@dante: Thank you! I'm pleased you enjoyed the cliffhanger; I love writing them, so it's nice to know that this one came across to your satisfaction. I'll probably post Chapter Eight and the Epilogue together, since it (the epilogue) is so short. And yes, I remember that detail concerning Beatrice and Bertrand's own dinner parties.
@sherry Ann: Thank you! I based Esme's situation largely off a scene in V.C. Andrew's
Flowers in the Attic, so perhaps that's the work you're thinking of? I'm also glad you like the way I've written the Salinger family.
MrLachrymose: Thank you! And I think you'll be quite surprised when it is revealed who it is standing on the other side of the door.
~
Chapter Three
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Thinking[/i] it was Estelle after somehow discovering her stepdaughter’s hiding place, Esmé screamed. She was preparing to dart behind a piece of furniture before realizing that the intruder was not her stepmother, but a little boy. He was seemingly around her own age, but chubby, with a round face and a small mouth. Strands of dark brown hair shielded his bright green eyes, as if he’d recently been in a struggle or fled a stressful situation. Esmé was willing to bet it was the latter, for the boy appeared to be out of breath. He was dressed in a navy blue blazer over a white, button-down shirt and khaki trousers with brown loafers. The necktie he wore was a dark blue and decorated all over with a pattern of pancakes. Esmé could tell just by looking at the tie that it was not the standard clip-on that most seven-year-olds would wear, but a real, adult tie.
“Oh!” the little boy cried, as he turned to find Esmé staring at him. “I’m sorry! But I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”
“It’s O.K.” She imparted a warm smile, wanting to do what she could to help him relax. “Are you playing hide-and-go-seek with someone?”
“More like
escaping someone. Do you mind if I hide out here for a while?”
Delighted by the idea of not having to spend the entire evening alone, Esmé’s shook her head vigorously. “Not at all! But who is it that you’re trying to get away from?”
“This horrible girl my parents forced me to dance with—now she thinks I’m her boyfriend.”
“What’s so horrible about her?”
“Well, for one thing, she keeps forcing me to tell her that she’s beautiful.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“No, but she’s bossy. So bossy that I know if I don’t tell her she’s beautiful, then she’ll try to argue her way into
forcing me to say she is. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s arguing.”
“I don’t mind arguing so much,” Esmé confessed, “when
I’m the one doing it. It’s when I hear
others argue that I get upset.”
“Me, too—especially when it’s my mommy and daddy.”
“My parents argue a lot, too. Well, my
stepmother does, at least.”
“Who does she argue with?”
“My father. But it’s always Estelle—that’s my stepmother—who starts with
him. Sometimes their arguments are so loud they wake me and my sister up at night.”
“My parents’ arguments didn’t start until after I was born. That’s when my daddy says they started, anyway. My mommy says it isn’t true. But I can tell the way my daddy looks at me when he talks about it that he doesn’t agree with her.”
Esmé didn’t know
what to say to that. Though her relationship with her stepmother was strained, never had there been a time in which Estelle had blamed her problems with Holden on Esmé’s existence. How awful it must be to live in a place where you were made to feel responsible for something over which you had no control.
“Oh, well. I guess I can’t feel too bad about it,” the boy went on, half smiling. “Last year, after my brother came along, their fights only got worse. Which I guess means that it was bound to happen, sooner or later.”
In spite of the boy’s optimism, Esmé couldn’t help pitying him. She extended her small hand, offering him a comforting smile. “I’m Esmé…Esmé Gigi Genevieve Salinger.”
Smiling back, the boy caught her hand in his, which was twice the size of hers. “I’m Jerome Squalor. David.”
Esmé giggled. “Your middle name is ‘Squalor’?”
“No.” Esmé watched in amusement as the face of the boy named Jerome took on a color akin to her shoes. “It’s David. Squalor is my
last name.”
“I knew that. I was just teasing you.”
Jerome’s blush deepened, and Esmé looked down to see that he was still holding her hand. Although she was a few years away from the age where she would become interested in boys, she had to admit she rather liked Jerome. His awkwardness and timidity was the polar opposite to her confidence and sincerity. Often Esmé had heard adults say that opposites attracted. She presumed they had not merely been speaking of men and women, but rather their emotional differences. But it wasn’t until Esmé Gigi Genevieve Salinger had made the acquaintance of Jerome David Squalor that the truth of this awakened within her.
Esmé’s tender moment with Jerome was suddenly and viciously interrupted by a ghastly sound: A screech equivalent to the shrill cries of a banshee. Esmé hardly noticed Jerome’s eyes drift nervously to the door, before he yelped and hurried to hide himself behind a piece of furniture.
In the meantime, Esmé directed her attention to the person who had dared intrude upon her secret hiding place. Standing in the doorway of the small room was a girl around her own age, except this girl was humongous. Not humongous as in height, but in
width. She was so large that she blocked nearly the entire doorway with her girth. Her red hair balanced out her size, for it was styled in a way that reminded Esmé of the powdered wigs men and women had worn during the Eighteenth Century. The girl’s gown was red, and had puffy sleeves that only added to her size. The gown was covered from head to toe in more sparkles than Esmé and Beatrice had combined in both their craft kits.
“How
dare you steal away my boyfriend and then lure him in here so you can have your way with him!” the red-headed girl shouted at Esmé.
Esmé was shocked—never had she been accused of doing something she hadn’t. The fact that she now was, and that the one doing the accusing was such an unpleasant person, only served to infuriate her. Esmé clenched her fists together and stalked over to the other girl, whom she towered a good three to four inches over. Pointing a condemning finger between the girl’s eyes Esmé said, “Now, you listen to
me, and you listen good, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once: I didn’t steal Jerome away from you, and I
didn’t lure him in here, either. He came on his own, and he did it because he was trying to get away from
you. You’re bossy, and he doesn’t like being bossed around.”
“Or arguing!” Jerome called from the other side of the room.
Simultaneously, the heads of Esmé and the other girl snapped around. They saw Jerome peering out at them from over the back of Francesca’s armchair. Turning to face each other once more, the two girls continued their conversation; or rather, Esmé continued with what she’d been saying.
“Exactly… So you see,” Esmé concluded, “you can’t go around forcing everyone you meet to give you compliments and tell you that you’re beautiful. If you do that, then all you’ll get in return are a bunch of bad-tempered enemies.”
Fire as bright as the girl’s red hair lit up her eyes as she glared contemptuously up at Esmé. “For your information, my name is Carlotta Clarissa Casanova, daughter of Don Abramo Andino Casanova and Felicia Chiara Caroline Casanova. I am the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world, and so it’s only fair that I always get what I want, no matter what.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Carlotta,” said Esmé, who suddenly felt herself overcome with a fierce determination to protect the cowering Jerome. “But unless he wants to, Jerome isn’t leaving this room with you.”
“How dare you!” Carlotta shouted. “I’ll have you know that my parents are descendents of Italy’s richest royal families. If I asked him to, my father would throw you in jail just for stealing Jerome from me!”
“Oh, stop being so overdramatic, Carlotta. Can’t you see by now that Jerome doesn’t want anything to do with you? Besides, Papa isn’t going to throw a child in jail any more than he’s going to agree to Maxwell Squalor’s business deal.”
The unfamiliar voice drew Esmé’s attention away from the face of Carlotta Clarissa Casanova and onto that of another child. This other child was a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve, with sleek dark hair that was parted down the center and eyes the color of black marbles. He was dressed smartly in a flashy red suit, white shirt, and a white tie decorated all over with red hearts. In the corner of his mouth he displayed a large pretzel stick, balancing it between his lips as if it were a cigar and himself a full grown adult. He winked from over his shoulder at Esmé, who blushed and looked down before he could notice.
Pressing his index and middle fingers between the pretzel stick, the boy withdrew it from his mouth. Bringing his hand down on Carlotta’s shoulder, he said, “So you might as well put a stop to your childish behavior and go back to the party. Momma’s looking for you, anyway.”
Carlotta twisted her head of huge hair around to glare at the elder boy standing behind her. “You can’t tell me what to do, Carlo. Papa’s the only one who—”
“Did I mention that Mrs. Salinger just brought out a platter of homemade strawberry tarts?”
“She did?”
Again Carlo winked at Esmé before addressing Carlotta. “Sure did—I saw her coming out of the kitchen just before I came over here. You’d better hurry back if you want any. From what I’ve heard, Mrs. Salinger makes the best tarts in all of San Francisco, so they’re sure to go fast.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Seeming to forget all about her grudge against Esmé, Carlotta pushed by Carlo and disappeared into the crowd outside the door.
“Hah,” said Carlo, ostensibly pleased with himself as he returned the pretzel stick cigar to his mouth. “I knew that would get rid of her. The next time Carlotta bothers you and you want her to go away, just mention something about food being nearby and you can’t fail. Though I should warn you not to do it too often, or else she’ll get wise.”
“You lied,” Esmé said, though she couldn’t keep herself from smiling as she surveyed Carlo’s handsome face. “My stepmother isn’t known for any strawberry tart recipe.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s my
own mother whose recipe for raspberry tarts is famous back in Italy. But I guess it didn’t occur to my sister to put two and two together.”
“You should have told her that my daddy had just made a batch of cherry pancakes. Then you would have been telling the truth. He’s famous for them…at least in our house.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep it in mind for the next time I need to save someone from Carlotta’s controlling clutches. I’m Carlo, by the way. Carlo Alfredo Casanova.” He held out his hand for Esmé to shake, which she did. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my family? They work for the Venice Fire Department of Venice, Italy.”
Esmé shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you’re the only Casanova I’ve ever heard of, besides your sister.”
“Trust me,” said Carlo, and once more removed the pretzel cigar from his mouth. At first Esmé thought it was in order to help himself speak more clearly. But then she saw that he was raising her hand to his lips. “We’re not all like Carlotta. The rest of us Casanovas are all quite charming…” Esmé then watched, half exhilarated and half embarrassed, as Carlo lowered his head slightly and kissed her hand. “I hope you don’t mind, but my lips and I can never resist the hand of a pretty girl in distress.”
Dazed and a little lightheaded from Carlo’s unexpected feat, it took Esmé a few moments to gather her words together. In the time it took her to do so, Jerome had found the opportunity to leave his hiding place. She was just about to assure Carlo that no, she didn’t mind her hand being kissed, when a low cough emanated from the orchid armchair. With their hands still clasped together, Esmé and Carlo turned to see Jerome, sitting in the chair. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, and his small lips pursed together as if he was seeing something he didn’t like.
“Is she gone?” he asked, his sullen tone indicating how little he cared for whether or not this was true.
“Yup,” Carlo replied. To Esmé’s dismay, he let go of her hand. Not knowing what else to do with it, she linked the fingers of both hands together. “I chased her off. Even so, we should probably get out of here while we still have the chance. Once Carlotta discovers there aren’t any tarts to be had, that’s when she’ll come looking for me. And when she finds me, I’ll bet you ten to one she’ll threaten to chop off my head.”
“Well, just as long as she doesn’t have an ax handy,” Esmé said with a grin, “then I think you’ll be safe.”
“Come on.” Linking his fingers through hers once more, Carlo began to lead Esmé toward the door, Jerome following close behind. “This is your house, right? Now’s your chance to show me all the other hiding places you’ve got stashed around this place.”
“I’m sorry.” Reluctantly, Esmé untwined her fingers from around Carlo’s. The expression he gave her epitomized that which Jerome had given both of them when he’d caught them holding hands. “But you and Jerome will have to go alone. I can’t—”
“Why not?”
“Well…”
“Don’t you live here?”
“Yes.”
“So doesn’t that give you the right to come and go as you please?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Esmé let her eyes fall to her feet, absorbing the shininess of her candy apple red shoes. How could she be expected to tell Carlo the reason behind why she had to remain behind the door under the stairs, when she herself only knew a handful of the explanation? Surely it would lead to her having to go into detail about so many of the Ophelians not liking her, and she would really prefer not to do that. Carlo’s family was from Italy, and so they probably didn’t know anything about it, anyway. Still, Esmé would prefer to keep such information confidential from someone she’d only just met.
“What’s wrong?” Carlo prodded, when Esmé still refused to look at him. “Don’t tell me your parents expect you to stay cooped up in here all night long like a caged bird, while everyone else enjoys the festivities.”
As much as it pained her to do so, Esmé saw no other choice but to respond to Carlo’s statement with something other than the truth. She hated lying, though she only did it when it was absolutely necessary. Such as when someone was wearing an ugly sweater and she wanted to avoid hurting their feelings. But Carlo Casanova was not wearing any predominantly hideous clothing. In fact, there wasn’t one thing about him that could be considered unappealing.
“I know it isn’t true,” he said, when he saw that Esmé had no intent on removing her eyes from the floor, “for I saw your sister just a short time ago. Are you shy? Is that the reason you’ve chosen to hide yourself away in this dusty old stairwell?”
If Esmé hadn’t been blushing before, then she certainly was now. Her mind, still too young to recognize the complexities and infatuations of true love, was swimming with all sorts of new feelings. Feelings for Carlo’s gallantry and Zorro-esque good looks…feelings for Jerome’s buoyancy and how he physically resembled her favorite teddy bear. So easy was it to fantasize about each boy simultaneously holding her by the hand and strolling with her through a field of wildflowers. While Carlo kissed her cheek, Jerome would give her a hug, and vice versa. Just thinking about the three of them together like this made Esmé’s heart flutter with happiness. Her father was married to Estelle, and yet had said several times that he loved Francesca. So there was no reason why Esmé couldn’t love two boys, too, right?
Right?“I know a way to help you overcome your shyness,” said Carlo with a smile, as he once more began leading Esmé toward the door.
“Can I go, too?” Jerome asked hopefully.
“Sure,” Esmé said, just in case Carlo had any ideas about keeping her all for himself.
“Just make sure you keep up with us,” Carlo added. “This is a huge house from what I can tell, and quite easy to get lost in.”
“My house is just as big,” muttered Jerome, switching off the light on his way out of the little room. He shut the door behind himself, then went to catch up with Esmé and Carlo before they became lost in the crowd.