Chapter 8 August - Magdalene & Sam
AUGUST: MAGDALENE & SAM
Setting her purse on the hook quietly did nothing to dispel her frustration. Placing the keys in the little ceramic holder in the shape of an orange cat by the door did the opposite of clearing her anger. Gently taking her jacket off and hanging it in the closet only heightened her rage.
But above all, it was the silence of the house that made Magdalene seethe. That set her teeth on edge. That had her stopping in the middle of an empty living room and forcing herself to take a deep breath. And then another. And then another.
Usually, ten did the trick. Tonight, she knew a hundred would leave her just as mad as she had arrived.
Her day had spiraled. Hell, her week, her month, her year had been nothing short of a nightmare.
When she’d accepted the position of Secretary of Education, Magdalene knew her job would not be easy.
She understood how deeply political that role was.
And then… just a few hours into it, she realized how absolutely unprepared she had been for the blatant, sheer horridness of Washington politics.
Her own pink glasses had been torn off her in minutes of stepping into her new office.
As for the rest? Only Sam’s steady insistence that she give it some time, that she was not a quitter, that she was made of sterner stuff, got her to reconsider dropping a letter of resignation in the mail—because she wouldn’t even honor anyone with doing it in person—and departing back to Massachusetts.
But Sam did insist. And so did Vivian. And so here she was. Another day of fucking awfulness on the books.
How to describe the feeling of being completely powerless in the face of your own life and the life of your community falling apart? How to explain that the daily deluge of cruelty, of vitriol, of abject madness was slowly—and sometimes, like today, not slowly at all—eroding her very will to live?
“If not you, then who?”
Sam’s words echoed yet again in her mind as she took a few steps into their empty Georgetown home. A bottle glinted in the corner of their beverage bar and she reached for it on instinct. Blackthorne always brought the best booze.
Lagavulin slid down like heaven, and Magdalene finally felt her shoulders begin to relax. She sat by the window, too tired to lower the blinds, the dim light of a late-night Georgetown street casting shadows on the dark oaken floor in front of her.
Somewhere in the house a board creaked and Magdalene tensed again, her phone in her hands, the number of the Secret Service detail assigned to her queued in.
The sound came again, and Magdalene gripped the heavy whiskey tumbler like a baseball, ready to do some damage by hurling it at whoever dared break into her home.
The third floor board creaking had her pulling her arm back, set to let her projectile fly—
“Meow!”
Magdalene could swear there was both warning and disappointment in a single syllable. With a decidedly disdainful look, Willoughby emerged from the darkness of the kitchen and padded his way into the living room. Magdalene almost dropped the heavy glass, her relief palpable.
“Why do you always do this to me?”
Willoughby ignored her question and continued his leisurely stroll towards her, until he finally reached her ankles and then unceremoniously bumped his heavy head against them, demanding to be picked up.
In his advanced age, his habits had not changed, in fact, becoming even more demanding. Yes, the couch had a little step ladder for him to get on it more easily. No, Willoughby had never debased himself by using it. He was either carried up or he left the room entirely.
As she hefted his considerable weight onto the sofa, next to her, Magdalene was rather certain that when nobody was home, he handled scaling tall surfaces just fine.
“You’re spoiled, Mister.”
He gave her a sideways look, and what must’ve passed for a discreet cat eye roll. Yeah, he was spoiled, and she had nobody else to blame for it but herself. The Spoiler-in-Chief of the Mouser-in-Chief.
They sat in silence for a while until Magdalene felt the darkness become oppressive.
She reached out, the little remote under her fingertips another reminder of Sam’s care.
Their entire home was wired for comfort and ease of use.
One press of the button and a garland of little light bulbs came to life around the massive window overlooking the sleepy street in front of the house.
Willoughby narrowed his eyes at the brightness, and Magdalene smiled at the sight before her. Every light, a memory, the bulbs inscribed with names and dates. Sometimes places.
Paris. Two years ago. They had gone to see a brilliantly choreographed ballet production, Juliette Lucian-Sorel surpassing herself.
Amidst the young and the athletic, Katarina Vyatka had walked on stage with all the glory of a reigning queen, extending her arms and performing a couple of tendus that brought down the house.
Paris did so love its Queens, and those two angsty, dramatic ballerinas still shared the throne of the City of Lights.
Magdalene looked down at Willoughby, who was eyeing her skeptically.
“I know, I know. The French and their queens traditionally do not have a good, healthy history. And I’m pretty certain nobody ever called either Juliette or Katarina’s histories healthy to being with.
Have you read their biographies? It’s one hit after the next, one tragedy bracketed by another fall, or treachery, or death. ”
The cat put his massive, round head on her thigh. He did not purr. Magdalene understood.
The bulb next to the Paris one was from last Christmas, and it had her mother’s name scrolled in a flowery script. There was probably even a heart added to it. Magdalene scrunched up her nose. Her mother was… a fraught subject.
This time, Willoughby’s meow was less supportive.
“I know you adore her. Despite pretending that you don’t.”
His purr resembled a freight train gaining speed and power. Yes, he really did.
“She puts reindeer antlers on you. What do you have to say about that?”
He, honest to goodness, covered his eyes with his paws but went on to purr even louder.
“I hear grandparents are always like that with their grandchildren, you know. Spoil them rotten, bestow on them all the love that they never did on their actual children.”
Willoughby did not deign to reply to her musings, and Magdalene made a mental note to call her mother.
Not tonight though. Candace would surely be too much after the day she had had.
And yet, Willoughby had been right about some things where her mother was concerned.
Candace had changed. Sam was the catalyst, and her wife’s relationship with the cantankerous, high maintenance socialite was both a source of amusement and surprise for Magdalene.
“You are her grand-baby, Sir Willoughby, but Sam is the daughter Candace always wanted.”
Magdalene smiled at the memories. They didn’t sting. Neither did the realization that her mother had a much better relationship with her daughter-in-law than with her own child. Sam simply made things easier on those around her, in ways Magdalene had never even considered to endeavor.
Sam allowed Candace her frivolities, her little outbursts and her machinations.
And Candace, for all her faults and all her shortcomings, gave Sam love.
It might’ve been dramatic, and it might’ve been over-the-top demonstrative and perhaps a tad opportunistic on Candace’s part, but it was steadfast. And always there. And it surprised Magdalene to no end.
Initially, Magdalene had watched the budding relationship flourish with decided wariness. Sam was bound to get hurt. Because Candace was bound to get bored. Married. Divorced. Married again. Go on a cruise to secure a divorce and a marriage. In whichever order.
But days turned to months, and months turned to years, and Candace called and visited and made an effort and sent unexpected gifts and shared secrets and was simply present.
Sam took it in her stride, if with a touch of shock and obvious delight. And Magdalene, who wanted to warn her, who wanted to protect her, who wanted to keep her safe even from her own mother, said nothing. And prayed Candace, for once, did better. As a parent, as a friend.
To everyone’s surprise, including Candace’s, she did. That Christmas they spent on Dragons, of all places, an island Candace swore up and down she hated and would see burnt to the ground before she ever set foot on such “provincial backwater.”
They had stayed in the Headmistress’s cottage and walked on the cliffs and had the most amazing meals in town below the school.
Crow’s Tavern, a Michelin-star establishment run by a nationally renowned chef, was snobby enough for Candace to bestow her presence upon.
Except by the end of their evening, Magdalene could’ve sworn Victoria Crowhart—the chef in question—was a witch, or at least a magician of sorts and not just with food.
Candace was ensorcelled with the company and the tastes and the sounds of the place, so much so, she made them visit three more times in their one week of Christmas holidays.
And then demanded that Victoria cater her society soiree the very next month.
Whether the mischievous chef relented and did indeed cater, Magdalene didn’t know, but Candace was hard to say no to, and Crow’s Tavern was worth every expensive penny. A truly magical establishment.
In her lap, Willoughby’s meow was aggrieved.
“You dined on those leftover morsels for days, kind sir. I know she snuck you plenty, so there is no need for this woe is me, nobody feeds me pretense.”
Willoughby turned his very impressive back to her. Yes, Candace and Sam and even Magdalene herself had shared a number of delicious Tavern creations with him. No, he would not acknowledge this.
Magdalene, however, was not deterred by his antics.
“Moreover, your vet mentioned the diet yet again, Mister.”