52. Epilogue
Epilogue
F abienne stepped from the shadow of the house and turned her face to the fresh morning sun. Before her stretched an immaculate lawn, sloping slightly downward, bordered by tall cypress trees. The endless rolling hills were sprinkled with the enticing golden yellow color that spoke of another harvest to come. She let out a sigh that was meant both to encourage and relax her, and set toward the path that led to the vineyards.
She found Will, as one often would, on his favorite bench amidst the ripening vines, hunched over and intensely sketching in his worn-out drawing book. He glanced up, a smudge of charcoal on his adorable little nose betraying where he scratched it while engulfed in his work.
But it wasn’t the smudge that got Fabienne’s attention. On occasion—perhaps, when the light was just right, or maybe the backdrop, or maybe her emotional standpoint—the gold specks in his eyes sparkled in just the right way. Autumn forest eyes.
They used to be dark blue when he was little. Will was born on a chilly morning in early January, about eight months after Fabienne arrived back in France. On their family estate near Brignoles in Provence, he was surrounded by his loving family—mother, aunt, and uncle, and eventually, as Marion married Gaspard, a little cousin.
He’d also become Fabienne’s measurement of time passed. Months as he learned to talk, walk, years as he became brighter and shot out one question after another. She’d told herself it would be one year before she got any news from the States, before a resolution would come. Then it was two, four, six. She’d wrapped herself into an impenetrable cocoon of the golden Provence hills under a September sun and patched every little crack in it with the best reasoning she could muster.
She had to stay away for the desertion to work.
Brayden couldn’t contact her for that same reason.
Crack. What if he’d moved on?
Crack. What if he never forgave her, and intentionally never sought her out?
Crack. What if something worse had happened?
Until yesterday.
Dionne often sent her newspapers from the States. In the latest one, Fabienne found a notice, barely worth of the word article, squeezed at the bottom of one page. Gideon Henson, a once-esteemed politician who’s been rumored to have personal trouble over the past few years, had a heart attack which left him a complete invalid, unable to move and talk.
At last, they’d done it.
“Je ne peux pas obtenir la bonne jaune,” Will said, tiny frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. Not yet seven, and he could look so serious. “It’s too sharp.”
With a smile, she sat down and inspected his work—a pastel-colored painting emerging from the soft lines of the pencil. “It’s beautiful. The yellow, too.”
“You always say that.”
“Because your drawings are always beautiful.”
Frown persisting, he smudged the yellow.
“Will…” She gulped. “I think it’s time for us to go back.”
Will’s open mouth soon spread into a smile. “I’m going to see Papa?”
She let out a loud breath. “Do you think you’re ready?”
He nodded, and a few locks of hair fell on his forehead. “Are you?”
Fabienne laughed, not just because of Will’s precociousness, but because it felt good. The shell of her cocoon was crumbling, and it felt so damn good .
She didn’t know to what she’d be returning. She was frightened; perhaps more than she’d been all those years ago when she was trying to escape the States. But it was time to find out what awaited her, or, more importantly, it was time to do something.
She pulled a bronze coin out of her pocket, an image of a man sitting on a log imprinted on one side. She rolled it nimbly across her fingers, satisfying her need to fidget. She remembered the young woman well and, over the years, had started suspecting how the events of that morning unfolded. Her story may be done, but someone else’s wasn’t.
“Yes,” she said, and ruffled Will’s hair. “I’m ready.”
***
At precisely six o’clock, Brayden locked the door of the Clocks and Curiosities shop. With business concluded for the day, it was time to head home, and as he looked down the street, his mind already projected the way.
At five past six, he’d stop at the bakery on the corner to get a bite to eat. At eight minutes past, he’d catch the streetcar another block down that would take him to the edge of the city, and he’d continue on foot. At six-forty he’d pass by Jim and Lorraine’s house. Lorraine would be working in the garden, with her youngest, Janet, clinging to her skirts while little Charlie would run down the road to greet him. At a quarter to seven, he’d be home, and Mrs. Tatham would complain about his snack choice when she had a perfectly fine supper waiting for him.
It was nice, peaceful, orderly. The kind of life that pleased one’s inner desire for a stable routine. Pleased the soul.
But what if one’s soul wished for a little more chaos?
Not any kind of chaos. Brayden didn’t miss the one that ensued after Lincoln’s assassination and had, thanks to a drawn-out trial, lasted for years. For the Watchers, who’d been left leaderless in a country that had barely survived the war, matters only got worse with a complete and simultaneous shut-down of the watches, unexplainable to this day.
The country slowly rebuilt itself, the Watchers much faster crumbled to dust. Brayden, in truth, didn’t mind. He had one mission, and four months ago, he'd finally accomplished it. He didn’t enjoy the punishment Henson got, but at least it meant he was safe.
Fabienne was safe.
After the long ordeal, Brayden returned home to Hartford, accepted the offer of taking over Mr. Wallace’s shop, and started on the “peaceful and orderly” part of his life.
That bit of chaos he missed? Sometimes he’d see her in his dreams, or think he heard her laughter in a room or her light steps around the corner. He was still gathering the courage to seek her out—he’d need to find Dionne first, to find out where Fabienne lived. Perhaps she’d moved on. But that chaos-missing part of his soul lived and yearned for her.
At a quarter to seven, as predicted, he reached home. Today, though, something stopped him from going straight inside. A spot in the garden caught his eye, and Brayden walked to the lone rose bush in the corner. His fingers glided along the soft, cream-colored petal of a flower. He never thought about picking them, but perhaps he should take a few. Mrs. Beasley would find a spot for a bouquet in the house.
Avoiding the thorns, he plucked a few blooms. How many? Four or five for a windowsill in the sitting room? That seemed like a logical place for some decoration.
“Brayden.”
It was like he’d heard it—imagined hearing it—so many times. He stopped and turned.
The ghost was there. Her hair descended in a long stream of curls over one shoulder—perfectly styled, with only the slight hint of wildness. A velvet dress, the deepest blue of the night, hugged her hips and flared out in a sea of pleats. She looked little like the old memory in his dreams—and yet, was everything he’d ever wanted. No longer a ghost, she moved, and breathed, and was really, truly there.
He was barely aware of anything else; of a dark-haired boy standing a few feet behind her, of a carriage stopped farther down the road, of the roses his shocked fingers dropped.
Because she was back, and that small part of his soul awakened and expanded and bloomed.
In a whisper, her name left his lips.
It was all the encouragement she needed. She picked up her skirts and ran into his arms.
The End