much as he had done with her. She couldn't understand that his choice to forgive her had really had nothing to do with the fact that she had changed, but more to do with the fact that he'd loved her, and there was no use trying to convince himself otherwise. It was for that reason that he often proved more difficult to convince when dealing with others who might have had a past similar to his wife's--just like he had taken a little while to get used to Fernald Widdershins.
"Well--" Jerome coughed. "Well, Esmé, you told me about what happened between him and your mother. How do you know he isn't still just as violent as he once was?"
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 21, 2009 12:39:43 GMT -5
“Because he’s— he must be in his seventies by now,” Esmé reminded her husband. “People that age don’t usually have the ability to be violent. Besides,” she added calmly. “You and I will be there the entire time. Nothing is going to happen to Emma, or to any of us. So don’t worry, honey.” Jerome had always liked it when Esmé called him ‘honey’, which she had only begun doing after she’d come back into his life. It made him feel special, and he blushed deeply from the sentiment alone. “I understand that you’re worried,” Esmé went on as she shut her compact and set it down on the nightstand. “I am, too. As nice as Mr. Fitzgerald seemed the other day, no one can change what he did to my mother all those years ago. I don’t know him well enough to form a detailed opinion of him, but there’s no denying that he was once very much the person Olaf was. “That’s why I love you the way I do, Jerome. Because you’ve never raised your hand to me, even when I’ve been at my most unbearable. You’re always so patient and kind, and you love me in a way that no man since—” Esmé paused, realizing the name she had been about to say. She still wasn’t sure what Jerome’s feelings regarding her relationship with Fernald Widdershins were, as Jerome had never really told her. Even so, she didn’t think she wanted to find out. “Well, no man ever has,” Esmé finished, and then nuzzled Jerome’s cheek affectionately. She hoped he hadn’t caught on. But just in case, she wrapped her arms around him as best she could and whispered in his ear: “I love you.” *** Emma, Faust, Beatrice and Sunny were still outdoors when they saw a vehicle emerging up from the road. The three older girls were sitting underneath the tree from which Faust had been swinging earlier. Not surprisingly, Faust had gone right back to dangling from its branches— this time with the use of her hands rather than her legs. “Who’s that?” Emma asked, squinting at the unfamiliar vehicle. “That’s Dr. Rockwell’s car,” Sunny said. Emma leapt up. “I’d better go tell my parents that he’s arrived.” “I’ll go with you,” Faust offered. “You stay here with Beatrice and Sunny,” Emma told her. Before Faust had a chance to climb down from the tree, Emma was off and running back toward the hotel.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 21, 2009 15:19:23 GMT -5
Faust frowned a little, but she was slowly warming to Beatrice and Sunny. Beatrice had not been anything but kind to her, even though Faust thought she probably hadn't acted the same towards her to begin with, and Sunny, though quiet, was pleasant and happy. There were worse people to be left in the company of.
Faust watched Dr Rockwell climb out of his black car, and even she thought Mrs Squalor might not take too well to him. He was much younger than Faust's family doctor, or the Squalor's, and he looked very stern and cross as he marched across the courtyard and through the doors of the Hotel Denouement.
"Don't worry," said Beatrice, chuckling at Faust's face. She was dangling upside down from the tree, but Beatrice could still see the curve of the littler girl's frown. "I promise he's nicer than he looks."
~
Jerome Squalor had pretended not to notice his wife's mistake, but really he couldn't have avoided it. He'd never spoken to her too much before about Fernald Widdershins, only about mundane things like whether Fernald was going to be able to use the silverware they were planning on providing for any given dinner. They had never ever discussed whether Esmé still had feelings for Fernald, or vice-versa, but it had been a sort of silent assumption that everyone made that the feelings they might once have had no longer existed. Jerome supposed it wasn't helping him much that he felt so utterly inferior to Fernald Widdershins at that moment, and so he decided to hold his tongue.
Before Esmé could ask him why his smile looked so tight and strained, a sharp knock interrupted them, and their daughter's voice called to them through the wood.
"Mother!" she hissed. "Jerome! Dr Rockwell is downstairs."
But as Jerome opened the door for his daughter, behind Emma loomed a figure he didn't recognize. The man was tall--a few inches taller than Jerome himself--and he had black hair and a stern looking face. He held a black case in one of his strong hands, and he looked very moody, as if being called out on the weekend was the last thing he'd wanted.
Emma jumped when she realized he had been behind her, but he ignored that and peered into the room.
"I presume you're Mrs Squalor," he said, nodding to Esmé. Then he quirked an eyebrow. "Not in bed?"
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 21, 2009 18:12:23 GMT -5
Not since the man with a beard but no hair and the woman with hair but no beard had there been anyone who had made Esmé Squalor feel so uneasy. But as Dr. Rockwell entered the room and gazed upon her she felt her cheeks take on a shade similar to that of her nose, and her blue eyes cast downward.
Though Jerome was unable to decipher the reason behind his wife’s reaction, he had to admit he agreed with Dr. Rockwell. “He’s right, dear,” Jerome said. “I’m sure it would be best for you if you got back into bed now.”
Esmé nodded, and Jerome helped her rise out of the chair. As he took her gently by the hand, he wasn’t completely surprised to discover it was trembling.
“Emma,” he said, as he helped his wife climb back into bed. “Why don’t you go downstairs for now? I promise you can come back up once your mother’s appointment is over.”
“Alright,” Emma replied.
She turned toward the door, then back to have one last glance at Dr. Rockwell before leaving the room.
After the door had closed behind Emma, Jerome brought the chair over from the vanity so that the doctor could have a seat while he examined Esmé.
Dr. Rockwell smiled appreciatively before lowering himself down into the chair. “Thank you,” he said, and then turned his attention back to Esmé. “Now, Mrs. Squalor. What seems to be the trouble?”
Doing her best to get her nerves under control, Esmé smiled pleasantly at the physician who wasn’t her Dr. Leer. “I’m not exactly sure,” she admitted. “I was feeling perfectly fine until just last evening, when I started getting dizzy.” She sniffed. “And now it seems I’ve come down with the worst cold I’ve had in years.”
“It’s true,” Jerome confirmed.
Dr. Rockwell nodded, and then reached into his black medical bag. Drawing out a stethoscope, he inserted the plugs into his ears.
“I must advise you to pull your robe open a bit,” he said. “Just enough so I can see your chest.”
Esmé nodded, and did as the doctor asked.
Pressing the stethoscope against her chest, he continued. “Do you have a fever or any other serious symptoms?”
Keeping her eyes averted from those of Dr. Rockwell, Esmé nodded once more. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve had a fever since last night, and earlier this afternoon I fainted out in the hall.”
“I see,” Dr. Rockwell replied. “Breathe deeply.”
Esmé obliged, coughing a little as a result.
Though the sound of it didn’t sound painful, Jerome couldn’t help but be reminded of Esmé’s mother. He had never met Adelle Salinger, but knew she had died of complications due to tuberculosis. Jerome knew he would never have to worry about any such fate befalling his darling wife, seeing as they could afford the proper medication. But that didn’t stop him from worrying over Esmé every time she fell ill. It was just the way Jerome was, and the way he always would be.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 22, 2009 5:13:30 GMT -5
Emma had known from seeing Dr Rockwell even for those few seconds that he was not like Dr Leer, and that her mother was not going to like him very much. Esmé was painfully insecure, and often Dr Leer's kind and gentle manner made her feel at ease. Dr Rockwell did not look as though he would be providing such an attitude. And so, suspecting that her mother's appointment would most likely be a short one, she simply decided that rather than rejoining her friends, it would be better if she simply waited on that corridor for it to finish (or for either Esmé or Dr Rockwell to tire of the other).
"Emma," said a voice, and the thirteen-year old looked up to see Violet Baudelaire and her brother walking towards her. "Are you alright? I think Beatrice, Sunny and Faust are waiting downstairs for you."
Emma frowned. "I think I'm just going to wait until my mother's appointment is over," she said quietly, not wanting for Esmé to hear her from behind the door.
Violet seemed to understand, even if it didn't look like Klaus Baudelaire did. "I'm sure Esmé is fine," she said. "But I understand that when you get used to one doctor, it's sometimes difficult to be comfortable with another. Dr Rockwell hasn't been our family doctor very long, either--I think he moved here quite recently from somewhere else."
That didn't make Emma feel any better. A combination of experiences had led to her being very wary of people on first meeting--her own father, after all, had turned out to be a criminal--and this often translated badly into her day to day life. She thought her parents probably had the same difficulties, and that didn't make her feel any better about how they were all going to feel about threatening Dr Rockwell.
Violet seemed to note her unease. Thought Emma was often cautious of people, she had taken an instant liking to Violet Baudelaire, who the teenager often invisioned she might be like one day. Violet was kind and caring, but it was also obvious that she was fiercely intelligent, and independent. Emma thought she really did quite like her.
"Why don't you come downstairs with us," Violet offered. "We're making dinner, and we could use some help."
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 22, 2009 11:28:35 GMT -5
As much as she hated to leave her mother, Emma felt reassured that Jerome was right there with Esmé and wouldn’t let anything happen to her. “O.K.,” Emma said, and smiled at Violet and Klaus. “That sounds lovely. I’d be happy to.” After glancing once more over her shoulder at the closed door of her parents’ bedroom, Emma followed the two eldest Baudelaires down to the elevators. *** “It seems to me,” Dr. Rockwell said as he examined the thermometer he had just removed from Esmé’s mouth, “that all you have is a very bad case of the flu. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics for you, but it would probably be best if you took it easy for the rest of the week.” Esmé’s reaction to this was a distinct pout. She was still too uncomfortable in the presence of Dr. Rockwell to cross her arms over her chest the way she usually did to indicate her displeasure. But Jerome could tell he was going to be dealing with an incredible amount of his wife’s tears as soon as the physician left. Esmé hated missing work, and a week without the bank was like a week without food as far as the financial advisor was concerned. Jerome sighed inwardly, hoping that things wouldn’t be as bad as he was dreading. He had no problem taking care of Esmé and seeing to her every need— he enjoyed every minute of it, and the idea that he would be doing it for a whole week was enough to heal a small amount of his damaged self-esteem. “There’s a drugstore not far from here,” Dr. Rockwell said, as he scribbled the names of some antibiotics onto two blank prescriptions. “The pharmacy stays open until ten, and so you can leave any time.” “Thank you, Dr. Rockwell,” Jerome said, as the doctor handed him the prescriptions. “It was very kind of you to see my wife on such short notice, and we really do appreciate it.” “You’re welcome, Mr. Squalor,” said Dr. Rockwell, stuffing his instruments back into his bag. His eyes then settled on Esmé, who was twisting the sheet around her fingers. “Be sure to get plenty of rest,” he said. “And I do mean bed rest.” Esmé didn’t answer, but folded her arms across her chest angrily. “Good day, Mrs. Squalor,” Dr. Rockwell said, and rose out of the chair. “Mr. Squalor.” Jerome got up and walked the doctor to the door. The two men said goodbye, and Jerome closed the door. Turning back to his wife, his face fell at the sight of tears dripping down her cheeks.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Apr 22, 2009 12:59:22 GMT -5
Jerome couldn't help but feel his patience wearing a little thin. He had never understood why his wife was always so desperate to return to her job, despite any diffiuclties it caused for her, and he couldn't understand why she was always so upset if she was being prevented from going. He knew he was being selfish, but he so enjoyed the times she wasn't able to go to work and he was able to take care of her, and seeing her so upset about it made him wonder whether really she went to work in order to escape him.
Jerome knew that was most likely a product of all his insecurities. "Sweetheart," he said, and tried to make it sound like he was as concerned as he would be about anything else. "It's only going to be a week, love. Maybe if you're well enough you can try going into work on Friday if you're really desperate to do so."
Esmé sniffed. "I hate not going to work."
Jerome hadn't needed the reminder. "I know," he said, and kissed her hot forehead. "But it won't be so bad. Maybe nearer the end of the week, if you feel better, we can pay James Fitzgerald another visit. If you aren't at work, we won't have to go during the evenings."
"We have to take Emma," his wife reminded. "And maybe Carmelita, if she's free."
"Of course," her husband answered. "But we can do that some other time. James Fitzgerald seems to be just as interested in getting to know you as he does getting to know Emma."
Jerome didn't bother asking what it was about staying home for a week having everyone take care of her that had upset her so much. He'd already had one argument with his wife this morning, and he didn't wish for another one.
~
"Where do you think Emma's gone?" Faust asked, dropping down from the tree branch on which she had been balanced. "She was only going to tell her parent's Dr Rockwell was here, and he's leaving."
Beatrice and Sunny shrugged, but, of course, Sunny left the talking to her younger sibling.
"I'm not sure," Beatrice admitted. "But I'm sure she wouldn't mind if we went for a walk somewhere else. She'll find us later on , I'm sure."
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 22, 2009 14:59:13 GMT -5
Remembering her close encounter with the ghost named Dewey earlier, Faust’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Could we go by the pond?” she asked hopefully. Though Beatrice smiled, Faust couldn’t ignore the appearance of seriousness on her face. “Are you sure your father wouldn’t mind?” Beatrice asked. “Not at all,” Faust replied, holding out both arms as she spun around on one foot. “Just as long as I’m not alone.” Beatrice fully understood Faust’s curiosity in the matter, but still wasn’t sure if crossing Mr. Widdershins would be the wisest of ideas. Perhaps there was a way to satisfy Faust’s wish, while at the same time not disobeying her father… “O.K.,” Beatrice said at last, and Sunny gave her a look to warn her of any possibilities that might arise. *** “I’ve never made a pizza before,” Emma confessed, as she watched Violet roll the dough back and forth across the wooden board. “It’s not complicated,” Violet replied. “The most challenging part is remembering to take it out of the oven. But as long as you remember that, then you’ll be fine.” Emma smiled. “My mother made a pizza once,” she said. “Or she attempted to. It was back when I was little, and she first started taking cooking classes. It was a disaster— the pizza, I mean. Not the classes. Anyway, she used too much yeast and the kitchen got completely covered from top to bottom in dough. I was only six at the time, but I still remember how she cried for days.” Violet couldn’t stop herself from chuckling at the idea of Esmé Squalor doing anything that took even the slightest bit of effort that didn’t include counting money. Even Klaus, who was standing at the counter grading cheese, couldn’t suppress a smile. His mind held nothing but unpleasant memories of the financial advisor, and he found the idea that she would cry over something like a botched pizza quite comical. “Poor Esmé,” Violet said, and she meant it. After all, if Fernald and Fiona Widdershins could change, then the same had to be true of Esmé Squalor. Besides, she had already proven to everyone that she had changed, not to mention that Emma seemed to be quite fond of her. “My stepfather is actually the chef in our family,” Emma went on. “Well, he and my sister. She works at a restaurant called Café Salmonella. Do you by any chance know of it?” “Vaguely,” Klaus admitted. “Who’s your sister?” “Carmelita Spats.” The kitchen fell silent. Emma glanced from one Baudelaire to the next, taking notice of the look each of them shared. “What?” Emma asked. *** “Why?” Faust demanded. “Well, you want to see Dewey, don’t you?” Beatrice asked patiently. “Yes, but—” “Then stay here with Sunny while I go get him.” Faust let out an annoyed sigh, but decided that she had no choice but to trust Beatrice. Faust really didn’t want to upset her father a second time around, and she had every reason in the world to believe that Beatrice would come through for her. Rather than argue over it, Faust chose to accept Beatrice’s offer. “Alright,” Faust said, and watched Beatrice kneel down in front of the pond.
|
|