|
Post by Jenny on Feb 11, 2009 13:01:10 GMT -5
Ever since she was a nervous little girl in a French orphanage, Colette Dubois had always, always bitten her fingernails. She was never able to grow them and paint them bright and beautiful shades like Esmé did, because she knew she would have unconsciously chipped away every last inch of nail polish from them if she tried. It hadn't changed when she became Colette Widdershins, even though Fernald admittedly did find the habit a little unsettling, and tried his best to stop Faust--who seemingly had inherited it from her mother--from doing it, though he accepted that it was something his wife would never be able to stop doing.
'Colette,' he said, watching her pace before him as he sat on one of the benches outside Mulctuary Money Management. 'You're doing it again.'
Frustrated, Colette drew her hand away from her mouth. 'But I'm worried,' she said, throwing herself down on the bench beside him before restlessly standing and beginning to pace again. 'Esmé was very upset today, Fernald. You weren't there. I'm owrried the reason they aren't here is because something has happened.'
She didn't need to go into any further detail than that. It was an unspoken agreemement between the Widdershins that they were both completely and utterly terrified of upsetting the financial advisor and causing her in any way to harm herself. Fernald, however, forced his worry to the back of his mind. Colette managed to do no such thing.
He sat in silence and she stalked back and forth in front of him, chewing her fingernails, all the while. They stayed likethat until finally, finally, Colette saw Jerome's particular dark blue Lexus pull up across from them.
Both the Widdershin's stood, and were both inwardly delighted to see Esmé step out of the car, no evidence of anything wrong with her whatsoever. Colette was so happy, in fact, that she ignored Jerome and ran to embrace her friend, who laughed in response.
Fernald had smiled to himself, before he had caught sight of Jerome. Usually the most composed by a mile of the two of them, Jerome's face was red and blotchy, and he was deeply frowning as if something was bothering him immensely. His eyes were pink around the edges, and Fernald jogged over to meet him.
'Jerome,' he said, pleased to see that their wives had begun the descent into gossip and wouldn't come out until prompted or forced, which left him time to dechipher what had happened to Jerome Squalor. 'Are you alright?'
Jerome's green eyes shone with tears, and though he nodded, he then, finally, let out a croaked 'no'.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 11, 2009 15:08:23 GMT -5
“What happened?” Fernald asked.
Jerome glanced briefly over his shoulder at his wife and Colette. At some point, they had been joined by Faust, who had been sitting in the car, deeply involved in the Nintendo DS game that the Squalors had bought her for Christmas.
“Jerome?” Fernald said, and Jerome turned back to the hook-handed man. “What is it?”
“It’s Esmé,” Jerome answered, in a voice low enough for only himself and Fernald to hear.
Fernald looked over the other man’s shoulder at Esmé, whose expression was nothing less than pure joy. Confused, he returned his gaze to Jerome, who looked as though he’d just lost his best friend.
“What on Earth is going on?” asked Fernald.
With a loud sniff, Jerome covered his face with his hands and began to sob, though softly so as not to capture the attention of his wife, Colette, or Faust. Putting his arm around Jerome, Fernald led him over the bench where they sat down.
Jerome took a minute or two to compose himself, before giving Fernald a comprehensive description of what had occurred that day, starting from the moment Jerome and Esmé had returned to the penthouse that afternoon. He told Fernald the story of how Esmé had first encountered James Fitzgerald, who seemed to be an odd combination of Jerome and Olaf. Jerome explained about Esmé’s birth certificate, and how she’d lost her virginity at only sixteen, to a man nearly twice her age because he’d led her to believe that she was two years older than she actually was. Jerome told of Esmé’s latest panic attack, and how it had caused them both to run late, his hand trembling as he reached into the top pocket of his blazer to withdraw his handkerchief.
“So he—” Fernald began, and then looked briefly over at his family and Esmé. Faust had her arms wrapped around the financial advisor, whose face was a picture-perfect illustration of happiness. For as long as Fernald could remember, Esmé had been extremely skilled at controlling her emotions, which would often come unraveled when she was (or thought she was) alone. That would most likely be the case in a matter of hours from now, and Fernald wondered if Jerome was capable of handling it. “Olaf…”
Although he had his face buried in his handkerchief, Jerome nodded, and Fernald watched, equally heartbroken and disgusted, as tears dripped down the billionaire’s chin and splashed down onto the planks of the bench.
Fernald bit his lip as he thought of how close he’d come to being guilty of the same crime as his boss, and thankful for the first time in his life that he had not allowed his love for Esmé to surpass his loyalty to Olaf. Fernald realized now that he had been in love with Esmé before she was fourteen, which would have made him twenty-three, and the very idea made him sick to his stomach.
Fernald clicked his hooks together, which was something he often did when he was trying very, very hard in order to think of a solution to a particularly complicated problem. He gave Jerome credit for being able to keep such a firm hold on his sobs as far as pitch went, and looked up just in time to see Faust scamper up to them.
“Daddy,” she said. “Mommy and Mrs. Squalor wanted me to tell you that— oh! What’s wrong with Mr. Squalor?”
Fernald smiled at his daughter. “Nothing, sweetheart,” he assured. “Go tell your mother and Mrs. Squalor that we’ll be right there.”
“O.K.,” Faust replied, and skipped back over to the spot where Esmé and Colette were standing in front of the Lexus.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 11, 2009 15:36:12 GMT -5
Fernald clicked his hooks together again, and Jerome sniffed one last time, wiping his eyes miserably. Fernald swung a hook to gently pat him on the arm.
'Come on,' Fernald said quietly, as if he was talking to Faust after she'd had a bad day with the other girls at her school. He wondered if Mr Squalor was going to feel like he was patronizing him, but then remembered how rarely Jerome was ever offended by anything unless his wife was implicated. 'You know Esmé won't be able to hold it together if she sees that you're crying.'
Jerome sniffed once again, and nodded, before straightening up to his full height and taking a deep breath to try to calm himself. 'Will she be able to tell?' Jerome asked.
Fernald said nothing for a moment. It was painfully obvious from his puffy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes that Jerome had been crying, but what could he say?
'No, I'm she she won't,' Fernald unconvincingly lied, and they both turned away towards Colette, Esmé and Faust, who were all still merrily giggling. It was clear as day that Esmé had chosen not to mention any events of the day to her best friend just yet.
~
Concentrating on the drive to the Hotel Denoument was more difficult that Fernald imagined. He knew Jerome had been ver upset, but Fernald couldn't help thinking that Mr Squalor didn't have as much to worry about as Fernald did. After all, Jerome was only four years older than his wife, and they hadn't wed until she'd been in her mid or late twenties--Fernald couldn't quite work it out in light of recent events. Fernald himself, though, couldn't stop thinking about about all the things that had changed now that he knew that Esmé had always been two years younger than he'd thought. And Olaf had known all along--had Olaf planned it all? It was just the sort of trick that sick monster would have pulled, when he'd been alive. The very thought that he'd been thinking like that about Esmé when, really, she was only three years older than Faust--the same age as Emma--made him feel sick to his stomach and vaguely faint.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 11, 2009 16:54:01 GMT -5
“Is something wrong, Fernald?” Colette asked her husband, as they came to a stoplight just ten minutes or so from the Hotel Denouement. Faust glanced up from the screen of her Nintendo DS. “Mr. Squalor was crying before,” she informed her mother, before Fernald could respond to Colette’s question. The contortionist looked at her daughter, and then back at her husband. “Jerome was crying?” Colette exclaimed. “For what reason?” Glancing into the rearview mirror to make sure that Faust wasn’t paying attention, Fernald leaned over and whispered to his wife: “I’ll tell you as soon as we’re alone. But considering the subject, I think it would be wise if you didn’t mention what I have to say to the Squalors… unless Esmé has already told you the reason she and Jerome were a little late coming to meet us.” “Her excuse was just that that,” replied Colette. “That they were running late.” “That wasn’t it,” Fernald said, as the light flashed to green and they started off once more. “What are you two whispering about?” Faust asked. “Nothing, Faust,” Colette told her. “We’ll be arriving at the hotel shortly. Turn your game off now.” Faust just shrugged, and switched the “off” button on her DS. *** Though it was true that Jerome looked simply adorable whenever he cried, for the puffiness in his face caused his already chubby cheeks to appear even chubbier and (in his wife’s opinion) cuter, Esmé could not bring herself to overlook the fact that he was terribly upset. As the Hotel Denouement came into view, she reached over and brushed a stray tear from her husband’s cheek. She wanted more than anything to kiss him as well, but was too terrified that doing so would cause them to get into yet another accident. The fact that the Widdershins were directly behind them only added to Esmé’s safety concerns, and so she chose to fold her hands together in her lap instead.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 12, 2009 15:17:35 GMT -5
When they arrived at the Hotel, Jerome parked the car, and then let out a long, shaky sigh. The Squalor's sat in a silence only punctuated with Jerome's uneven breaths, before Esmé finally unbuckled her seatbelt and threw her arms around him. 'I'm sorry,' she said, and nuzzled his cheek softly. She could feel the tears before she saw them.
Jerome sniffed. 'It isn't your fault,' he said, though it was clear that he was still choked up. 'Darling, none of this is your fault. It's him again. As always.'
Esmé knew that her husband was referring to Olaf. It made her distinctly uncomfortable to have to talk about her relationship with Olaf with her husband, but she supposed now it had been called into question more than ever. She pulled away, and reached out a long-nailed hand, carefully brushing away his tears.
'But it's all in the past now,' she said softly, comfortingly. The role-reversal shocked her a little. 'The fact that I'm not forty-three doesn't hurt anyone. We can't do anything about what happened in the past, and so we have to forget about it.'
Jerome didn't bother pointing out that this was easier said than done. He knew that his wife, possibly better than anyone, knew this--after all, he had the distinct feeling she wouldn't be able to just forget about Jerome's brief relationship with Kit Snicket, even if it had been years and years ago.
'Besides,' said Esmé. 'When you think you're a certain age, that's how old you act. When I thought I was eighteen, I acted like I was eighteen. I was mature enough to be eighteen because I knew other people from boarding school who were the same age.'
'But that doesn't change the facts,' Jerome said, tracing a chubby finger around her shoulder affectionately. He notuced the Widdershins' pulling up beside them, and, kissing his wife one last time before the troubles of the weekend began, he unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car.
~
Sensing as they met up with the Widdershins' for the second time that Fernald was quite desperate to talk to Esmé, Jerome--still puffy eyed--did his best to engage in a conversation with Colette that Faust would be drawn to. While he attempted to nonchalantly chat to Mrs Widdershins and Faust as they approached the entrance of the hotel, Fernald used one of his hooks to gently take Esmé by the arm. They continued to walk, not wanting for Faust to notice.
'Jerome told me,' Fernald said simply, and Esmé said nothing for a few moments.
'Well, it doesn't change anything,' she said at length, while Fernald simply stared, slack-jawed, wondering how she could possibly have believed that statement to be true.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 12, 2009 17:27:24 GMT -5
“How can you say that,” he gasped, “when Jerome is so obviously distressed?” Esmé smiled knowingly, but it faltered almost at once, and Fernald watched a single tear roll down the pale cheek of his former lover. “What upsets me most,” Esmé said, and reached into her purse to retrieve her husband’s handkerchief, which he had given her back in the car during her panic attack. “What upsets me most about it is Jerome. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s never been quite carefree, and his worry for me is infinite. He’s nothing like the man he once was, the one who walked away and let me go back at Veblen Hall when I…” She blinked back more tears, and pressed the handkerchief to her eyes and nose. “If I had known you were that young,” Fernald said, his voice trembling, “when Olaf was— when his filthy hands were… I would have…” “What?” Esmé asked. “Fernald, you were as frightened of him as I was. And when you did step in and try to protect me, you lost your hands.” Fernald nodded, and looked down at his hooks. “It was worth it, though. I didn’t regret the outcome of it, and I certainly never regretted all of the reasons behind it.” Esmé didn’t answer, but rather responded with a single nod of the head. She knew exactly what it was that Fernald meant, though she felt that a verbal response would not have been entirely inappropriate. He was, after all, married to Colette now, and Esmé to Jerome; and even though Esmé and Fernald could never forget the love that had once existed between them, it didn’t mean it was something they had to speak about. “Faust saw how upset Jerome was,” Fernald continued. “She may not be very attentive in most areas, but she knows when people are upset. She mentioned it to Colette back in the car, but I didn’t want to tell her anything with Faust sitting in the backseat.” “I don’t mind if you tell Colette what you and Jerome discussed,” Esmé clarified. She looked up, and saw that she and Fernald were standing in front of the pond that Dewey Denouement had sunk to the bottom of fourteen years earlier. Fernald nodded. “Just checking,” he said. *** “Jerome?” Jerome Squalor— who had been deeply involved in a discussion with Colette Widdershins, while Faust stood close by, spinning around in circles until she made herself dizzy —turned to see Kit Snicket as she emerged from the front doors of the hotel. With her was a young woman who Jerome only faintly recognized, and was perhaps a year or so older than Emma. This other girl had dark brown hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, and eyes the color of chestnuts. When she smiled, Jerome could see that she had four large, sharp teeth that were covered over in braces. Suddenly, he knew exactly who she was.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 15, 2009 9:43:24 GMT -5
Kit had, at first, expected to be given an answer, but when Jerome Squalor's mouth fell open in shock she simply smiled. Sunny, however, was a little confused.
'Sunny Baudelaire,' Jerome eventually blurted, and Faust--after a hissed instruction from her mother--ceased spinning and joined the conversation. Sunny, at fifteen, wasn't the most talkative person on the face of the Earth, and just blushed a bit in response. She had no memory of the man who was now gaping at her as if he'd known her all her life.
'Sunny, this is Jerome,' Kit said, and Jerome for the first time considered that she might not remember who he was. He remembered her as a baby so clearly that to some extent it was a shock to him that she could possibly have forgotten. 'You were only a baby, but Jerome Squalor adopted you, Klaus and Violet for a few weeks.'
Sunny nodded and smiled, careful to conceal her braces, which she was so very embarrassed about. 'Nice to meet you,' she said, almost biting down on her words as she tried not to open her mouth. Jerome was suddenly overcome with sympathy for her--he'd never been forced to have braces, and neither had Esmé, or Emma, or even Carmelita. But as a child Andrew had put up with uncomfortable braces for five years, and had never let his older brother forget how immensely uncomfortable and irritating they were.
Colette Widdershins forced herself to attempt to become sociable. 'I'm Colette Widdershins,' she said, and smiled kindly at both Sunny and Kit. She knew that Esmé and Kit were never, ever going to get along very well, but she didn't see a reason why she couldn't learn to like her. 'And this is my daughter, Faust.'
'That's an unusual name,' said Kit, shaking hands with the eleven-year-old, who was quite obviously itching to run around, or start spinning again, or do something that involved being energetic. Before Faust could agree or add that 'Sunny' was equaly unusual, Fernald and Esmé finally caught up with everyone else, arriving at the back as if the two former associates had been plotting to themselves all the while. Esme had by no means forgotten what she had learned about Jerome and Kit's previous relationship, and quickly linked arms with her husband protectively.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 15, 2009 18:39:25 GMT -5
It had been more than twenty years since Kit Snicket had thought of Jerome Squalor in a romantic way. Esmé’s message registered at once to the hotel manager, though Kit made an effort to smile pleasantly at the financial advisor all the same.
“Hello, Esmé,” Kit said.
“Hello,” replied Esmé, her eyes lowered to the ground as she spoke.
“Darling,” Jerome said, and nodded toward the girl standing alongside Kit. “You remember Sunny Baudelaire, don’t you?”
Esmé’s eyes drifted up from the concrete ground, and rested on the face of someone she had known long ago but no longer recognized. The last time Esmé seen Sunny, the fifteen-year-old had been an infant and was being accused of murder, along with her two other siblings. Esmé doubted that Sunny could possibly remember this, and the financial advisor had to wonder if Violet and Klaus had ever revealed the truth to Kit about how her husband had died.
“Hello, Sunny,” Esmé said, and smiled politely. “You probably don’t remember me, but my name is Esmé Squalor.”
Sunny shook her head. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she replied. She then promptly shut her mouth, before the beautiful woman clinging to the overweight man could notice her braces.
“Emma and Beatrice are just inside,” Kit explained, and then turned to Sunny. “Sunny, why don’t you go inside and inform your siblings that our guests have arrived? I’ll need some help bringing in their luggage.”
Before Jerome could tell Kit that this really wasn’t necessary, and that he and Fernald were perfectly capable of unloading their own suitcases from their separate cars, Sunny turned and disappeared into the Hotel Denouement.
“That’s very kind of you, Kit,” Jerome said, “but the last thing I want to do is put you or anyone else to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Kit dismissed, and deliberately didn’t smile due to the way Esmé was watching her.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 16, 2009 6:36:06 GMT -5
(Aww, Esmé's so EMBARRASSING ) As Fernald disappeared briefly to unlock (with some difficulty) his car and retrieve his family's luggage, and Kit turned away to look for Sunny, Jerome turned towards his wife, whose arms was curled around his as if she was afraid he'd run away. 'Esmé,' he said quietly, and then said nothing else afterwards. Though he was accustomed to her holding onto him in some way if she was nervous or upset, he wasn't used to her clinging onto him for dear life in such a fashion. His wife turned towards him, and falsely smiled, but didn't loosen her grip. 'Darling,' he said, and shifted his arm a little to mkae himself a bit more obvious, just in case she hadn't realized what she had been doing. 'Sweetheart, let go.' He hadn't considered the effect his words might have, or taken into account the context. After a moment's pause, his wife pulled her hand back from him and crossed her arms across her chest. Her blue eyes shone in the fading daylight, and then she turned away from him, as if to watch the hook handed man struggle with his bags. Her hands curled around so that her nails could bite into her skin. Jerome, instantly overcome with guilt, reached an apologetic hand out to his wife. 'Darling, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--' '--Never mind,' she replied briskly, shrugging off his hand as it came to rest on her shoulder, and never turning towards him. 'I know what you mean.' Jerome would have liked to believe that she meant she could see what he had meant. What he had really meant--that she had no need to hang on to him like that because he wasn't going to go anywhere. But he had a horrible feeling that she hadn't meant that at all. Before he could aologize, or make it clear to her that he was no more likely to go back to Kit than she was to go back to Fernald, Sunny returned, and this time her siblings were with her. Once again, Jerome's mouth fell open. Kit almost chuckled--had opening his mouth whenever he was shocked become a new habit for him?--but stopped herself just in time. 'Klaus,' Jerome said first, and Esmé unconsciously scraped her nails roughly against the inside of her forearm. Seeing this, Colette put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. Fernald also arrived behind them, and kept his eyes firmly on the conrete. 'Violet.' Indeed, Violet and Klaus were quite recognizeable. Violet's hair was still sleek and dark, and though it was not tied with a ribbon, it was still tied back away from her face so as not to distract her. She was very much the same as she had once been--pale and dark-eyed--though it seemed as the years had passed she had become more and more like her mother. Jerome would admit that his memories now of Beatrice Baudelaire were a little fuzzy, but the twenty-nine year old in front of him and the woman he had once been rock-climbing with in the Mortmain Mountains were almost completely identical, excepting that Beatrice's hair had never been as straight and dark as Violet's. Klaus, though, was much more like his father--though he still wore glasses similar to the ones he had worn as a teenager, and his hair was still short and a little curly, he had become much, much taller and broader than he had been as a thirteen-year-old. He was not as similar to his father as Violet was to their mother, but Esmé could certainly see elements of Bertrand Baudelaire in his blue eyes and dark hair. Neither of the older siblings were smiling. Sunny, once again trying to bite down on her words so that no-one would notice her braces, turned to her siblings. 'This is Mr and Mrs Squalor,' she said, and even Kit flused a little from embarrassment. 'And this is Mr and Mrs Widdershins.' 'We know,' Klaus said, but not agressively or angrily, and then his eyebrows raised. 'Mr and Mrs Widdershins?' Colette couldn't help but think that just a little rude, but then embarrassedly nodded. 'Well, yes,' she answered. ' I'm Mrs Widdershins.'
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 16, 2009 14:14:00 GMT -5
Klaus hadn’t meant for the question to come out sounding rude, but it came as a shock that Colette the Contortionist and Fernald the Hook-Handed Man would have ended up together. Klaus supposed it wasn’t as unbelievable as Esmé and Jerome Squalor having apparently reconciled, but strange nonetheless.
The two eldest Baudelaire siblings exchanged looks, as if the idea of a circus performer and a man with hooks for hands falling in love was really that surprising. Colette herself was feeling ready to defend her relationship with her husband— though she really had no reason to —when Faust pressed a hand to each of her parents’ backs. She leaned forward from in between them, and smiled at the two Baudelaires. “And I’m Faust,” she announced.
“Our daughter,” Colette clarified.
Klaus was just about to ask Fernald and Colette how they’d ended up together, when the two hotel doors burst open and Emma and Beatrice came rushing outside.
Emma, who was wearing her stiletto boots, skidded to a screeching halt on the pavement, while Beatrice went to stand next to her mother. The sound that Emma’s boots made reminded both the Squalors and the Baudelaires of Vice Principal Nero’s violin, but of course no one said anything.
“Sunny told us you’d just arrived,” Emma said, throwing her arms around both of her parents. “Did you have any trouble finding the hotel?”
“Not at all,” Jerome replied, and ruffled his stepdaughter’s hair. “The directions Mrs. Snicket gave us were very lucid.”
“The Hotel Denouement has a game room. And a pool, bigger than the one we’ve got at home.”
“Daddy,” Faust asked, and tugged a bit at her father’s arm to get his attention. “Is it O.K. if I go swimming?”
“It’s still a bit chilly for that, love,” Fernald told her, and Faust pouted.
“The pool still needs to be drained, anyway,” Beatrice informed, as if she thought this would make things better. “The next time you come visit, maybe the weather will have warmed up a bit and we can all go swimming.”
This seemed to cheer Faust up, and she spread her arms widely before sprinting across the grass like some sort of bird.
Emma rolled her eyes in a way that reminded Kit of Jerome, but of course the hotel manager said nothing about this.
“I’m very tired, Jerome,” Esmé said just then. “I think I’d like to sleep a little before dinner.”
“Of course, my darling,” her husband said, noting the tiny, almost invisible red marks on her pale upper arms. He kissed her affectionately on the forehead, ignoring what he felt were suspicious gazes from Violet and Klaus.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 16, 2009 14:43:15 GMT -5
Of course it wasn't unexpected that the two elder Baudelaire's had questions to ask about Esmé Squalor's sincerity. Violet and Klaus were both sensitive, understanding and kind, and understood in theory how a person could undergo change. But the prospect that Esmé Squalor had changed from a narcissistic villainess into a dedicated wife and mother was quite a difficult thing to understand in practice. The Baudelaire's had no doubt that it had been Esmé's choice to invite Fernald and Colette Widdershins along to the Hotel Denoument was because she felt she probably needed someone else around whose background was less than spotless. Though Colette had never been particularly villainous--just a follower, maybe--Klaus and Violet also warily observed Fernald Widdershins.
'I'll show you to your rooms,' Kit said, making an effort to smile at them all. Jerome made to put an arm around his wife, but it seemed she was having none of it. She moodily shifted away, evidently still upset that he had forced her to stop clinging to him, and Jerome himself blushed, all too aware that she was doing nothing to convince the Baudelaire's that she was any less the money-obsessed, unpleasant woman she had been fourteen years ago.
~
As soon as the door was shut behind them, and Jerome had thanked Klaus Baudelaire for helping to bring their luggage up to their room, Esmé took off her jacket and curled up atop the bed, and Jerome sighed in a rare fit of impatience.
'Esmé,' he said, sounding as angry as he could force hismelf to. This in itself was a shock--the rarely addressed her by her first name if she was upset, tending to prefer 'sweetheart' or 'darling'. 'What did you think you were doing? Aren't I allowed to speak to Kit?'
He had hoped she might become angry. This was one of the first times that Jerome had wanted his wife to become angry at him, but he had hoped that it would snap her out of her current behaviour. Instead, the small figure on the back said and did nothing, but did begin to tremble slightly. Esmé was facing away from him, and once again scraped her nails against her forearm, cross at herself for making Jerome feel ashamed of her. Who was she kidding? She was just like she had always been. Second-best. Stupid, naive little Esmé. Jerome had every right to be completely and utterly ashamed of her. She almost felt sorry for him for having to be married to someone as stupid and hideous as---
--Jerome hadn't been able to keep up the act of being cross with her, and curled his arms around her. He knew she'd been having a difficult day--right from the moment she had found out that Kit and Jerome had ever been romantically involved to the momet she saw Violet and Klaus again. It was perfectly understandable that this was how she was going to react.
'Sweetheart,' he said, and kissed her cheek. 'I didn't mean to upset you, my love.'
Esmé stifled a sob, and buried her face in the pillow. She tried to scrath her nails along her arm again, but her husband's hand closed fully around her arm and stopped her.
'You d-don't t-think you're g-going to do it,' she said through her tears, which at times almost choked her. 'B-But -you w-will in the end. I-I already k-know...'
When she noticed her husband looking at her confusedly, she forced herself to clarify, and shifted out of his grip.
'Y-You d-don't think you're g-going to leave m-me for K-Kit,' she said, and stood up when her husband tried again to reach her. 'B-But y-you will. Everybody d-does eventually.'
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 16, 2009 16:05:46 GMT -5
“Esmé, how could you even begin— Why would you— my darling, I could never leave you. Not for Kit, or anybody else. Not even if I wanted to.”
“B-but B-Bertrand d-id,” Esmé said shakily. “A-and Fernald. A-and O-Olaf. M-my p-parents. G-Geraldine, t-oo. E-every-one. A-after p-promising th-they’d a-always s-stay w-with m-me.”
Jerome had never heard his wife stutter quite like this before, and although the sound was incredibly cute, to behold it was absolutely heartbreaking. “Sweetheart,” he tried again, and blinked the tears raging forth in his green eyes. “I assure you that isn’t going to happen this time. I’m not Bertrand Baudelaire, or Fernald Widdershins, and God knows I’m not Olaf. I’m Jerome, your husband: the man who’s loved you from the moment we met outside the Very Fancy Desserts Bakery, on that snowy December afternoon back in 1971.”
Esmé knew she should trust in not only her husband’s words, but in what were undoubtedly his true feelings for her. In the ten years and eleven months she had lived with her biological parents, she’d been led to believe that wealthy men were all untrustworthy. But Olaf had not been wealthy, and he’d turned out to be not only unworthy of Esmé’s trust, but a cheat as well. Jerome had been the complete opposite, and ultimately became the love of her life. She had trusted him from the beginning, which was why it had been so easy for her to lure him into hers and Olaf’s web of treachery and deceit. Now, fourteen years later, Esmé had still not forgiven herself, and would often beat herself up over it (both emotionally and physically). In the last year she had become consumed by an intense fear that she would be abandoned by the husband she so adored as punishment for her past actions. She could threaten suicide, but what good would that do? It certainly wouldn’t extinguish her fear, not to mention upset her husband even more…
She was at a loss.
Esmé was desperately fighting to think of what she should do, or how to respond to what Jerome had just told her, when he reached for her hand.
“Esmé Gigi Genevieve Squalor,” he said, and she could sense him struggling to hold back tears. “You are my most beautiful, cherished treasure, and I would rather die than be separated from you.”
Jerome tugged lightly at his wife’s hand, beckoning her to lay down with him on the bed. As she permitted the first of her tears to fall, she climbed onto the bed, snuggling down beside him and allowing him to wrap his strong arms around her at last.
Jerome didn’t feel the need to ask permission, as they had gone through countless experiences of the same nature several times. Esmé bit her lip in anticipation, as she felt her husband’s hand slide up her blouse and simply rest itself for a moment on the softness of her stomach. As he began to massage it, he pressed his other hand firmly into the side of her waist. He was absolutely determined not to let go until she was asleep, and therefore incapable of doing herself any harm.
“I love you,” Jerome whispered, wary of the way his wife was still trembling. “And that, my dear, is the truth.”
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 16, 2009 16:33:11 GMT -5
Although Jerome had been determined to get his wife to sleep where she was no longer able to do herself any harm, he had ot been hoping to lull himself off at the same time. A knock at the door an hour later made Jerome Squalor look around blearily, and he carefully disentangled himself from his wife's arms and went to open the door.
Colette and Fernald were standing in the doorway.
'Kit told us it's time for dinner,' Colette said, and by the way Fernald looked at Jerome it was clear that he had not yet told her about their discoveries about Esmé's true birth date. 'Is Esmé OK?' she asked, lowering her voice. 'She looked a bit upset earlier.'
Jerome opened his mouth to answer the question truthfully, but then simply shook his head. 'Esmé's fine,' he answered. 'But she is asleep. I'll have to wake her. Thank you for coming to let me know, we'll probably be down in about---'
'--It's OK,' his wife interrupted, and her arms curled around his waist with some difficulty. 'I'm awake.'
Jerome grinned, and then shrugged. 'In that case,' he said, turning to wrap a protective arm around his beloved wife. 'I suppose we can go now.'
~
The Hotel Denouement was very grand indeed, and even Jerome and Esmé couldn't help but be impressed by the grand architecture--it seemed whoever had rebuilt the Hotel has strived to maintain it's authenticity--but Colette, Fernald and Faust were naturally completely amazed.
'They live here,' Colette said to her husband in a shocked whisper. 'With all this space. They actually live here.'
Fernald smiled. Colette was known for her shocking ability to state the blatantly obvious. 'Yes, dear, I think they do.'
Colette didn't say anything else, but Fernald was already feeling particularly guilty, as always. He couldn't help but wish that he could be able to provide somewhere pleasant for his family to live--the penthouse and this Hotel Denouement were both exceptional, but even a nice house that didn't smell like horseradish would do fine--but he knew he couldn't. Colette's new job would help tremendously, but it wouldn't be enough to get them a new house. He could only hope that Faust would be able to do better in her lifetime than they had done in theirs, even without a perfect start.
|
|
|
Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 16, 2009 19:45:14 GMT -5
Colette seated herself loyally beside Esmé, whose eyes were noticeably puffy from all of the on-again-off-again crying she had done. Jerome slid into a chair beside his wife, and Fernald into another next to Colette. Fernald insisted that Faust— who wanted to join Emma and Beatrice at the other end of the grand table —to sit beside him, just so he could make sure his daughter didn’t use her hands rather than her silverware, as she had a tendency to do at home.
“But whyyyy?” Faust whined, after she had plopped herself reluctantly down into a chair beside her father.
“Faust,” Colette whispered firmly. “Stop whining, and listen to your father.”
“But I wanna sit with—”
“You’ll sit where you’re told,” Fernald told Faust firmly, and that marked the end of the discussion.
Like Fernald, Esmé had often found it difficult to dine out at restaurants, but for a different reason altogether. Her weight had always been an issue for her— especially in her teens, when she had suffered from a serious eating disorder. Her old fears had returned shortly after Emma’s birth, when Esmé had been forced to come to the painful conclusion that she would never again be a size four like she had been for so many years prior. Esmé was well aware that she was noticeably curvier now than she was when the Baudelaires had last seen her, and she wondered what they thought of that. She knew that such a thing was silly and shouldn’t matter, but her looks were incredibly important to her, just as they always had been, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being thought less of by anyone. Whether they were friends of hers, or three innocent children she had once helped her villainous boyfriend in stealing the fortune from.
“Jerome?” Esmé asked, turning her face and lowering her voice so that only he could hear her. “I don’t— I’m not sure if I can—”
“What, Esmé?” Jerome said kindly. “What is it?”
Esmé smiled a little, and blushed as she lowered her eyes to Jerome’s necktie. It was one she had recently bought him, black and decorated with yellow smiley faces. She laughed, and then answered her husband’s question. “I’m nervous,” she said, “about eating in front of everyone.”
Jerome smiled, but nodded in response. He couldn’t say he hadn’t expected this, and put his arm around his wife to offer her a bit of comfort. “You’ve nothing to be nervous for,” he said. He placed his thumb beneath her chin and tilted back her head, so that she was forced to look at him. “If anything, I’m the one who should be nervous.”
Jerome’s eyes drifted slowly down to his stomach. Esmé was just about to throw her arms around him to remind him of just how adorable she thought him, when Kit entered the dining room. With her was Sunny Baudelaire, along with a woman that neither Esmé nor Fernald had any trouble recognizing.
“That’s—” Esmé began.
Fernald gasped. “Fiona,” he finished.
|
|
|
Post by Jenny on Feb 18, 2009 7:38:25 GMT -5
Although her identity had immediately been clear, there was no mistaking that Fiona Widdershins had undergone quite a few changes over the years. Esmé had no trouble discerning the similarities between Fernald and his half-sister, where she had seen none previously. Fiona's hair was a red a little clamer but no less attractive than Carmelita's shade, and, regardless of her age, she was still wearing red-rimmed triangular glasses.
Fernald had frozen on the spot for a few moments, but then finally got to his feet just in time for Fiona to throw herself into his arms. She was a thirty-year-old woman now, but seperation from Fernald and desperation to see him had combined and made her act younger.
Esmé was ashamed that her first thought on seeing Fernald's relative had been 'triangle eyes'. She wondered when she had started inventing cruel nicknames, or whether she had simply copied them from her boyfriend. Hooky, certainly, hadn't been her own. As she was pondering this, Fiona looked towards her.
There was an uncomfortable moment where neither of the women knew what to say or do. Though Esmé had not treated Fiona Widdershins as badly as she had the Baudelaires, she imagined the red-head probably did not exactly have the fondest memories of her.
'Hello,' Esmé forced out eventually. Jerome, of course, was utterly bewildered--he had no idea who his woman was or how she was acquainted with Fernald or his wife--but from the silence he became aware that whoever she was, she was not on good terms with his wife.
'Hello,' the red-head replied, but did not smile. Fernald took over, sensing an opportunity to make some connection with the Baudelaire's and Kit Snicket if he could convince Fiona of his and Esmé's morality.
'Fiona, do you remember Esmé? She's a good friend of ours, now. I suppose you never really got to know her very well when you were--'
Fiona's face had fallen since the mention of his connection with Esmé. '--I thought you were going to distance yourself from your old life,' she said, and he trailed off. That had been what he'd said after they escaped together and planned to start anew--but things had quickly changed. Fernald had planned to distance himself from everyone he'd previously known, but what he'd really meant was distance hismelf from Olaf, and everything connected to him. At the time that had covered Esmé as well--as he well knew, Olaf very much considered her his--but he hadn't ever planned on leaving behind everything connected to his old life. What about Colette? He had never planned on losing contact completely with her.
|
|