Thanks so much to all who reviewed! I'll do some author replies when we get into the story a little more. I do want to thank Maska for catching my little mistake though. Please tell me when I do things like that! Also, a big thanks to my new beta reader, Acantha Mardivey
I know I said names would stay the same, but I am changing a few here and there. For example, Philippe is just going to be Phillip for the sake of not sounding strange.
Read and Review!
The sleep hung heavy in Christine's eyes as she walked down the crudely carpeted hallway and toward the nook of a kitchen. As she wiped it away with one hand and continued forward, she immediately heard the familiar clatter of pots and pans being moved around within the cabinets. A quiet groan followed, and Christine winced at the noise of distress as she realized that Mrs. Valerius's arthritis must still be bothering her. Though the sixty-five year old woman attempted to hide her ailments from others, Christine could tell that she was often in pain.
Looking around in the dim light that had made its way through the dusty windows, Christine saw just how decrepit the two-bedroom apartment had become over the past few months. Cracks lined the walls and ceilings, letting the cold fall rain and melting winter snow seep in and rot the aging wood. Broken cobwebs lined many of the corners, their tiny inhabitants already dead from lack of food and water. Upon every piece of antique mahogany furniture was a thick caking of dust, and the wooden floors desperately needed to be swept of the dirt that had blown in.
Christine felt a wave of guilt wash over her for not noticing the terrible state the small home was in. With school and work consuming her life lately, there was little time to help out. Still, though, she needed to make some effort or the tiny abode would completely go to ruins. Mrs. Valerius' eyesight was so poor, she probably couldn't see how bad things had become.
With a sigh, Christine finally walked into the kitchen and saw the hunched back of her guardian as she poured a carton of milk over a bowl of cereal. At the soft sound of Christine's footsteps on the stained linoleum, the older woman turned around with a smile. "Good morning, dear!" she exclaimed in a slightly raspy voice. "You're up a little early. Are you hungry?"
Christine slowly adjusted her eyes to the rays of morning light coming through the kitchen window and took a seat at the table. "Good morning," she replied with forced cheerfulness. "I'll have a little cereal, I guess." Really she wasn't hungry, but Mrs. Valerius was constantly chiding her for not eating enough. She had been looking rather gaunt lately, and her usually snug jeans had barely stayed around her waist without a belt that morning. It often seemed like there wasn't enough time to eat.
"We have Cornflakes and...I think some Fruit Loops left from when my great-nephew visited last week. Are you sure you don't want an egg to go with it? It'll take a second."
Christine blanched at the thought of the quivering yellow mass. "No...Cornflakes are fine. I can get them, if you want."
"Nonsense, dear," said the older woman with another smile. "You have enough to worry about with school and work. The least I can do is pour you some cereal."
"I'm grateful that you let me stay here still," replied Christine. "I feel like such a burden on you sometimes."
"Think nothing of it, Christine!" Mrs. Valerius exclaimed, setting the bowl of cereal in front of her and placing a frail arm about the young girl's shoulders. "After your father passed away, the least I could do was take you into my home. He was a dear friend of my husband's, and you were the sweetest little girl in the world. I was thrilled to have you come live here, and you've been wonderful company in my old age. You know that."
"I'm very grateful for everything you've done for me. I really will try to help with things here more. Once I get a job that actually pays, I'll try to help with some of the bills."
"Don't worry about such silly things, Christine. We're fine here, you and I. You just get through school! And cheer up, dear! Have some fun! You always look so darn sad!" Mrs. Valerius' eyes twinkled, and Christine weakly smiled back, feeling some relief at her guardian's soothing words. If anyone had been there for her in the six years since her father's death, Mrs. Valerius had.
"I'll try to cheer up," Christine said with a light laugh before taking a few bites of the flavorless flakes in front of her. After a few spoonfuls, she set down the utensil down with a dull clink, unable to eat any more without feeling like she was going to be sick. Looking up at the clock on the microwave, she saw that thirty long minutes remained before she needed to leave. Mrs. Valerius was continuing to rummage through the cupboards, likely trying to find something quick and inexpensive for that night's dinner.
"Oh, Christine!" she said suddenly, bringing her greying head out of the pantry and adjusting her glasses. "I forgot to tell you! I saved you a newspaper clipping I saw in yesterday's entertainment section. There's going to be a local theater production here, and they need singers to try out. I thought you might be interested."
Christine quickly cast her eyes downward. "You know I don't sing anymore," she said quietly, pushing the bowl away from her. "I can't carry a tune to save my life."
"Now that's ridiculous!" Mrs. Valerius exclaimed, whirling around. "You were always singing with your father and that...that cute little blonde-headed boy...oh..."
"Raoul?" Christine softly offered.
"Yes! Raoul. You were always singing with him while your father strummed away on the guitar. We even have an old recording of you three, and you had a lovely voice! You sang all throughout your school years. Why did you give it up so suddenly?"
Christine kept her eyes set upon the table and slowly reached down for her backpack, eager to get out of the cramped kitchen. "I don't know," she stuttered out. "I got tired of it, I guess. I got older." She stood up and threw her backpack upon her thin shoulders. "Anyway, I better get going now. I'll be home after work around three to help with dinner." Making her way to the front door, she slipped on a pair of brown sandals, despite the cold weather, and unlocked the deadbolt.
"Try to have a nice day, Christine," her guardian replied in a defeated tone.
"You too." Christine opened the squeaking door and darted down the concrete steps to the ground floor. The morning air was chilly, and she almost went back inside to fetch a coat but decided against it. The last thing she needed was another long trip down memory lane. Besides, the parking garage was around the corner, and she would soon be in her heated, albeit somewhat old, Honda Accord.
The lime green car had been a combined seventeenth birthday present from Mrs. Valerius and several distant relatives, though in more ways it was like a gift of sympathy after her father had died. Though the paint was now scratched and there were small holes in the seat cushions, she still treasured the vehicle, especially in the cold months of winter when the icy air became almost painful. It was also the place she went whenever she needed a good cry.
As she walked through the deserted lot and toward her car, she noticed with dismay that the rear left tire was slowly beginning to deflate. Christine mentally marked it down as another chore on a long list.
Once she was finally out of the doldrums of high school, Christine had imagined the days of idle gossip to fade away. Surely at a school the size of the University of Vermont, there would be way too many people to spread rumors around and even fewer people to care what was being said. She soon found herself to be sadly mistaken. Awkwardly sitting around a table at a little café with Meg and her friends from theater, she found herself in the middle of another rumor mill. Not able to contribute, she had spent most of the hour picking at a dry turkey salad with a plastic fork.
"Well, I'm just glad we're getting any money at all," said a redhead named Jamie. "Have you seen some of the costumes? They're completely falling apart."
"It's still not that much of a donation," replied Meg wearily, taking a bite out of a blueberry bagel. "Not as big as the grant the state gave last year."
"Well, they certainly had enough to pay Charlotte's tuition," chimed in Sarah, a freshman from California. "I'm paying full out-of-state fees. Did you know that she got everything paid for since her first year? She's not even that good! Her parents happened to be rich enough to give her lessons her entire life." Sarah blushed slightly at her rant but was happy to see the older girls nodding in agreement.
"Ugh!" exclaimed Meg. "She thinks that she's God's gift to the stage. Talk about conceited!"
Christine continued to sit there and stare at the table as they chattered on, counting down the minutes until she had to leave for work. Meg had more or less dragged her there that day, telling her that she needed to get out more and meet people. What Meg failed to realize, though, was that she would have no idea what they were talking about. It was only when she caught the last part of a sentence from one of the others girls that she looked up in surprise.
"...Phillip Chagny is thinking about it. I heard his father and grandfather went here for their undergraduate years."
"Phillip Chagny?" questioned Meg. "Isn't there a Chagny that owns several huge investment firms down in New York City? They had him on the news all the time, making predictions about what stocks would go up and go down. We even studied an article about him in an economics class I had to take."
"Yeah! That's his son!" the girl replied. "The dad passed away this last year, and now Phillip is taking over the company and the fortune. One of my theater professors said that he was looking into starting some scholarships here and donating some money to the school. He's supposedly really into the arts, which will be great for us."
"Phillip Chagny? Does he have a younger brother?" Christine shifted nervously as the other girls faced her, surprised she had finally spoken aloud after all that time.
The girl shrugged. "Probably. They had a pretty big family. Why?"
Christine gave a small smile and looked down at her hands. "I think I may have known him, Raoul Chagny, when I was a kid. My dad gave him guitar lessons, and we used to hang out when he came up to Vermont for the summer."
Meg's eyes widened. "You knew him that closely? Why'd you let him go? He could have paid your tuition." The other girls laughed good-naturedly, and Christine relaxed somewhat in their presence.
"Meg!" exclaimed Christine in mock scolding. "Anyway, when he was eleven he left for a boarding school for a while. I think he stayed in New York after that. My dad died soon after, and...I don't know. We kind of lost contact." She shrugged and picked at her salad some more.
"Was he cute?" asked one of the girls. "I've heard that his brother is! Not to mention filthy rich!"
Christine smiled, slightly pleased with the rare attention. "I haven't seen him for a while, but...I guess he was kind of cute."
"Maybe you'll run into him again," said Meg, still grinning mischievously.
"Maybe," she replied. "But somehow I doubt that he'd even remember me."
It was purely guilt that had brought him there. A feeling of raw anxiety that grated at his sanity constantly, until it had finally pulled him across the Atlantic Ocean and to an entirely different continent. Now, it was guilt that had kept him sitting in that tiny café for three hours, awaiting a meeting with a man he had never met in his life.
The Iranian looked impatiently at the time on his digital wrist watch for a moment before running a hand through his cropped black hair in frustration. It was already eleven-thirty, and still no one of interest had shown up. The little message icon on his cellular phone remained empty of calls, though he continued to check it at least every five minutes. He wearily wondered if he had been led on another stray path.
Looking down, he checked the name he had hastily written down on a slip of white notebook paper. A Mr. Joseph Buquet. Supposedly, the sixty year old man had been retired from the FBI for three years and had a good deal of information on the person of interest. In their one conversation over the phone several months back, Buquet had claimed to know about the more mysterious files that came through the bureau in that area of the country. On this day, they were supposed to meet privately for lunch, though at this moment the Iranian sat alone.
He smiled wryly to himself, doubting that this Mr. Buquet had much information of use, anyway. No one could ever confirm the masked man's existence beyond rumors and bits of information picked up here and there. The man would not be found unless he wanted to be. God forbid that ever happen, for all hell would surely break loose.
He looked up to see that the small café was already beginning to fill up for the lunch hour. A couple with five children were desperately trying to get them to settle down. The baby screamed and tossed his bottle to the floor, leading one of the older children to let out a high-pitched giggle. An elderly couple sat at the back, casting annoyed glances to the larger family from behind their thick-rimmed glasses. Finally, a group of what appeared to be college girls sat giggling and whispering around a table by the window.
His eyes focused on the quiet blonde for a moment in recognition from the night before. She had been the desk clerk at a hotel where he had almost made the mistake of giving out all of his information. What a foolish mistake that had been! The last thing he needed behind him was a long paper trail.
As he finished the last few drops of his fourth cup of coffee, he sighed and looked around one last time. Even if he wasn't getting anywhere, at least he was enjoying his stay. Perhaps this country didn't have the ancient beauty of his homeland, but it did have a carefree feeling about it. Everyone seemed at ease...able to do what they wanted without worry or fear.
No. His only concern now was finding the masked man. He had tried to absolve himself of responsibility but failed. If anything happened, he would feel guilty. He would feel guilty for what happened almost twenty long years ago.
You had better keep your promise to me, my friend.
The cell phone rang.