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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jun 7, 2009 16:12:25 GMT -5
“You know who your mother and Mrs. Widdershins remind me of?” Beatrice asked.
Emma shook her head.
“Violet and Fiona.”
“Oh?” Emma asked. “In what way?”
“Their closeness,” Beatrice elucidated. “The fact that they can find anything in the world to squabble over, and an hour later they’re talking as if nothing ever happened.” She paused. “Though I’ve never seen your mother and Mrs. Widdershins argue before.”
“Trust me,” Emma said, and leaned over the rim of the boat to dip her finger in the water. “They do.”
“But we’ve never argued before.”
“We’ve only known each other a few months. My mother says that the longer you know a person, the more prone you are to arguing with them.”
“My mother told me that your stepfather hates to argue,” Beatrice pointed out.
“It’s true. Arguments give him a stomachache.”
“Klaus says that arguing can sometimes be quite useful.”
“I don’t think Jerome would agree with him about that,” replied Emma.
“I suppose it all depends,” Beatrice said. “I’m on the debate team, and so I am rather used to it.”
Emma was in the process of straightening herself back up, when the necklace Jerome had bought her suddenly loosened from its place around her neck. She shot out her arm and made a grab for the necklace, but before she could succeed, her stepfather’s present sunk down into the murky depths of the pond.
“My necklace!” Emma shouted, weary of the tears as they began to build at the backs of her blue eyes.
Beatrice gasped, and peered over the rim of the boat. She saw no sign of the necklace, and turned sadly back to her friend. “I don’t see it,” she said.
“I’ve got to find it,” Emma insisted. “My stepfather gave it to me!”
“Was it expensive?”
Emma failed to see what this question had to do with anything, but answered as politely as she could under the circumstances. “I don’t know,” she said. “Jerome bought it at the In Boutique, so yes. It was probably quite expensive.”
“Maybe if we—”
But Emma never got to hear the rest of what Beatrice had to say. Because the next thing they both knew, the area of the water into which Emma’s necklace had fallen began to ripple in a very familiar way. Next, the appearance of a red concierge hat floated to the top of the water, followed by a head of light brown hair, a pair of hazel eyes, and…
“Dewey!” Beatrice exclaimed.
Dewey continued to rise out of the pond, until his feet were elevated only a few inches above the water. This was the closest Emma had ever been to the ghost of the deceased hotel manager, and she was so nervous that she didn’t realize he was clutching something in his hand.
“I was taking a walk underneath the water,” he explained, “or a float, rather. When I happened to glance up to see this fall from the surface.”
Both girls watched as Dewey extended one long, gangly arm to Emma Squalor. Holding out a pair of trembling, pale hands, she accepted the object he placed in them.
“My necklace!” she exclaimed, and smiled appreciatively up at Dewey.
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Post by Jenny on Jun 8, 2009 11:47:16 GMT -5
"Looks like a very nice necklace, Miss Squalor," he said, with a kindly smile on his slim face. "You'd better make sure you fasten it tightly."
Emma nodded, and then once she had fixed it as securely as she could around her neck after rubbing it dry carefully she looked up at Dewey.
"Are you always at the bottom of the pond?" she asked curiously. "Are you always...there?"
Dewey nodded, then shook his head, then looked puzzled and shrugged. Beatrice laughed out loud at that. "I'm not so sure, you know," he answered. "I think I'm wandering around down there most of the time, but it can't be all of the time. Maybe sometimes I'm asleep, or just temporarily gone. It's hard to tell in life what happens from one minute to the next when there are no rules to dictate how it's supposed to work."
Emma nodded. "So can you choose when you're around or not?" she asked. "Is it like being awake or being asleep?"
Dewey shook his head. "It's not like either. Right now I feel as though I'm awake--sort of, although I'm not sure I remember what it was like to be truly awake after all these years--but I don't think I ever consciously go to sleep, or make any decisions about my movements."
It was such a curious existance, and Emma didn't know whether that reassured her or made her even more scared of death than she had been before believing in life after death.
After a moment's silence, Dewey motioned again at her necklace. "I must say, that necklace does match your eyes very well indeed," he told her, and then looked into her eyes with his hazel ones. "I didn't know your mother very well," he admitted. "But from the few times I did see her, it's clear to me that your eyes are very much identical to hers."
If a little shinier.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jun 8, 2009 15:01:20 GMT -5
The fact that Dewey had compared Emma to her mother rather than her biological father caused the fourteen-year-old to smile her biggest and brightest smile. She felt she ought to thank Dewey for such a compliment, but wasn’t sure how strange it would seem. “I’d better get back to my ethereal duties,” he said. “As for you, Miss Squalor, you’d best take my advice and be more careful.” “I will,” Emma promised. “And thank you again. Dewey.” The apparition merely smiled, before lowering himself back down into the muddy waters of the pond. *** Emma was eager to tell her parents all about her up-close encounter with Dewey Denouement. But after what had happened to Esmé the previous day after seeing the ghosts of Hugo and Kevin, Emma didn’t think it would be such a wise idea. Perhaps she would take Jerome aside later, and let him in on the secret that— for the time being —only she and Beatrice shared. It was breakfast time at the Hotel Denouement, and Emma was pleased to see that her parents had finally decided to join the other inhabitants. Even so, the Squalors were sitting by themselves at a remote area of the table: Esmé was still remarkably pale, with her pink shawl wrapped securely around her shoulders. She was sipping tea slowly from a mug, while her other arm remained entwined with Jerome’s. “Did you sleep well last night?” he asked his wife. Esmé nodded, before setting down her mug in order to rub at her nose. It was as pink as ever, though her eyes were a little less puffy. Though she had gone to great lengths to look presentable, Esmé hadn’t bothered to apply any foundation to her face. The powdery substance was like a torture device to her sinuses every time she had a cold or allergies, enough to send her into fits of sneezing that could last up to ten minutes at a time. As stylish as she was, she wasn’t about to put herself through that sort of torment for any sort of reason. “Why, darling,” Jerome said. “I do believe I can see your freckles.” His words produced a deep blush from his wife, a result made all the more noticeable by the paleness in her cheeks.
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Post by Jenny on Jun 9, 2009 15:12:05 GMT -5
"I wish you wouldn't say that in front of people, Jerome," she said shyly. "You know I've never really liked my freckles."
Jerome nodded. "I knew that," he answered. "But I can't honestly understand why you've never liked them, my love."
He said that, but he knew full well what it was that had caused her to hate them in the first place. She'd only ever mentioned it once, and only briefly, but Jerome knew that once again Olaf's cruelty had played a large part in this aspect of his wife's personality. Why else would he invest so much of his time reminding her of how adorable the things she was most insecure about really were?
Before Esmé could respond, she caught sight of her daughter approaching, and smiled ahead at the fourteen year old.
"Good morning," Emma said, pulling up a chair to sit with her parents. "I tried to wake you earlier," she said to her stepfather. "To tell you I was going out with Beatrice, like I said. But you just sort of snorted, so I'm not sure you heard me."
Jerome blushed and his wife laughed. The fact that he now snored on top of everything else made him so terribly embarrassed, but Esmé just seemed to find it terribly funny when someone mentioned it. She didn't have trouble sleeping because of her husband's new habit, and she just thought it made him justa fraction more adorable than before.
"I don't remember that," Jerome said shyly. "But I don't suppose it matters now. I guessed that's where you'd gone off to anyway when we came down here."
Esmé took another sip of her tea, and her husband returned to wtching her occassionally out of the the corner of his eye (Emma nearly rolled hers), and then their daughter cleared her throat.
"The Widdershins' are sitting over there," she said slyly. She was her mother's daughter. "Why don't we go sit with them?"
What she hadn't mentioned, of course, was that Colette and Fernald looked like they had the biggest stormcloud in history hanging over their heads, and Faust looked as hyperactive and cheerful as ever, and that the three of them were all sitting next to Kit, Violet, Sunny and Beatrice. She knew that perhaps her parents weren't eager to join in with Kit Snicket (at least not her mother, she was fairly sure Jerome might have liked to), but this was her perfect opportunity: they could all sit with the Widdershins' and become involved with her friends family at the same time.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jun 9, 2009 18:55:24 GMT -5
“Alright, darling,” Esmé said, and neither Emma nor Jerome neglected to notice the uncertainty in Esmé’s tone.
“Emma,” he said, and turned to his stepdaughter. “Your mother is ill, and really shouldn’t be moving around more than is necessary.”
“Oh, Jerome, don’t be silly. I’m perfectly capable of… of getting…” Esmé was forced to trail off and sneeze loudly into her cupped hands. She was so certain that everyone at the table had heard her high-pitched squeak, and her cheeks brimmed brightly with hot embarrassment.
“Bless you,” Jerome said, and reached over to brush away some strands of hair that had fallen into his wife’s eyes.
Esmé sniffed and blinked her eyes, which had begun to tear slightly.
“I’m going over there,” she answered stubbornly. “Jerome, will you hold me by the arm so I don’t fall?”
“I certainly will, sweetheart.” As if Esmé needed further proof, the billionaire leaned forward and kissed his wife lightly on one of her pale freckles.
Though her parents’ constant public displays of affection embarrassed Emma to some extent, she knew that saying so would only serve to upset them. In particular Esmé, who tended to be sensitive to criticism whenever she was ill or already in distress. Therefore, Emma let her mother and Jerome have another moment to bask in each other’s love and devotion.
“You go on ahead, Em,” Esmé advised her daughter. “Your father and I will be along momentarily.”
“Alright, Mother. You’re absolutely certain that you—”
“I’ll be fine.”
Emma nodded, and then sauntered over to inform the Widdershins, the Snickets and the Baudelaires that Esmé and Jerome would be joining them.
After taking one last sip of tea, Esmé set her mug down on the table and then turned to her husband.
“Would you like me to carry you?” he asked genuinely.
Esmé rolled her eyes, but was unable to suppress the giggle that escaped her. “That’s very sweet of you to offer,” she said. “But it won’t be necessary. And besides,” she added shyly, “I’m afraid you might find it rather difficult.”
Jerome blinked, shocked that his wife would even consider such a thing. “Don’t tell me you’re still thinking that way.”
Esmé shrugged, and bit down nervously on her lower lip. “We’d best get over there now, Jerome, before everyone falls under the impression that we’re anti-social.”
Jerome said nothing more, but laced his arm through his wife’s as they rose from their chairs.
Emma, in the meantime, glanced over from where she had been trying to converse with Beatrice and Sunny, despite Faust’s constant interruptions.
“There they are,” Emma said.
“What?” Beatrice asked.
Emma pointed to her parents, who were slowly but surely making their way over to the table.
“Oh.”
“How is your mother feeling today, Emma?” Violet inquired.
“She didn’t really say,” Emma confessed. “Jerome seemed adamant when I asked them to join us, but that’s only because he doesn’t want her moving around too much until she’s well.”
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Post by Jenny on Jun 22, 2009 13:47:32 GMT -5
Jerome probably had reasons besides only that for being a little worried about his wife joining their table. Violet had barely seen Esmé during the course of the weekend, neither had she seen very much of Jerome, and the eldest Baudelaire understood that it must have probably been difficult to know how the people she had wronged once wee going to react to her. Violet Baudelaire still thought Jerome Squalor as sweet and soft as he'd always been, and she supposed there was nothing wrong with that.
Everyone's eyes turned towards the Squalor's as they took their seats on Fernald Widdershins' right side, and though Jerome couldn't help but blush--so many eyes on him at once never failed to make him a little anxious--his wife raised a hand to wave a good-morning at the other occupants of the table, before turning to sneeze into her shoulder.
"Morning, Jerome, Esmé," Klaus said, and Esmé, though pink-nosed and ill, smiled back at him. All that meant to her was that he had finally become comfortable enough with her to begin to use her first name just as he used Jerome's. Maybe the revelation of all that had gone on between her and Fernald had been enough to sway him to thinking perhaps they weren't as cruel as they had once been. "Would either of you like anthing to eat?"
Jerome's eyes lit up at the very prospect. "Not for me,"Esmé responded. "I'm still not feeling well, after all." She turned towards her beloved husband and grinned. "But Jerome will have at least one of everything."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jun 22, 2009 17:59:30 GMT -5
Remembering his diet, Jerome scanned his eyes over the assortment of delicious food laid out on the table. It was almost as if he were being taunted, and considered momentarily he considered rejecting his wife’s proposal. But then he thought back to the previous day, about how upset she’d become by the idea of him losing weight. He supposed he could stand to be a little chubby, just as long as he was no longer overweight.
He just had to hope that would be enough for his darling wife.
“Well, I suppose I will have one of these muffins,” Jerome said, reaching across the table for a platter piled with a variety of muffins. He chose a banana one, setting it down on his plate. As he began to pick at it (taking smaller pieces than normal), Esmé glanced up at him expectantly.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” she asked.
“For now.”
Esmé looked as though she were getting ready to argue, when Violet suddenly spoke up.
“It was very nice of you to come for a visit,” Violet said. “I’m just sorry that we weren’t able to spend much time with you and Esmé.”
“It’s my fault,” she replied. “I should have realized I was getting sick and not bothered to come at all.”
Esmé had always been guilty of the habit of blaming herself for things that were out of her control. Although it may have seemed to an outsider that she did it for attention, she really didn’t. She had spent many years being blamed by Olaf for things that were either not her responsibility or had nothing to do with her at all. And so the fact that she blamed herself for similar matters didn’t come as a complete shock to her family or the Widdershins.
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Post by Jenny on Sept 9, 2009 9:36:11 GMT -5
(Um, *bump*, but it's not too far back I guess. And you're the Mod ) To some extent, though Violet thought Emma a wonderful girl, she knew she would never get used to Esmé Squalor. Violet had, of course, been nothing but pleasant over the course of the Squalor's long weekend stay (when she had the opportunity to speak to them at all), but something about the financial advisor still grated on her nerves. She seemed to have changed massively for the better, but perhaps the lasting legacy of the way she had behaved fifteen years ago would never allow the Baudelaire's to forgive her (or at least not the eldest two). Violet felt the smallest bubble of frustration rise within her following Esmé's words--it would have been easier to feel justified for not forgiving her if she hadn't seemed so nice. Violet knew by now, logically, that there was no real possibility that the fashionable ex-villainess was still the same spiteful woman she once had been, but that didn't mean that the younger woman wasn't still always subconciously watching for the signs. "Nonsense," the eldest Baudelaire responded. "You can't know you're going to get sick, can you? And besides, it's been a pleasure having you both here, ill or not." Jerome smiled one of his big, goofy grins, seemingly delighted that over the course of the past two days such progress had been made. Of course, he couldn't really imagine that Esmé and Kit would ever find a way to become friends the same way Esmé and Colette had. It was a nice dream, but Jerome could see too well with his own eyes the way theirs never seemed to meet, and so he wasn't holding onto much hope. When it seemed the conversation had briefly finished, Esmé glanced sideways at Colette and Fernald, who, though they were seated together, seemed to somehow have created an icy expanse of distance between their two chairs. "...Sleep well?" Esmé voiced croakily, unable to remember a time that Colette and Fernald had seemed so angry with one another. Faust seemed not to have noticed, as she was too occupied trying to hold her own in a conversation led by three girls all several years her senior. Colette crossly buttered another slice of toast, and waved a slim hand at her husband to answer. Esmé tried not to be too insulted--for a second it had seemed like it was really her that they were both so angry with--but then Fernald offered her a small smile. "Not really," he answered softly, but nodded at her, as if to put to rest her worries that she was somehow to blame. It wasn't really Esmé's fault that she thought their behaviour so strange--she and Jerome never argued, and if they did, it ended swiftly and in tears from both sides--and she'd never been in a relationship that involed any of this petty arguing. Arguments with Jerome ended in floods of tears, and arguments from Olaf had almost always ended in violence. And arguments with him had never, ever happened. She had no concept of this normal (Fernald tapped a hook against the table and didn't wonder too long whether he and Colette fitted the definition) marriage where there was always something to squabble over, however petty.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 9, 2009 12:14:47 GMT -5
“Perhaps it had to do with sleeping in a place you aren’t familiar with,” Jerome suggested. “I remember when I was eight, and my parents sent me away for the first time to Boy Scout camp. It was the first time in which I’d ever been away from home, and I was so terrified that—” He suddenly realized how little the Widdershins could relate to his childhood account and he blushed hopelessly, his eyes drifting down to his banana muffin. “Well, you get the idea.”
Colette gave Jerome an encouraging smile from across the table. After all, she knew exactly how it felt to be self-conscious. “Thank you, Jerome,” she replied, “for those comforting words.”
There was a brief round of silence before Esmé sneezed again, and her face flushed over in embarrassment. “Excuse me.”
“We’ll probably be heading home within the next hour,” Jerome explained to the group. “The weatherman forecasted rain this afternoon, and I’d like to get back to the penthouse before then.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Fernald agreed. “We’ll leave with you— it’s important that we beat the storm back to Paltryville so we’ll have time to lay out the buckets.”
“Fernald,” Fiona asked, “what sort of place are you and your family living in?”
“Just a little one-floor house… I’ll admit it isn’t the best accommodation, but it’s all we can afford right now.”
“My bedroom leaks,” Faust piped up.
“I’ve got an idea,” Fiona said. “Fernald, why don’t you and your family stay another night here with us? You can go back home and get whatever you need, then come back here? I’ll even drive Faust to school in the morning.”
Fernald turned questionably to his wife. “What do you think, Lette?”
“Well, it might not be a bad idea,” she said, before directing her attention to Fiona and Klaus. “You’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“We can’t have you spending the night in a place with a leaky roof, can we?” Fiona asked. “Of course it isn’t any trouble! None at all.”
“Then I guess we’ve made our decision,” Fernald said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Fiona.”
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Post by Jenny on Sept 9, 2009 13:09:22 GMT -5
Faust, of course, being only eleven, immediately considered the consequences of this decision. It meant she would hae the opportunity to stay another night with Sunny and Beatrice, but that Emma--who she unashamedly liked best--wouldn't be present. She supressed a little pout at that, and wondered whether Beatrice liked her enough to want to spend any time with her voluntarily, or whether she would be more interested in spending time alone with her sister now that Emma wasn't going to be the link between them both.
"Can Emma stay another night?" Faust vocalized before she could stop herself. She hadn't meant to sound rude, and lucky it seemed nobody except her father--who did send a sharp look in her direction--took it as such. Esmé looked vaguely unhappy with the idea, but it was hard to tell--she looked a little unhappy at everything simply due to her horrible flu--and Kit shrugged.
"Well, you're welcome if you'd like to, Emma," she said kindly. "It wouldn't be any trouble at all for us."
Emma looked back at her parents. "...Maybe not," she answered, after a moment of consideration. "I haven't done any of my homework, after all, and besides I'd need some new clothes for school."
Really, Emma worried little about any of those things. She couldn't have cared less about her homework--though she was quite smart she couldn't say she was enthusiastic about all of her studies as Beatrice seemed to be--and she couldn't have cared less what she wore to school on Monday. Rather, she had a horrible feeling that her mother might have taken it less than well if she expressed an interest in staying in the Hotel while they left. Esmé was incredibly touchy about the idea that Emma might one day no longer need her or Jerome, and Emma couldn't supress her worry that deciding to stay here with Kit Snicket and her family (who she knew Esmé had never wholly formed an alliance with) would simply bring on a flood of tears and stress that would make Esmé's illness all that much worse.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 9, 2009 14:19:39 GMT -5
Jerome— whose lack of cleverness had nothing at all to do with his ability to perceive the feelings of his family —sensed Emma’s hesitation. “We’ll have to have Beatrice and Sunny over to the penthouse for a sleepover one of these days,” he said, and Emma smiled at that.
“Oh, yes!” Beatrice exclaimed, seemingly delighted by the idea. “That would be wonderful.”
It was difficult to tell what Sunny’s feelings for Jerome’s offer were, considering her lack of a smile. In an attempt to find out, he turned to address the fifteen-year-old. “What about you, Sunny? Would you like to come visit us at the penthouse?”
She nodded silently.
“We’d love to have you,” Esmé added stuffily.
“We’ll talk more about it throughout the week,” Kit said. “It’ll be good for the girls to get out of the hotel for a few days and explore what lies beyond it.”
“If it’s a clear night,” Emma said to her two friends, “we can go up to the roof and stargaze. I’ve got a telescope that puts everything in perspective— I thought I even saw a U.F.O. once.”
Jerome redirected his attention to his wife, whose warm forehead was now pressed against his cool cheek. “Come on, darling. Let me take you back up to our room so you can take your medicine.”
“I hope you feel better, Esmé,” Violet said, as Jerome took his wife by the arm and helped her to rise.
“We’ll see you soon,” Klaus added.
Esmé smiled appreciatively, before burying her face in her arm to squeak again. Jerome waved goodbye to the group, and began to lead his wife back toward the elevators.
“Come along, Emma,” he called from over his shoulder. “I’m going to need your help packing if we’re going to hit the road before the rain starts.”
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 10, 2009 12:51:46 GMT -5
Jerome’s words struck a familiar key in Esmé: she had spent the sixteen years living with Olaf feeling both loved and unhappy. There was a part of her that still believed he had loved her in his own way— no matter how distorted it now seemed to the financial advisor. Olaf had used his love for Esmé as a way to bend her, to mold her into just a younger version of himself.
She was grateful that she had— with Jerome’s help —broken out of the villainous shell that Olaf had trapped her in. With V.F.D. behind them, Esmé no longer had to worry about what would become of her beloved daughter: Emma’s dream was to become a world-renowned actress, and with her incredible singing voice she had more than just one star to reach for.
“Love is a strange thing, Jerome,” Esmé said. “It has the ability to both guide us and also distort our perceptions of right and wrong. Olaf’s love for me”— she chuckled, realizing how absurd the words sounded now —“was more obsessive than anything else, and I’ll be the first to admit I was guilty of the same. That was what made James’ relationship with my mother different from Olaf’s relationship with me.”
Emma had spent the duration of the ride up in the elevator listening closely to her parents’ conversation. She felt that she knew everything she possibly could (and wanted to) about Count Olaf, but the name ‘James Fitzgerald’ didn’t ring a bell. Emma already knew the story of how her mother and birthfather had met backwards and forwards, though she knew little about her grandparents on her mother’s side. The only things she really knew about them was that her grandfather was the son of Israeli immigrants and that her grandmother’s family was originally from France. Her grandfather had worked at a lumber factory in the same town where the Widdershins lived, whereas her grandmother had been a seamstress. The couple had been poor, but from the way Esmé talked about her parents they had been as happy as any middle or upper-class family could be.
But not once had she ever mentioned anything about a man going by the name of James Fitzgerald.
Emma waited until Jerome had tucked her mother safely into bed before coming forward with her question.
“Mother,” Emma asked, perching herself beside her mother. “Who is James Fitzgerald, and why do you and Jerome want to visit him?”
Esmé smiled at both her daughter and Jerome, who looked a little uneasy from where he stood digging through the top drawer of the dresser.
“James Fitzgerald was a close friend of my mother’s,” Esmé explained. “We recently got back in touch, and he invited us all to have tea with him at his mansion tomorrow.” She raised a hand to her mouth and coughed delicately. “But by the looks of things, I think we’re going to have to postpone our plans.”
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