Chapter 66
66
Two weeks later…
Quinn
I ’m an exhausted mess, smeared with ingredients from Madagascan vanilla to Demerara sugar. I sigh as I undo the laces and toss the offending apron into the laundry pile in the corner of the kitchen. It’s been a long day, but worth it.
“You did well, Quinn.” Marcel puts a paternal hand on my shoulder. “You’re a little heavy-handed when piping the eclairs. Remember: light, fast, and even.”
I nod. “ Oui, chef.”
“But I have to say,” he picks up a macaron and turns it in his hand, “these are perfection. I couldn’t do better myself.”
I flush with pride. Marcel Chevalier is my hero, and his nephew Gerard has a new establishment in Boston. Marcel was delighted to fly to New York and take me on as his apprentice in return for Roman’s generous patronage.
He’s an excellent teacher, encouraging yet firm. He tells me it’s because he sees my passion and wants to nurture it.
“Do you want a challenge next week?” he asks as he helps me into my jacket. “Gerard has a wedding to cater. Généralement , he would call on the restaurant staff to help him prepare, but he needs a thousand champagne and rose macarons, and I know of no one more talented than when it comes to that particular petit four . Tu es d’accord ?”
“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for having so much faith in me.”
He gives a flamboyant bow. “ De rien, cherie . Go now before Roman comes looking for you.”
I have to smile at that. Roman has eased up on following me, but it’s not a habit he’s kicked entirely yet. On more than one occasion, he parked outside, waiting for me when my lesson with Marcel ended.
I push open the door and see that this is one of those days; Roman is just pulling up at the curbside.
It’s not until I reach the car that I see Roman’s face, and he looks desolate, avoiding my eyes as he gets out and opens the passenger door for me.
“ Rusalka , I just got the call,” he says. “I knew you’d have your phone silenced, so I came straight here.”
“What’s the matter?” I clutch his hand, searching his eyes. “What could?—”
“It’s Carrie.” His voice is leaden. “It’s almost time.”
Carrie stopped eating and drinking three days ago. I was furious, demanding feeding tubes and IV fluids until Roman gently explained that her body knew what to do.
I wanted to stay at her bedside, but she made me promise I’d go to school every day, so as soon as my lessons were over, Roman and I drove out to see her at her beachside home.
Yesterday, she lapsed in and out of consciousness, unaware of the loss of time, and I had to leave her to rest, terrified I’d never hear her voice again.
I sob silently in the car as we leave the city behind. There’s nothing to say; we’ve talked about it for hours over the last few weeks. Carrie is comfortable, in no pain, and relaxing in the house that holds her sweetest memories. It was all she wanted.
When we arrive, the sun is already low in the sky, with bands of pink and orange striping the sky where it meets the sea. The water is tranquil, the tide easing in as it always does.
I feel mocked by the relentless rhythms of life. How can the world carry on when my dearest friend is dying?
As I climb out of the car, Esmeralda catapults herself down the patio steps, looking flustered but happy.
“Miss Quinn!” She clutches my shoulders. “Miz Carrie, she was asleep, but now she’s awake! Up and in her chair. It’s wonderful to see.”
I turn to Roman and frown. He smiles, but his eyes are filled with sadness.
I remember now. Those actively leaving this life can experience a kind of rally, sometimes called terminal lucidity. It can be distressing for the individual and their loved ones, but in some people, it’s a chance to say goodbye to their life and everything in it that matters.
“Is she okay?” I ask as we head inside. “In herself, I mean.”
“Sure.” Esmeralda pats my hand reassuringly. “Nothing is hurting her. She will be so glad to see you.”
Carrie’s bedroom is in near darkness, illuminated only by a nightlight. The last time I was here, she was in bed, hooked up to a stats monitor and her syringe driver, with oxygen being delivered via a nasal catheter.
Now, she’s framed in the open doors, sitting straight-backed and sturdy in her favorite chair. A thick blanket is wrapped around her frail shoulders, and she holds a china teacup.
Despite her fragility, the sun behind her makes her seem to glow like she’s already imbued with the light of another place. She has one foot in the future, whatever it may be, and the sense of peace is almost holy.
“She uncoupled herself from the medical things,” Esmeralda whispers as we walk through the room. “No breathing help, no monitoring, no drugs. I ask her if she is in pain, but she says no.”
She stops as we reach the patio doors. “I will stay in the kitchen,” she says, “but if you need me, please call.”
I give her a nod, and she departs. Roman squeezes my hand, and we step into the hallowed space.
Carrie greets us with a warm smile and sets down her cup. We sit, and I cradle her hand in my lap. Her fingers are thin, her skin blueish and mottled, and I try to tuck them under the blanket.
“Don’t fuss, my Quinn.” She chuckles at my fussing. “I can’t feel the cold anymore. Esmeralda says the blue color will work its way to the middle, and when it gets to my heart, I will finally go.” She closes her eyes. “I’m ready.”
“Would you like us to stay?” Roman asks. “You needn’t be alone, no matter how long you hang on.”
He’s hiding it well, but I know how desperately he wants to see this through—not just for her but also for his mother and everyone else who Fate denied a loving hand to hold at the end.
Carrie furrows her brow, turning to face Roman as though she’s only now aware of him. “Why, Winston,” she says, her voice reduced to an awe-struck whisper. “When did you get here?”
“I never went far,” Roman replies. He wraps his large hand around her delicate one. “You knew I’d wait.”
I swallow a lump in my throat. What a wonderful man he is. It would be easier for him to dodge this emotional responsibility and tell her she’s mistaken.
How simple it would be to remind her that her beloved husband is dead, has been so for years, and she’s imagining things. But no—he’s leaning into it and doing whatever it takes to comfort her.
Carrie extracts her hand from mine and picks up her teacup. “You know what this is?” she asks. “It’s whisky. I wasn’t allowed it before, but this handsome man brought it for me as a present.”
I arch a brow at Roman, and he shrugs. “She asked for it. You know me; I hate to say no to the women in my life.”
Carrie takes a sip and settles back in her chair. Then she whips her head to stare at Roman.
“Oh, goodness,” she exclaims. “I thought you were my husband. And look at him, Quinn, working his charms on me. Right in front of you, too!”
We laugh despite everything. She is still her glorious self, but it won’t last. I’d do anything to preserve these precious minutes, but they’re passing too quickly, like water trickling through my fingers.
“Sweetheart, help me,” she says. “I want to go for a walk.”
“Really?” I stand, allowing her to lean on me. “It’s kinda breezy, and you haven’t been on the beach since?—”
“Quinn.” She clutches my arm, rising to her feet, and I realize she’s barefoot. “I want to sit on the sand and watch the sun go down, like Winston and I used to. Then I’ll know he’s here for real.”
“Go,” Roman says, removing his coat and wrapping it around my shoulders. “She needs you.”
Carrie and I sit with our knees bent, toes burrowing into the sand. She rests against me, her head nestled into my shoulder as the sun eases below the horizon.
Waves foam as they kiss our feet, barely touching at first but getting closer until they lap at our ankles.
“You should keep the house,” she says. “Fill it with love and happiness, as Winston and I did. Promise me?”
“Sure. Anything.”
I could say so many things, but none seem important enough. I thought I would die when Silvio Vercotti held a gun to my head, but I didn’t have time to contemplate it.
Carrie has had months to stare her mortality in the eye, but of all my millions of questions, only one stands out.
“Are you afraid?” I ask.
She draws a deep breath. “Not anymore.”
“So you were afraid before? What changed?”
“I never feared for myself,” she says. “I’m old, and old people die. It’s the natural order. It was you I worried about. I knew you needed someone to take care of you, and despite all your big talk, things were not okay. Until you met Roman, of course.”
I was crazy to think I could fool her that I was doing fine. I never told her about the horrible business with Julian and Vercotti, but I did clue her in about my husband’s criminal proclivities. She was unsurprised; she’d called it already but left it to me to get to the truth myself.
“I believe in him,” she continues. “It takes a lot for a man like yours to open up and surrender his heart. He’s risked everything for you, and that’s what love has to be—a risk. If you have nothing to lose, what can you possibly gain?”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “Roman and I have been through a lot together. He will be there for me; I know it.”
“He will.” Carrie draws circles in the sand with her fingertip. “I just wish I could have met the baby.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I laugh. “I only threw away my pills this week.”
“Not yet , but soon,” she says. “A baby girl with your eyes. I’ll have a word about it upstairs.”
We allow the rushing of the water to soothe us. Carrie lies on her side, her head on my lap as she looks out to sea, and I stroke her cheek. The breeze ruffles her thin hair, and she wraps an arm around my knee.
“I love you, my Quinn,” she says, her voice high and light, like a child’s.
“I love you too.” I hug her close. “We should get in from the cold soon, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t hear me. “Hello, Winston,” she murmurs. “It’s a beautiful evening.”
I drape her blanket over her, tucking it in so she won’t feel the chill. She says nothing more, and I silently watch the sun descend, vanishing where the ocean meets the boundless sky.
Carrie gives a shuddering exhalation. Panic seizes me but releases its grip as I remember what she said.
She’s ready to go. If it’s time, I have no right to interfere. It’s my honor to comfort her on her final journey.
After a few minutes of shallow, rapid breathing, she stills. I wait to see whether her chest will fill again before moving my hand so I can place it over her heart.
There’s nothing but a devastating, silent finality. Her broken vessel is as empty as the shells that litter the beach.
Carrie is going home, unencumbered by age and her failing body. She will return to the universe, where she and Winston will be young and in love for all eternity.
The night is settling in, and stars pepper the expanse of indigo deepening overhead. I gaze at them, my eyes stinging with tears, the grief like a brand in my heart.
She was right. I am smiling.