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The Pearl Bond

Marie-Claire's heritage

By Daniella LiberoPublished 2 years ago 13 min read
1
The Pearl Bond
Photo by Jeremy Morris on Unsplash

Marie-Claire slipped into her short black evening dress. Its cunning cut flattered her tall slender figure and showed off her shapely legs. The V-neck of the bodice was enhanced by a pearl and aquamarine cross, attached to a string of pearls, the gift of her maternal Grandmother. She decided to pair the cross with the blue Tahitian pearl studs that once belonged to her father’s Aunt. They were a prized gift on her 18th birthday, a little over 17 years before.

She remembered Cousin Michelle had whispered to her as she opened the box containing the ear studs, “I’m sure my Mum would have wanted you to have these.”

She’d been thrilled with the gift of the unusually coloured pearls. She modelled them for her father. He patted her shoulder as she stood in front of him saying “Dad, what do you think?”

“They’re lovely,” he said, his eyes and smile stayed on her. She knew he was proud of her all together.

he thought of her father gave a pain that seemed to sit behind her sternum next to her heart. She blinked away tears.

His photo stood on a tall boy near her bedroom door. It was taken a few years before he had died; it was a portrait taken on the night of her 25th birthday. He looked so happy, as they both did before her mother’s death. His cropped black hair bore two silver streaks along the hair line, passing back from his forehead and above his ears. His blue eyes were bright. His high cheekbones, which she had inherited, cast a slight shadow, just above his square jawline. His bow-shaped mouth had a full lower lip and with his gentle smile softened the sculptured lines of his face. He wasn’t quite handsome, but a distinguished, attractive face, and beloved. She hummed Dad’s favourite The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies as she waltzed back to the mirror and looked at herself.

She had inherited his midnight hair, high cheekbones and full bottom lip, but she had her mother’s softer jawline , rounded nose, and deep brown eyes. She liked to think she was the perfect mix of both parents, especially tonight. She was going to a performance of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra; the ritual was in honour of her mother. She had performed it every year since her mother had passed ten years before. This sad event was followed, three years later, by her father’s passing.

Facing her mid-thirties, even with her personal success as a musician in theatre orchestras, did not fill the void left by a lack of family. Marie-Claire felt the heavy cloak of aloneness as a burden she would love to cast off. She began humming The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies again; her father had loved anything from The Nutcracker, by Tchaikovsky. She wondered why she wasn’t humming the her mother’s favourite, Beethoven’s Fifth since the evening’s outing was in memory of her. She glanced at her antique watch, and decided not to put her mother’s old vinyl recording on the player. It was a November evening and the frequent rain had lessened. I’ll walk to the Opera house, she thought as she reached for her coat.

***

Liam seated himself in the concert hall at the Opera house twenty minutes before the concert of Bruch and Mahler’s music was to begin. He gazed over the seats and observed Marie-Claire finding hers from where he was seated: two seats behind her, and to the left.

What a stunning woman, he thought observing her graceful figure. Her elegant neck was enhanced by a simple up-do formed out of shining black hair. The dip in the back of her dress showed flawless ivory skin, and a row of creamy pearls sat against the knob of her spine. She turned her head as she stood to allow a patron to pass into a seat to her right, and he got a glimpse of one brown eye framed by sooty lashes, a sculptured cheek and generous mouth.

The lights dimmed, and his enjoyment of the first strains of Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1 softened his disappointment at being distracted from the woman’s beauty. He listened, losing himself in the music. Already Ashkenazy was conducting a piece that lived up to its reputation as a dramatically varied piece of music. He settled as he heard and felt the strains of the music change from the plaintive tears and storms of its opening phrases, into a sweet melodious passage, seemingly answered by the next passage that became folksy in style. After 50 minutes, the orchestra had also finished the first two movements of Mahler’s Symphony in C Sharp Minor. The third movement was Liam’s favourite but it would start after the intermission.

His eyes focused on the beautiful woman with the pearls. He observed that she stood, stretched, and looked around. She moved out into the aisle and looked through the door at the queue winding its way to the bar. She stood for a few minutes, looked at her watch, and returned to her seat. He observed that she wore a pair of large smoky blue pearls in her earlobes. He admired her legs, and her neck, again.

The second part of the concert began, and he shifted to allow late comers to move into seats beside him. Liam relaxed, he really couldn’t understand why so many of his friends labelled classical music as boring.

The conductor reminded the audience that the evening was meant to showcase the best of Bruch and Mahler. He assured them that he and the Orchestra had enjoyed their rehearsals for this special presentation.

“Now, we will continue with the next three movements of Mahler’s symphony. The third movement is a light-hearted movement, played by Scherzo. Following it will be movements four and five, slow and forceful. Please sit back, relax and enjoy the music.”

The concert ended too soon. Liam shrugged and stretched his arms as the audience members in his row left in a great hurry. He enjoyed the luxury of sitting thinking about the wonder of the sounds he had heard. I must open my eyes to check on that gorgeous woman, he thought.

He sighed when he saw she was still seated, letting the disarray of the concert hall sweep past her. She stood for a moment when an audience member returned to secure a dropped pair of glasses from under a nearby seat. When the stranger had left, she stood for a few seconds before lifting her coat from the back of her chair, and he noticed that one of her earrings was missing. He looked again. Nothing in the left ear. He said, “Excuse me, let me help you find your missing earring.”

In the hubbub, she had not distinguished his voice. She was moving away now. He moved to the seat where she was sitting, and ran his hand down the back of the seat. He could still feel her body heat in the fabric. Towards the base the pearl was stuck, by its post, into the weave of the fabric. He glanced around for the back of the thing, but unable to see it he became afraid to waste time.

I must catch up with her.

He was rude as he pushed his way past some stragglers and down the hall that took the audience to the foyer. She’s tall, he thought and paused. He closed his eyes to avoid distractions, remembering other details. There she was to his far left exiting the foyer.

He bolted, from a stand still, yelling, “Excuse me.”

He felt like an idiot as he slowed to a stroll, puffing and panting, about five metres behind her.

I don’t want to be panting when I speak to her.

He waited until they were under a light, and amongst other people.

“Excuse me, I believe you lost one of your earrings in the concert hall.”

***

Marie-Claire stared at him, wide-eyed.

Could it possibly be? it must be him, she thought.

She shifted her clutch high up under her right arm, felt her earlobes. He held out his right palm with the blue pearl in it, and gestured toward it with his left hand.

“I didn’t find the back, I’m sorry.”

She felt him watching her as she took the pearl and zipped it into an inside compartment of her purse. She tested the ear stud in her right earlobe, pushing against it to make sure it was secure. She stared until she became aware he was folding his arms, continuing to look back at her.

She said, “I’d like to thank you for being so kind. Can I buy you a drink?”

She felt her hands trembling as she adjusted her clutch again. He smiled broadly; as if he was seeking to reassure her. Her face felt cold. It began to rain.

She thought, what an odd meeting this is on the anniversary of mother’s death. Mother would not approve.

His voice intruded, “That would be lovely.”

They walked almost shoulder to shoulder down the block to a café bar, in which half the tables were full. She walked ahead of him and asked for a table for two.

She tried not to say his name, before he introduced himself, as they sat waiting for two Irish coffees. They touched hands awkwardly across the shiny surface of the table in the booth by the window. Soon they were sipping the coffee in silence. She sat up straight and avoided any gesture or expression that might be thought flirtatious.

“The whisky in this is good,” she said and he nodded.

She sat as if she was a schoolgirl visiting the Principal’s office. Another 60 seconds ticked away as they sipped in silence.

“I can’t thank you enough for returning the pearl stud. The pair of studs belonged to my late father’s Aunt whom I never knew. Having them makes me feel more connected with his family, now that he’s gone.”

Liam said, “Is your loss recent?”

“My Dad died seven years ago, but I still miss him. But it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death today.”

Liam hunched forward and the pressure of his thigh scrunched the folded handkerchief in his pocket.

He said, “I have two half-sisters, one that I’ve heard of but have never met, and one in her teens. Anyway, I’m used to comforting my sister, if you want to cry.”

He shrugged as if such a thing was easy for him. He could feel a flush starting at the back of his neck.

Marie-Claire spoke, “You look exactly like my father at your age – around 30? You could be his 30s’ doppelganger.”

The left corner of her mouth went up, and her forehead creased.

She shrugged, “This is awkward.”

She reached into her bag and opened her wallet. She extracted a photo and slid it across the table. It was a picture of a man.

He said, “This man looks a lot like me , in fact he might resemble my father.”

His hands began to sweat.

“I’m going to ask you a question that will seem shockingly rude.”

He stared at her mouth.

“Did you ever live in the Blue Mountains? Is it possible that your mother was my father’s mistress?”

He shuffled his hands on the table.

His eyes began to prickle. He grabbed his drink and gulped noisily.

“Yes,” he breathed out. He raised his voice, and said, “I thought he would have told you about us. I had hoped your mother would have changed her mind long before he died. When I heard nothing, I knew there was no point making a scene by attending his funeral.”

He glanced sideways and saw the reflection of the bartender, he was leaning across the bar looking at them intently.

Marie-Claire placed her hand over Liam’s wrist.

“My father told me about you a month after my 21st birthday. He said I have a son, to Mary Davies, my mistress. You have a half-brother, Liam Souther Davies. I am so proud of him, but your mother can never know about him.” She sighed. “My father and I were pretty close, but it took me some time to digest the news. I never mentioned anything to my mother.”

Liam cleared his throat. He placed his fists on the edge of the table.

She went on, “About six months later he stopped making his fortnightly trips to the Blue Mountains. I got busy with my career as a musician. But I could have made inquiries. I am so sorry.”

Liam felt tears on his cheeks. She was rubbing his arm. He grappled for the handkerchief in his pocket, and grasping it turned his face to the wall, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

When he was calmer, he said, “I went away to boarding school, then University. My Mum broke it off with Dad because he wouldn’t marry her. He never loved me enough to leave his wife, she told me. But he supported me through my entire education.”

The words spilled out. She didn’t know whether they were to comfort him or make herself feel better.

“Dad told me you went to Blue Mountains Grammar and then to Knox, completed a Masters in Civil Engineering at Sydney U, and travelled overseas to work on important projects in the developing world. He was proud of you. He loved my mother very much but she would never have accepted you. He was glad he was your father.”

She reached for his arm again, and he shuffled it away toward his side of the table.

Liam shrugged, “I appreciate that he knew about what I did, but I don’t know how important those projects ended up being.”

She said, “You seem to have inherited more than my father’s looks. Despite his failings, he had a sensitive, modest side. In my teen drama queen days, he used to calm me right down.”

She smiled at him, partly in relief because the fact that her mother had died before her father hadn’t come up.

Should I tell him?

For a moment, she felt as if her mind and body were separate. She thought she might think of this moment later with great regret. Her strength returned and she stood up. She didn’t have the heart to tell him.“I don’t have the stamina for drama that I used to.” She sounded cold, arbitrary even to herself. In the cognitive dissonance she extracted a card from her purse. “This is enough for one night.”

He took the card and read her name. Marie-Claire Blaxland-Souther.

He placed it in his wallet.

She said, “I’d love it if you kept in touch. Don’t hesitate to call or email.”

She felt his eyes on her back, as she walked away. She stepped out onto the pavement with tiny steps, aware of the slippery soles of her patent leather heels. Tap, tap, fairy steps to the taxi parked outside the Café window. Leaning into the taxi, she turned and flopped onto the seat, escaping the rain dampening the pavement. Through the window, she could see Liam still seated in the booth. As the taxi pulled away, she saw his solemn face, larger than life, as if superimposed over the blurry reflections on the street’s slick surface, as if awash with the tears of their generation.

The End

Short Story
1

About the Creator

Daniella Libero

I write a lot of in-the-moment stories but I love to dabble in magic realism and fantasy.

Writing and publishing are my passions.Storytelling and word craft matter.

I love to observe people and I fall in and out of love everyday.

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  • Gabrielleabout a year ago

    I've read this before, as l have the butterfly one

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