From Field of Destiny . . . CHAPTER ONE France – December 3, 1898 “Noelle . . . Noelle!” Charles Robidoux stood in the doorway of his home, shouting into the icy night. Rain slashed across his face; gusts of wind whipped around his large frame, sending bursts of chill into the room just behind him, where his three young daughters sat in front of the fireplace, gripping one another’s hands, forming a small tight circle. Charles could barely see the outline of his wife now, hunched and staggering, as she moved through the darkness along the stone path that led away from their village of Montmarte toward the nearby boulevards of Paris. Once she passed the church, she would be lost to him. There were too many alleys. She could disappear into any one of them. “Noelle,” he cried out again, buttoning his sweater, preparing to run after her. A backward glance at the girls and he changed his mind. He couldn’t — no, he wouldn’t — leave them. “Noelle, come home at once,” Charles commanded one last time, scanning the darkness before slamming the door shut. She would be back. Charles walked over to the long, wooden table, which had been set for dinner earlier in the afternoon. He scanned the room. Yes, everything was as it should be . . . the children would be hungry soon . . .bowls. . . spoons . . . breadboard. . . no, something was wrong . . . something out of place . . . His eyes darted back and forth across the table. . .what? What was it? The carving knife. The carving knife was missing. There . . there it was. . . .on the floor . . . he should pick it up, scrub it clean . . . it was important to have clean utensils . . . Noelle was always so neglectful. . . yes, he would take care of that . . . Charles ran his fingers over the near empty bottle of Absinthe. First, another drink. He didn’t bother with a glass this time. He had no desire for the seductive, time-consuming ritual of dripping ice water over a sugar cube into the toxic liquor. Shoving aside the stemmed crystal glass and slotted spoon he’d been using all day, Charles put the bottle to his lips and drank until it was empty and the taste of anise and sweet licorice filled his mouth with bile. He threw the bottle against the wall and watched as drops of green liquid washed across the white surface; a harsh bitter-sweet smell wafted across the room just above the lingering notes of Jicky, the perfume his wife had worn every day for as long as he could remember. Even now, even with everything that had just happened, the heady combination of lavender and herbs filled him with desire, made him think of oriental spices and the scent of her skin when it was warmed by the sun. Struck by how quickly the smell of Absinthe was beginning to dominate the room, Charles inhaled deeply, deeply and frantically, desperate to capture Noelle’s scent before it was erased. Before it was gone forever. No, not forever. She would be back. He would wait with the children until she returned. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Yes, She would be back. She would beg for forgiveness. And he would grant it. And then he would punish her. In a thousand small ways, he would exact his revenge. “Mère,” three-year-old Darrelle cried out, breaking into his thoughts. She was sobbing, unable to stop no matter how hard her sisters squeezed her hands in silent warning. Shush, they kept telling her. . . shush . . . whispering the word as softly as they could. Charles walked over to his children and crouched down on the floor beside them, warming his hands in front of the fire. He could feel Simone and Brigitte stiffen at his nearness. It was Darrelle who broke their circle of solidarity. It was Darrelle who came to him. “Papa, papa,” she cried, throwing herself at Charles. Without hesitation, Charles took Darrelle in his arms, stroking her black curls, rocking back and forth on the floor in front of the fire. “Shh...shh...she will return,” he told her. “Mère will return.” Charles remained on the floor, clutching Darrelle, rocking and stroking, trying to sort through the last hour, while trying even harder to empty his mind of everything that mattered. It was all lost now. Hopeless and lost. He stared at the fire, at his other two daughters, just five and six, now forming a silent circle of two. What would become of them now — of all of them? Still crying, Darrelle tucked deeper into her father’s arms, pressing into the dampness of his familiar sweater. Charles placed his hand on the back of her head, pushing gently, burying her face deep into the folds of wool. Not his. The words echoed inside his head. Sweet, pretty Darrelle. Not his. Not his. He continued pushing against her black curls. . . harder. . . still harder. “Shh, little one. Shh,” he crooned, all the while pushing. . .pushing . . .feeling her chest heave. . .pushing. . .resisting her need for air. . . A log snapped in the fireplace. Simone and Brigitte never even flinched, but Charles jumped as though a gun had been fired into his temple. Releasing his grip on Darrelle, he lifted her face away from him, kissing her scratched and reddened cheeks. “Breathe deeply,” he ordered. “Stop crying. Breathe.” She was the one who was so much like Noelle. Much more than the other two. She would have to go away. Perhaps to the convent. “Shh...” he said softly. “Mère will return . . . tomorrow. . . she will return tomorrow.” Throughout the night Charles held Darrelle tightly, his blood covered hands staining the back of her white dress. and from Chapter Seven . . . July 17, 1947 Textile production was running at an all-time high in the small mill town of Fall River, Massachusetts due, in no small part, to the fact that long skirts were no longer illegal, as they had been during wartime. Day and night, factories cranked out their goods, belching up steady streams of thick, gray smoke into the summer sky. It seemed as though every pore of the town was filled with the noise and pollution of renewed prosperity. And Marilyn Davenport hated every sound and every smell. Lying in her hospital bed, she cringed at the blast of noon-time whistles, never having allowed herself to become accustomed to their abrasive onslaught. To accept them was to accept being the daughter of a mill worker. And, deep down, she knew she was better than that. She held her breath until each one stopped and the world was once again quiet. Oppressively quiet. The mid-day sun poured into the hospital room, a small fan and half-drawn shades having little impact on the sweltering air. Marilyn pressed an ice cube to her forehead and then popped it into her mouth, curling her tongue around it as icy droplets trickled down her throat. Just three days ago she had given birth to a baby girl. Propped up against the bed’s bar-like headboard, Marilyn balanced the child in one arm, while extending her free hand outward, examining her looks in a small plastic mirror. Thank goodness for big favors, she thought, sighing deeply. This whole birthing process had not destroyed her looks after all. She placed the mirror down on the bedside stand and began patting her face, reassuring herself that her flawless skin was still smooth and firm. Opening up bobby pins with her front teeth, she managed to pin her thick auburn hair away from her face. Only when she had finished primping did Marilyn’s attention return to the infant in her arms. “You look just like an Indian,” Marilyn laughed, “but I bet you’re going to be a beauty, once you get rid of that red face and this thing here.” She tugged gently on the tuft of sable hair that seemed to grow upward from the center of her daughter’s head. “Yes siree, once this thing starts to grow down like real hair instead of sticking out like fake hair on a baby doll, you’re going to be a real beauty.” Marilyn looked around the room, wrinkling her nose at the mass of offensive odors that seemed to converge on her ever since the fan had been turned on high. All four of the beds were occupied by girls from the Convent of St. Agnes, otherwise known as the Catholic Charities Home for Unwed Mothers. Over each bed was a crucifix, and over the small porcelain sink against one wall was a picture of Jesus surrounded by children. Across the room, one girl was reading, and, although, the other appeared to be sleeping, Marilyn could tell that those were fresh tears on her cheeks. In the bed next to her was Joyce Fischer, who was staring up at the ceiling, lying as still as a store manikin. Shifting the baby in her arms, Marilyn turned toward Joyce. “You okay?” Marilyn asked. “I guess,” Joyce answered. “How does it feel?” “Sad. Empty, kind of.” “Do you wish you’d kept him?” “How could I? I’d already promised.” “Promises can be broken,” Marilyn said. “My motto is they’re made to be broken.” “How could I?” Joyce asked again. “My parents would never let me. I’m only 17. I have to go home again. Finish high school.” “I’m 17, too. Would have graduated in June, though, ‘cuz I’m an October baby. Started school at four. But they sent me here instead. Wouldn’t let me finish up. I say, forget it. Who needs a diploma? All we need is the right guy.” She thought about things for a minute and then announced, “I’m not going home. Not ever.” Marilyn snuggled the infant tightly against her chest. “My father hates me. My mother’s dead...” Joyce’s brown eyes opened wide in disbelief. “How could you not go home? What will you do?” “Get a job,” Marilyn answered. “And I still have my looks,” she pointed toward the small mirror. “I just checked,” she laughed. “Look for a man. A real man this time, instead of some stupid boy. Someone who won’t check out when things don’t go his way.” “They’ll be coming for her soon.” Joyce offered. “I snuck a look at the list. Me. Then someone down the hall. Then you.” Marilyn shivered, pulling the thin hospital blanket up over her arms. For a fleeting moment, even the intense July heat could not stave off the wave of cold passing through her body. “I’ve named her,” she whispered to Joyce. Naming a baby about to be adopted was tantamount to committing a mortal sin. For the last six months the nuns had doled out that message to their resident wayward girls before each meal, along with a hearty helping of prayers for the redemption of their souls. “You can’t name her,” Joyce objected. It’s against the rules.” “How did you ever get pregnant? You follow every rule that’s ever been invented. I know — he must have told you that doing it was a rule! That’s just about what Eddie did. I can here his voice now: the most important thing about loving someone, Marilyn, is proving your love! Can you believe I fell for that line? Anyway, I did name her. She’s Natalie. Natalie Marie Davenport.” Joyce blushed at Marilyn’s candid discussion. It was one thing to get pregnant; it was another to discuss it openly. “It’s a nice name.” she said. “But they’ll never let her keep it. The new parents I mean. Especially the mother. She’ll never let her keep the name Natalie if she knows you picked it.” “You could be wrong. After all, it’s a beautiful name, and it’s in honor of Natalie Wood who, everyone knows, is the best child actress since Shirley Temple. Some of us girls went to see Natalie in Tomorrow is Forever. My water broke right at the end. I think it was some kind of sign. It was a wonderful movie. Did you see it?” “No. I don’t like movies much.” Joyce said. “Oh, I do. They’re filled with exactly the kind of life I want. Anyway, Natalie Wood played this orphan girl. She was so sad and so brave, all at once. As soon as I gave birth and found out it was a girl, I knew the movie was a sign. My baby just has to be called Natalie. I told Sister Mary Anthony. She just gave me one of her deadly dirty looks. Like this. . .” Marilyn had begun contorting her mouth in a deadly dirty look just as Sister Mary Anthony bustled into the room, smelling like a combination of old skin and antiseptic, her white starched habit crinkling with every movement. “Stop doing that with your face,” she scolded and then waited while Marilyn composed herself. Joyce tried making herself invisible by shrinking down into the bed and pulling the covers up over her chin. The other two girls were either sleeping, or pretending to be. The room remained perfectly silent until Sister Mary Anthony spoke again. “It’s time,” she said, extending her arms toward Marilyn. “You must give the child to me now.” Sister Mary Anthony stood close enough to the bed so that the infant would not be dropped while being transferred from mother to nun, but far enough away to maintain the distance traditional between those in religious life and all other human beings. It was a distance seldom, if ever, crossed. Marilyn had anticipated this moment, knowing that it relieved her of further responsibility. She could move ahead with her life now, unencumbered and forgiven of all sins. Yet, under the weight of Sister Mary Anthony’s crisp orders, Marilyn froze. Something was wrong. But what? Then it struck her. “She has a name,” Marilyn said, edging away from the nun’s outstretched arms. “I told you before, her name is Natalie. Natalie Marie Davenport. She is not the child. How do I know you’ve picked a good home for her when you don’t even care that she has a name.” ----------------------------------------------- Excerpt from Chapter One - Veil of Illusion — Summer came early to Connecticut, making it the hottest June on record. Caitlin Saunders lifted the hem of her long black skirt and peeled it away from her legs, fanning her overheated skin with the mass of dark fabric. She then linked arms with her mother, a gesture that Nora McKenna would ordinarily shrug off, and steered her across the cemetery to the waiting limousine. “You’re just like me now,” Nora told her daughter. “I was a young widow. And now you. Except you’re even younger. Only thirty-one. Still, history repeats . . . like a genetic flaw . . . I can’t believe David’s dead. A car accident of all things.” She’d been saying the same thing in various ways for the past three days. “Mom, it’s okay. I’ll be okay. So will you.” “Maybe you should come to Florida. Live with me. Don’t wait forever, like I did —” Caitlin patted her mother’s hand. “I’ll be fine. Honest.” “Hey, wait up.” Caitlin’s neighbor and good friend, Liz Warner, ran to catch up with them and then slowed down to their pace. “Who’s that?” Caitlin pushed her auburn hair away from her damp forehead. “Who?” “Him.” Liz nodded over her left shoulder. “Back there. Leaning against the tree. He’s been there the whole time.” All three women glanced over their shoulders as they continued walking. “No idea,” Caitlin shrugged. Apparently “no idea” wasn’t good enough for Nora. She stopped abruptly, forcing Caitlin to a halt. Letting go of her daughter’s arm, she turned and stared at the man, her mouth drawn into a thin line of concentration. “Hmmm . . . he wasn’t at the wake . . . not at the funeral services either.” “How could you possibly know that?” Caitlin asked. “He’s too far away to tell —” “Believe me, I know.” Nora wagged a tanned finger at Caitlin. “Your mother pays attention to things.” It was the story of their life: Nora stating absolutes, Caitlin challenging them and then being made to feel foolish or inadequate. “You would do well to be more like me,” Nora continued. “Keep your eyes open, Caitlin. You’re starting all over again —” “Yes, Mother,” Caitlin said, rolling her eyes and throwing Liz a look of resignation. Nora was always keeping her eyes open. At sixty-one, she was still looking for just the right replacement for her long-dead, dear husband. But so far, no luck. “I saw that look,” Nora said. “I know what you think. You think I’m shallow and old-fashioned but you’ll see. You’re without a husband now. You’ll see how hard it is.” “Don’t worry,” Liz said, slipping her arms around Caitlin and Nora. “I’m here for Catie. We’ll get her life back to normal.” Whatever that means, Caitlin thought. Normal left three days ago when David died. And then again last night, when Maryanne, her fifteen-year-old stepdaughter, packed up nearly everything she owned and left — right after the wake, without any warning and barely a word to anyone — back to live with her mother. Normal. Was there any such thing? “Let’s go,” Caitlin said, tugging at her mother’s arm. “Everyone’s probably back at the house by now.” As they hurried toward the waiting limousine, Caitlin glanced back over her shoulder, but the man leaning against the tree had disappeared. * * * * *