“Well, for one…” Celestine began, fearless as ever in the face of her mother’s determination.
“Good Lord, Celestine — Dylan?” Portia laughed long and hard and heartless. “That boy knows his place and he knows your place. That’s why I allowed you to be friends when you were children. Do not force me to forbid you to continue with that friendship! Troy likely will if he suspects you harbour any feelings for the boy, mind you.”
“Dylan is no boy!” Celestine snapped. “He’s a man, a wonderful young man, and –”
“And if you married him, you’d find yourself working in the general store all your life like his mother. My God, Celestine, is that what you want when you could live on Troy’s estate?”
“Absolutely, Mother.” Troy Russell was from the oldest and best-established family in town; Celestine had always known all about the prestige their marriage would bring to her mother’s new money. But she had never been attracted to Troy in any way.
“Brat!” Portia slapped her daughter across the face. “Enough of this! Go bring those men their pie, and then I want you ready for dinner with Troy this evening. Understood?”
“Yes, Mother,” Celestine whimpered.
“You may have the afternoon to collect yourself,” Portia decreed. “But you know what I’ll be expecting of you at dinner.”
They both turned toward the door, to see Agnes the housemaid standing in the doorway. “S…ss…sorry, m’lady, but…I just…”
“Oh, what is it, Agnes?” Portia snapped. “Celestine is perfectly fine, isn’t she?” With that she turned to glare at her daughter.
“Oh, of course,” Celestine said. “I’ve been a very bad girl again, Agnes. When am I going to learn?”
“Sometimes I wonder about that myself,” Portia said. “Now what is it you want, Agnes?”
“The kitchen staff at the house was short of a few things,” Agnes said. “I brought a list.”
“You know where everything is,” Portia said. “Collect it and get out of here.” She turned and shut herself in the business office. Agnes, who had seen such things a hundred times before, offered Celestine a sympathetic look before she returned to the dining room.
Celestine was sure the sailors could see her mother’s handprint on her still-stinging cheek and the tears she had barely held back. But none of them commented as she set the pie plates before them. “There you are, gentlemen!” she said, feigning a cheerfulness that was but a pleasant memory in reality.
Their hearty thanks and joyful first tastes restored her happiness just a bit. But it was her nemesis Stradlater who really brought her joy back. “I say, boys, all me life I’ve heard about the Green Lake, and it’s hours to sunset yet. What do you say we go there next?”
“Forget it, Strad,” said one of the others.
“It’s lovely,” agreed another, “But I’ve had enough of being on the water with only you lot for company.” The others laughed in agreement.
“Happy to bring you there another time, Stradlater,” Captain Young said. “But I think I speak for us all when I say there’s another place entirely in this town I want to visit next!”
Celestine knew just the place he was talking about, of course: Fliss’ Place, over on the other side of Candover’s little downtown, a converted mansion that at least looked wholesome enough from the outside. That plus the not-inconsiderable income it brought in, was enough for the authorities to pretend it was just a tavern with a hotel attached; but none of the respectable folks in town ever went there. Least of all Celestine, who was only willing to brave her mother’s temper so much.
But she was delighted to hear the sailors were headed there, if it meant they would steer clear of the Green Lake. It meant the coast was clear for her and Dylan to make one of their trips there, and maybe — just maybe — today would be the day she could entice him into the water as well.
She thought of paying Agnes a visit to apologize for having to witness the scene in the kitchen, but she knew what Agnes always said. “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”
There bloody well wasn’t anything Agnes could do. She meant well, but Celestine didn’t need to ever hear that again. So she opted to steer clear of the kitchen until Agnes had taken her leave with only a sympathetic look.
The Green Lake was officially called that, and it was said to be known all over the world thanks to sailors who had braved a dip there. Something about the type of algae that grew there and the angle at which the sun hit the rocks surrounding it gave the lake the appearance of a beautiful green glow misting up from the water. It was most dazzling of all at sunset, when the glow was as bright as any campfire would be. For all the many tales Celestine had heard about the wide world, there didn’t seem to be anyplace else quite like the Green Lake.
Not all of the locals considered that a good thing. Rumours abounded that bathing in the lake would kill you slowly or at least render you infertile. Celestine, though, had fearlessly jumped in when she was maybe ten years old, on the first of countless surreptitious visits with her dear friend Dylan, who had refused to follow her lead. They had agreed to tell no one — if it killed her, then no one need know just why she died. When she had reached the end of that summer as healthy as ever, Celestine had concluded that the only remaining worry was “infertility”, whatever that meant. She had remained ignorant of that for quite some time after she had started getting the rude monthly reminder that she was not infertile; nowadays she could only wish that rumour had come true.
Dylan, all these years later, still refused to go in the water. But Celestine had struck a deal with him that had him looking forward to their visits just as much as she looked forward to that delightful water. Having lately discovered a book in an officially-forbidden corner of the town library with all sorts of salacious information about love and the expression thereof, she had found herself hungry for a visit to the Green Lake nearly all the time.
None who knew Portia or her daughter would have been surprised to know Celestine had been devouring that book so eagerly lately. They also wouldn’t have been surprised to see Celestine hoist her skirt up scandalously high as soon as she was down the block and around the corner from the restaurant. Celestine, so named because she’d been born in the dead of night and because of her father’s love of the night sky as a guide, had inherited none of her mother’s sense of purpose and place in their conservative society; but she had inherited every ounce of resolve and determination that had made her mother such a success. It was often whispered in other middle-class parlours what a dreadful shame it was that Portia hadn’t had a boy with the same personality; there was no doubt he’d have gone far indeed. But for a girl, all those big dreams and that drive were nothing but a curse. No one else in their social circle seemed to know just what to make of Celestine, and she had never felt anything but tense and not quite welcome among them.