Vidal Funeral Home and Crematorium

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Protest puckered Esther’s lips. But before Tristan could calm her, before she could even start to argue, the door to the funeral home swung open. Light flooded the porch. And Gwen’s shadowy form was easy to discern. Tristan went even more rigid.

“Tristan? Is everything okay out here, dear?” Gwen asked.

Tristan nodded, even though he knew nothing was okay out here. Esther’s vise-grip on Tristan’s arms slackened and she pulled his suit jacket tighter around her own shoulders.

“Oh! Hello!” Gwen said cheerfully, noticing Esther for the first time. “I see you’ve met my baby.”

Something in Esther’s face snapped. She shot Tristan a puzzled, affronted look and peered at Gwen suspiciously. But she said nothing. Tristan made a strangled sort of sound. It was a running joke – semi-joke – among his friends that Gwen was his mother. She certainly treated him like a son. But as realization settled in the air, one thing was clear: Gwen calling Tristan her “baby” wasn’t funny or heartwarming tonight. Instead, it made Tristan feel like a traitor. And yet, the raw affection in Gwen’s voice made his eyes flicker with gratitude. All he wanted was morning to come. Because in the morning, Esther would leave like she always did – no indication of where she was going, no thank you or goodbye of I love you – and Tristan would be free to get on with his life. It always happened like this. Since Tristan was eleven, Esther had been popping in and out of his life at her convenience. Actually, it had probably been longer than that. Almost as long as Tristan had been alive it had been like that. But when Tristan had turned eleven, somehow, he’d become Esther’s de facto caretaker.

“Oh,” murmured Gwen. “you have, indeed, met him.”

“Yeah, I have,” Esther said tightly.

Tristan reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. Gwen rounded on him so swiftly, Tristan flinched.

“Tristan,” she said forcefully. “Are you not going to let her in?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tristan said, holding the funeral home door open. Esther searched Gwen’s face and watched her as she went in first. She took Tristan’s arm again and asked, “Her baby? Is this your girlfriend?”

“No,” Tristan said. “I’ll explain later.”

She was his Gwen, his best friend, his caregiver. Tristan didn’t intend to explain all of that and it would have probably been easier to lie and say “yes”, but the idea of Gwen as his girlfriend was both laughable and creepy. Borderline Oedipal. But Tristan didn’t want to explain that or tell Esther that he did have a girlfriend who she wasn’t going to meet anytime soon, if ever.

Although he would have much rather had Solange here than Gwen. Solange’s heart wouldn’t break at knowing Tristan had a living, biological mother out in the world. But Gwen’s…

Tristan resisted the sudden urge to hug Gwen and begin apologizing. Instead they stood awkwardly in the lobby for a moment. Tristan made a sweeping gesture, urging his mother and Gwen to sit. Once they’d settled in – Esther in Tristan’s favorite armchair – Tristan hurried over to the end table near Solange’s desk, which had a large coffee maker on it. He plucked up the carafe and went to the watercooler to fill it. Only once he’d gotten about halfway through the process of making coffee, did he look back at Gwen and Esther and ask, “Coffee?”

He made it anyways, deaf to their responses. He’d need it to survive. Once it was brewing, he came back into the seating area and stood. In the light, he could better see the bruises on Esther’s arms and face. Those on her arms were old and they looked as if they’d been made by someone’s fingers and thumb, grabbing her. Someone else’s hand, if Tristan had to guess from the shape of the bruises. The one on her cheek was harder to discern. It was newer, though, and still dark. Tristan looked away from it and over at Gwen. Her eyes were sharp with hurt. He owed her more than an explanation for tonight. His heart contracted in his chest. He was a rotten son, worrying more about Gwen’s feelings than Esther’s injuries. He was a rotten son and he knew it.

“I don’t think I introduced you two,” Tristan said. “Gwendoline Fontaine, Esther Vidal.”

He sat down on the coffee table between Gwen and Esther and rubbed his eyes.

“How do you know my son?” Esther asked Gwen, without any niceties of “a pleasure” or “good to meet you”. “He says you aren’t his girlfriend.”

“She’s not,” said Tristan.

“She called you her baby,” Esther said. “What right does she have to do that?”

More of a right than you do, Tristan thought sourly. Instead of speaking, he got up to pour coffee into Styrofoam cups. He added nothing to his. He didn’t even drink it. Instead he stood with his back to Esther and he took a deep, bracing breath.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

With each muscle that ticked in the other woman’s countenance, Gwen could feel the awkwardness grow until it was nearly palpable, until she could almost assign to it a flavor and sound. But something else twitched inside of Gwen. In some safe place in her ribcage, some small thing ignited, growing until Gwen hazard a guess at naming it. Was she jealous of the older woman? She wanted to hug Tristan to her chest and squeeze him so tightly that no woman, no matter how strong, could take him from her. She wanted to draw a circle of chalk around him and win a tug of war game. She wanted to write her name on him to show this interloper that he, indeed, belonged to her. She loved him. She loved him the way a mother loved a child, the way she loved Leopold. Her blood did not run through his veins, but her heart heard his when no other mother was listening, and it claimed him as her own. And to see this unnamed, unannounced woman come crawling into his life crushed the way a foot crushed a dandelion when it walked—carelessly and irrevocably.

Tristan had never mentioned his biological mother, and Gwen could certainly see why. Even she had mentioned her own feckless parents at least once, but she had never avoided the topic the way Tristan seemed to. And she had never realized until she looked at the slim, frazzled woman why. But now, as they reentered the safety of the building, Gwen was beginning to fit two and two together, but somehow, she wasn’t getting four. Still, there was something missing.

“I don’t think I introduced you two.” Tristan said, closing the door. “Gwendoline Fontaine, Esther Vidal.”

“Pleasure…” Gwen said tightly, one hand on her hip, the other paling from the death grip she held on her own palm.

But instead of a reciprocated platitude, even a feigned one, Esther let out a cold “how do you know my son?”

Where did Gwen begin? Did she start at the Seine with the spray paint? Did she start at the dispersal of the ashes of her stillborn daughter? Or did she start at the unnamed visceral bond she had to Tristan? The uncanny link to him that made her maternal protectiveness flare up now and her chest ache with envy and guilt. How could Gwen put into words something so sacred? Would Esther even understand her if she tried?

“He says you aren’t his girlfriend.”

Before Gwen could answer or laugh, Tristan jumped in with a hasty “She’s not.”

“She called you her baby. What right does she have to do that?” was Esther’s angry reply.

“I am a mother, Miss Vidal. I have a young boy. When you’re a mother, every child you see holds vestiges of your own, every child has little bits of your own baby in them.” Gwen said. It was a true enough statement, but it in no way covered the volumes of emotion and parental notions she had for Tristan. “Surely you know what I mean, being a mother and all.” Gwen couldn’t help but bite the bile that had accumulated in her mouth. “Sorry if I offended. Not my intention.”

Tristan approached Gwen slowly, handing her a steaming Styrofoam cup. She took in a scent of the coffee and smiled up at him. “Oh, thank you, love. Just what I needed.” She looked back at Esther, still refusing to sit. “So, Esther,” Gwen said, trying her best (for Tristan’s sake) to veil her contempt, and sipping her coffee almost jovially, “What brings you here on this fine midnight?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When Tristan was eleven years old, his mother came to his school to pick him up. He hadn’t seen her since he was eight; and she leaned against an unfamiliar, brown sedan. She wore a pair of aviator sunglasses and she smiled at him, promising that it was okay for them to go off for the afternoon. And at the time, it had been an adventure with his mother – all fun and games. She bought Tristan a giant pretzel from a street vendor and they wandered through the streets of Paris, admiring some of the murals that crawled up lampposts and the undersides of bridges.

Let’s go to the top of the bridge, Esther had said suddenly. I’ll bet we can see the whole city from there.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting on a thin, metal guard rail. Their feet dangled out over the Seine. Below, Tristan could see a drainage structure peeking out of the water; it was in the middle of a drought. Ahead, he could see off-white apartment buildings, glinting golden in the August sun. He clutched that stupid pretzel in one hand and gripped the rail with his other until his knuckles were white. But Tristan didn’t want to look down. Not when there was a city to see and a cool spray of evening mist in the air. At eleven, he was busy taking in the sights and sensations of his city, playing hooky from homework and Laurence’s stupid rules about food cart dinners.

How high up do you think we are, Tristan? Esther asked. She wasn’t looking at him. She was fixated on the drainage structure. Tristan followed her gaze; it looked like the tip of an iceberg. Looking at it made him think of shipwrecks and the titanic, so he looked back at his mother and shrugged.

If we jumped, we’d fall forever, Esther said. Don’t you think so?

Testing the theory, Tristan broke a piece of his pretzel and dropped it over the water. It spiraled down, but eventually landed on the top of the drainage structure. A gull swooped down and ate it. Tristan dropped another piece for scientific accuracy. It landed on the top of the water and was carried downstream. He looked back at his mother.

No, I don’t think so, he said.

We would, Esther said firmly. She reached over and grabbed Tristan’s hand – the one with the pretzel in it. It fell from his grasp and landed on the drainage pipe. A hoard of gulls descended on it.

It’s a beautiful thought, said Esther, still fervent. Then, quieter she said, I’m so tired, Tristan. Do you know what I mean? We’ve both been through so much…

And then Laurence yelled, “Tristan!” in a relieved-sounding voice behind them. Tristan looked over his shoulder; there Laurence stood, half-doubled-over, hands on his thighs. Tristan met his gaze and a watery smile broke out on Laurence’s lips. It disappeared when his eyes alighted on Esther. For the next twenty minutes, Laurence had coaxed Esther down.

The memory kept Tristan frozen. Made him nauseous. It was quite possibly the closest thing to a happy memory he had with Esther. He remembered her buying him things a few years down the road – when she was happier, healthier, in a relationship with a well-off guy who treated her right. That hadn’t been a happy time for Tristan, either.

Am I a good mother now? Esther had asked when she presented Tristan with a drum-set. I know I’m not always around and, well…

Tristan asked her to return the drum-set. Not for any conscious, moral reasons, but because there he had spent eight years being pushed around, suffered second degree burns and a broken arm thanks to Cyril, while his mother shrunk back and moused around. And a drum-set wasn’t going to fix that.

You’re a fine mother, Tristan lied when Esther began to tear up. I’m just crap at music.

He still had that stupid drum set – in his apartment now – and he’d never properly learned to play it. He only used it when he was a teenager, trying to piss Laurence off or to drown out his own thoughts or Esther’s middle-of-the-night visits. Tristan knew he ought to sell it. He didn’t know what was stopping him.

Tonight wasn’t about the drum-set or that day on the bridge seventeen years ago. It was – as always – about surviving another night, sanity intact. This time, though, Tristan had accidentally brought Gwen along for the ride and it slayed him to know she had to see this. There was a reason – there were hundreds of thousands of reasons, actually – why Tristan didn’t talk about his family. As far as anyone needed to know, he had an uncle, he had a Gwen and a Torben and a Leopold.

And some nights, he had a half-crazed mother, but no one needed to know that.

And now that half-crazed mother was asking Gwen what right she had to call Tristan “baby”. As if she had any claim to him anymore – if she ever did. He hadn’t exactly been a wanted child and Tristan was well aware of that fact. Gwen made him feel more wanted in the last six months than Esther had made him feel in a lifetime.

“I am a mother, Miss Vidal,” Gwen said. Tristan picked up the coffee cups with trembling hands and walked towards her slowly, watching indignation and something else – something elemental – fly up into her eyes. “I have a young boy. When you’re a mother, every child you see holds vestiges of your own, every child has little bits of your own baby in them. Surely you know what I mean, being a mother and all. Sorry if I offended. Not my intention.”

Tristan handed the coffee cups out to Gwen and then to his mother before sitting with his own – again on the table. He said nothing to either woman, but peered at Gwen curiously once he was seated. Gwen still stood and, frankly, the fierceness in her voice surprised Tristan. He was used to his flighty Gwen; the one who teased and joked and accidentally-on-purpose hit the dimmer across the room just so Tristan and Solange could pretend to be on a date. She was a playful, airy sprite of a woman. And the woman talking to Esther was made out of forest fires.

But when Gwen noticed Tristan, she was all smiles again. All sweet words that made him smile with tight lips. What else could he do? He drank from his coffee cup in silence, feeling the heated awkwardness still thick as smoke in the air. From the corner of his eye, he could see Esther shift in her seat.

“What brings you here on this fine midnight?” Gwen asked Esther, as if there wasn’t some sort of fight looming.

“I’m staying with my son tonight,” Esther said tightly. “I happened to be in town and I wanted to spend a little quality time with him before I have to head out.”

By “quality time”, Esther surely meant sleeping the night in Tristan’s apartment. In the morning, he would wake before dawn, hoping to catch her before she left and to feed her a better meal than she would likely get until the next time she breezed through the city. Tristan would go to work and if he was lucky, there’d be no more hiccups. Esther would stay until she got restless, then she’d be gone again. For however long she pleased.

Tristan wasn’t looking forward to showing her his new apartment, but it was a necessary evil, if he didn’t want to risk Esther showing up at someone’s funeral service. She’d done that before, caused quite a stir. Tristan nodded listlessly.

“Remind me how long you’re in town for,” he said, looking over at Esther and meeting her gaze. Then, knowing she wouldn’t take him up on the offer, he added, “Maybe we can go sight-seeing or something while you’re here.”

“That’d be lovely,” Esther said. “But you know I’m not staying long.”

“Of course not,” Tristan muttered.

“What’s your morning look like?” Esther asked him. She’d taken on a blithe tone – almost dreamy – as if anything and everything that had unfolded in the last fifteen minutes hadn’t happened.

“Three services,” Tristan said. “Back-to-back.”

“And lunch?”

Lunch was sacred time. Lunch was when Tristan got to take off his funeral director façade and go out with Solange. Or else he would swing by La Tour D’Argent to see Gwen and Leopold. It was magical, much needed “me time”. Tristan thought for a moment.

“I’ll have to double check.”

“You can’t expect me to wait in your apartment all day,” Esther said. Then, to Gwen, she said, “I hope your son grows up to appreciate his mother, Miss Fontaine. It seems when they hit a certain age, they find all sorts of excuses not to be seen with their parents.”

Tristan’s spine locked. He looked over at Esther wearily. “Parent. Singular. We’ve been over this. Don’t tell me you’re seeing him again…”

“I’m just making conversation with your friend,” Esther murmured.

Tristan sighed. That was an unspoken “yes”. He rubbed his face with his free hand.

“I’ll see what I can do about lunch tomorrow,” Tristan said. “In the meantime, I’ve got n eighty two year old woman waiting for me in the embalming room. Her make up isn’t going to do itself. Ma, if you could go wait in my office…? Door’s unlocked.”

Esther nodded and walked down the hall. Tristan waited until he heard the door shut. Then he slumped and looked up at Gwen.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. She’s… Well… You saw,” he said glumly. Then, quieter, he said, “She does this sometimes. As long as I can remember. Usually, she’s more…”

Erratic. Frustrating. Histrionic. Tristan had coaxed her down from a few bridges in the last several years, escorted her from a stranger’s funeral that she crashed, and driven her to an emergency room while she screamed at him not to take her. He sighed and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I should have said something before she turned up like this. It was bound to happen.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“I’m staying with my son tonight,” Esther said in voice so tightly wound, Gwen feared that her vocal chords might pop. She wondered if his mother staying was news to Tristan. “I happened to be in town and I wanted to spend a little quality time with him before I have to head out.”

Gwen opened her mouth the say something about how nice it was to spend quality time with your children and how building memories was one of the most important things to do in life, biting back contemptuous poison the whole time. But Tristan, in a wounded, soothing voice instead inquired “Remind me how long you’re in town for. Maybe we can go sight-seeing or something while you’re here.”

Gwen wasn’t sure if Tristan was excited about the prospect of sight-seeing with his mother or simply trying to smooth out any wrinkles Gwen had made. But when Esther spoke again, this time with “That’d be lovely, but you know I’m not staying long.” Gwen’s heart shattered; not because she felt replaced, not because she felt guilty, but because she was watching the remnants of a tattered relationship shrivel away. It was painful to watch, seeing a disenchanted son be let down by his fickle mother for the umpteenth time. She imagined for a terrifying moment a day when Leopold spoke with that same hopeless tone of voice, a day when Gwen did not care about him. It nearly killed her. How could a mother care so little? How could a mother forget to love her child?

She blinked hard to keep herself from crying in front of Tristan. She bit her tongue hard until metallic blood slipped down her throat to keep herself from saying something Tristan would never forgive her for to Esther. She watched their exchange with wide eyes, taking it in and trying to make sense of it. Esther was angry one moment, ethereal the next, and next to crying the next and Gwen wondered if there was something more that Tristan had not told her. But then Esther addressed Gwendoline again and something in her gut clicked.

“I hope your son grows up to appreciate his mother, Miss Fontaine. It seems when they hit a certain age, they find all sorts of excuses not to be seen with their parents.”

She had heard of such things, seen them, laughed at them. But she thought about her son. How could there come a day when her sensitive, clingy little boy wanted nothing to do with her? She doubted Leopold would even eschew Torben who was clueless when it came to relating to him. But then the air shifted and a heavy fog of discomfort crept around them.

“Parent. Singular. We’ve been over this. Don’t tell me you’re seeing him again…”

Something in Esther’s eyes flashed as she said “I’m just making conversation with your friend.”

And again, Tristan’s voice changed to something more gentle, more concerned. “I’ll see what I can do about lunch tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve got n eighty two year old woman waiting for me in the embalming room. Her make up isn’t going to do itself. Ma, if you could go wait in my office…? Door’s unlocked.”

Gwen had almost forgotten she was in Tristan’s workplace and that he was here because he had things to finish. As Esther walked off, Gwen gathered her things. She was almost to the door when Tristan spoke, his voice a mumbled growl, a pitiful, mournful sound that sent more red flags up in Gwen’s mind. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. She’s… Well… You saw.” Gwen nodded and turned around. “She does this sometimes. As long as I can remember. Usually, she’s more…”

With a sigh, Gwen walked over to Tristan and took his hand as he continued on. “I’m sorry. I should have said something before she turned up like this. It was bound to happen.”

“Don’t you go apologizing,” Gwen said, rubbing his knuckles gently with her thumb. “It’s not your fault. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s her… or me for not being able to be more of a mother to you.” She hugged him tightly. “You deserve more than this, Tristan. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, call me and I will be there in a heartbeat.” She pulled out of the hug and her brown eyes met his blue ones, begging him to believe every word. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about this if you don’t want me to. Not even Torben. Is that what you want?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen returned from the door to hold Tristan’s hand. The second her fingers brushed his, Tristan thought for sure he would start crying. He didn’t. A warm rush of gratitude swept through him. Down the hall, in his office, his mother waited for him. She was likely analyzing the wall hangings – Tristan’s diploma, some art he’d bought secondhand—and the books that lined the walls and gathered dust. Everything in there was practically foreign to her, but she was safe. Here, she always would be, even if she rushed back to Cyril later. Tristan would worry about that in the morning; how to get his mother away from the man who’d left those bruises on her, who’d broken Tristan’s arm twenty years ago, who’d made them both live stunted, half-lives for a very long time. In the morning, Tristan would call the lawyers he knew and call Laurence to brainstorm other ideas. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. Right now Tristan could do some immediate good. He could give Esther a safe place to stay the night – as long as she needed to – and he could tend to any injuries she had. He could see to it that she regrouped and got strength. And while Tristan took care of Esther, Gwen was taking care of him. It was almost like having a real mother, for once. Tristan gave Gwen’s hand a squeeze.

“Don’t you go apologizing,” Gwen said, rubbing his knuckles gently with her thumb. “It’s not your fault. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s her… or me for not being able to be more of a mother to you.”

Tristan looked up at Gwen in sharp surprise. He didn’t want apologies – not from Esther, and certainly not from Gwen. They were both doing the best they could. If it wasn’t enough, he had no right to ask for more. And what Gwen did for him – the check-ins at odd hours, the lobster thermidor lunches, the times she threw her arms around Tristan when he insisted he was okay but could secretly do with a hug or two – was more than enough, anyways.

She gave him one of those hugs now. Tristan held her in his arms and rested his cheek on top of her head. Her crazy curls tickled his skin and he smiled against her hair. Tristan’s eyes shut tight and if he could have things his way, the moment wouldn’t end for a good, long time.

“You deserve more than this, Tristan. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, call me and I will be there in a heartbeat,” said Gwen, untangling herself from Tristan’s arms. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about this if you don’t want me to. Not even Torben. Is that what you want?”

Tristan puffed out his cheeks and sighed. What he wanted was for Esther to get away from Cyril. What he wanted was to live his own life, separate from and healthier than the lives his family led. What he wanted most of all right now, though, was for Gwen to understand that he didn’t “deserve more than this” because what he had now – the friendships he shared with her and with Torben, the career he’d carved for himself, the relationship that he and Solange were building together – was so much more than he’d ever really hoped for.

“Tell Torben if you want,” Tristan said. “Don’t keep secrets from him because of me. You both have been so good to me -- you have no idea – and…” Tristan took a shaky breath. “Thank you. Just thank you. I love you both so much.”

He stood and gave Gwen one more hug. He held her to him and when they were standing, their height discrepancy was almost laughable. It made Tristan smile in spite of everything.

“Text me when you get home. I want to know you’re safe,” Tristan told her when they let go. “I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”

OOC: End scene? /lazy BIC:

[The Exodus]

OOC: Solange and Tristan! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

Tradition was not something Tristan found himself overly concerned with. While other funeral directors were creatures of habit, preferring to adhere to standard schedules where they could (since much of the job was unpredictable), Tristan had only two rituals: wear suit and drink coffee. Every other day at work was an adventure of some sort. New curve balls, new challenges; it was exhilarating. Tristan prided himself on his adaptability.

But this morning, he found himself face to face with an unfamiliar delivery boy and that called into question just how “adaptable” Tristan actually was.

“There’s gotta be a mistake,” Tristan told the kid, who was holding a large, blue vase filled with lilies. “I coulda sworn we ordered from Fleurettes.”

He’d asked Solange to place the order this morning; he expected a delivery by tomorrow, leaving a little leeway for the screw up delivery staff and for himself, in case they didn’t follow through. And now, the same exact arrangement he’d wanted was in the hands of an eager stranger.

“If you aren’t going to sign for the flowers,” the delivery boy said. “The least you could do is get the lady who ordered them to sign for them. This is Vidal Funeral Home, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It is,” Tristan said. He looked past the delivery boy. Emblazoned on the white delivery van was the name “Schwan & Sons”. Tristan had never heard of them before. He looked back at the delivery boy.

“Then… I either need the owner of the funeral home or the woman who placed the order this morning to sign this,” the kid said. “And pay for them, of course. It’ll be twenty euros.”

That was at least fifteen euros less than Tristan expected to pay for the same arrangement from Fleurettes.

“Let me go find the woman who placed the order…” Tristan said. “Come in.”

He beckoned for the delivery boy to come inside and wait in the sitting area of the lobby. Tristan walked over to Solange’s desk.

“Did you order that arrangement I asked about?” he asked quietly. “This guy says someone ordered lilies from Schwan & Sons…?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Really, the switch in floral providers wasn't too big of a deal. She was just penciling in a few appointments for Tristan and making arrangements for flowers it occurred to her that they were not particularly happy with their current floral provider who had a tendency of screwing up the order in one way or another. She and Tristan had gotten in the habit or ordering the arrangements early so there would be time to send them back if they needed to. It was obviously going to be a lot easier to actually get a company that would send the right arrangement the first time around.

She had decided to test it out when Tristan asked her to order some lilies for the service later that day. She'd taken a little time to look up some nearby florists and found that the place called Schwan & Sons actually had the better price and much better customer reviews. She'd placed the order with them instead of Fleurettes in an attempt to see how well they really did.

A few hours later, Tristan suddenly came up to her desk, looking a little confused.

“Did you order that arrangement I asked about?” he asked her and she nodded in ascent. “This guy says someone ordered lilies from Schwan & Sons…?”

She glanced towards the sitting area where there stood a young guy holding a vase of lilies. He looked a little frustrated and rather eager to get on his way. No doubt he still had other deliveries to make. Solange glanced at the clock and smiled with satisfaction. It was exactly the time she'd specified to be there.

"Oh good! Right on time," she declared, getting up to go to the boy.

She quickly signed for the flowers and let him take down the information for the funeral home's credit card. She offered a small tip for good service and the boy was out again. She smiled at Tristan as she took the lilies and set them on her desk to inspect them. The reviews had been right! The flowers were in excellent shape; very healthy.

"You know, its really about time we changed florists," she mused lightly as she looked the flowers over. "I really don't know how you put up with Fleurettes for so long."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange looked up, but instead of looking at Tristan, she glanced over his shoulder at the delivery boy. A smile lit up her face as she stood.

"Oh good! Right on time," Solange said cheerfully.

Tristan stared, slack jawed, as she signed for the flowers, exchanged payment information with the delivery boy, and tipped the kid to boot. Something had happened; a paradigm shift of sorts. The delivery boy went on his way, leaving Tristan alone with Solange and the flowers in the lobby.

“What just…?” Tristan sputtered. It shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, seeing Solange sign for flowers. He’d seen her do it a hundred thousand times. But this was a different supplier and suddenly the world felt like a very foreign place where flowers were delivered “right on time” and in perfect, post-greenhouse condition. This was not the universe Tristan had said “goodnight” to when he went to bed yesterday. Flowers were almost always late and sometimes, they were bruised and battered from a bicycle ride over. They didn’t come in a clean, white van. And they certainly didn’t come a full day in advance.

"You know, it’s really about time we changed florists," Solange said lightly. She was examining the lilies with delicate hands. "I really don't know how you put up with Fleurettes for so long."

And then it sank in. Solange had made an executive decision without him. One that Tristan ought to have made months – maybe even years – ago. Most employers would be hopping mad. The whole ‘don’t do things without clearance’. But Tristan shook his head. Their work relationship had never mimicked “most” employer-employee relationships. And now that they were dating, it really didn’t fit any recognizable mold. All Tristan knew for certain was that Solange had done something for the funeral home that he hadn’t. And she’d done it without asking. Tristan-as-boyfriend was touched. Tristan-as-boss was impressed.

“You’re right,” he said. “Thank you. I guess I never really got around to it.”

He walked around to her side of the desk and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. It didn’t seem like adequate thanks or praise for the headaches she’d saved him from. It certainly wasn’t professional enough to match the favor she’d just done him.

Of course she might not be doing it for you.

It occurred to Tristan suddenly, that even before they’d started dating, Solange seemed to find her groove. She’d gone – seemingly overnight – from sullen and dispassionate to really putting her heart into this place. A little smile tugged at Tristan’s lips and he pulled back, a little grudgingly, just in case the next wave of clients walked in.

“I mean, seriously, Solange,” he said, straightening his suit jacket. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

It had only been a a few months since their inspection, but ever since then Solange had really begun to be invested in the funeral home. When the inspection came and there had been a possibility (however slight) that the place might be shut down, she'd been made to realize that she actually cared. She cared about not being able to help people through the grieving process, cared about not be able to do this job, cared about not getting to see Tristan every day. She found that she actually wanted to make this business thrive and be successful.

Part of that included getting a new florist. It was a wonder that Tristan hadn't gotten rid of the old company a lot sooner. She knew how seriously he took running this place and Fleurettes just had not been doing a decent job. She probably should have been a little worried he'd be mad, but she had already lined up her whole sales pitch about how much better the service and flowers were while also saving costs for the client. However it seemed it wasn't needed.

“You’re right,” Tristan said. “Thank you. I guess I never really got around to it.”

She shot him a smile. "Of course I'm right. It's about time you learned that," she teased. She shook her head with a soft laugh. "It really wasn't anything all that important. All it took was a few minutes of research on the internet. I think 'Schwan and Sons' will be really good for business. We can save costs for the clients while giving them a better product..."

She trailed off when he suddenly came around to her side, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as he kissed her temple. She leaned into the embrace for a moment before they both pulled back. She smiled back at him, asking him silently what that sweet gesture was for.

“I mean, seriously, Solange,” he said as he straightened his jacket. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her smile turned a little bashful as she shook her head again. "You got along without me just fine before," she reminded him, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. "But I'm glad you're happy. I probably should have mentioned it before I actually went through with it...sorry."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange looked embarrassed. Tristan made a mental note to think of a more appropriate way to display gratitude in the future. He tried to remember a time before they were dating, before they were even friends, and how he had thanked her for things then. To his own dismay, Tristan realized “thank you” had barely been in his vocabulary when Solange first started working for him. Maybe she hadn’t been the only one turning up to work half-heartedly and sullenly back then. Tristan smiled as Solange squeezed his arm. The past was the past.

"You got along without me just fine before," Solange said.

That was even harder to recall clearly than Solange’s first months at the funeral home. Tristan could remember some of the families he’d served and he could remember Jacqui sitting in what he now thought of as Solange’s desk. But the mechanics of everything was fuzzy. Tristan didn’t want to remember how he’d gotten by without Solange. She was so integral to the funeral home’s recent success. Not just the flowers today, but everyday triumphs, too. They were getting more business than ever and there had to be some sort of correlation. Unless people were just dying more often. Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.

"But I'm glad you're happy,” said Solange. “I probably should have mentioned it before I actually went through with it...sorry."

“Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?” Tristan teased. “But if you keep making executive decisions without me, we might have to rename the place after you.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: New Tristange scene. BIC:

Tristan Vidal

For the last month and a half, Tristan had been fretting over how to mark Solange’s one-year anniversary of working at the funeral home. To his dismay, everyone he’d talked to had suggested sweet, little romantic gestures. It was like everyone Tristan knew forgot that in addition to dating, he and Solange were running a business together. And doing a damn good job. Business had literally never been better. During a meeting with his financial planner, inspiration struck.

“What changed this quarter?” the financial planner asked.

Tristan shrugged. People weren’t dying any differently than they had before. The only thing that had changed, really, had been Solange. He considered saying it, but just before he could, the financial planner said, “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

“I don’t think it’s me,” Tristan confessed. He hadn’t changed much about his business in the last eight years. He’d gotten better at his craft – practice makes perfect and all – but the biggest changes that had been made hadn’t been his doing. They hadn’t even been his idea. “It’s all Solange.”

“Your receptionist?”

“Don’t call her that,” Tristan snapped. “She’s got a better head for business than I do. You know, she dropped Fleurette’s for us.”

“You’re using plural pronouns,” said the financial planner.

“Yeah? So what?”

“You didn’t do that when Jacqueline was working for you.”

They crunched numbers some more. There was a lot of money left over. More than Tristan expected. If his mind wasn’t already spinning, it went into overdrive at the opportunities presented to them. Tristan always said he wanted to expand the business – bring on a couple of interns to help with the embalming, maybe make a few building additions. But that had always been a plan for the future. In ten years. Nearly ten years had passed since Vidal Funeral Home opened its doors. And things were moving ahead of schedule.

This kind of opportunity – when the money was plentiful and the planets were all aligned – didn’t come around twice in a row. And Tristan was taking advantage of it. He’d spent at least fifteen minutes every day, running hypotheticals with his financial planner. And his mind was made up.

Today, Tristan spent the last thirty minutes in his office, thumbing through the paperwork on his desk. He’d told Solange to come in before she left for the night, that he needed to talk to her. He’d never been more nervous in his life. Including the first time they’d kissed. Including his first day at work. All day long, his nerves had been peeking through in small ways. He’d been playing with his hair, stammering on the phone, and tapping his fingers. Even in his office, he was drawing in the margins of the paperwork laid out in front of him.

This was the right choice. Sure, it was a big step. But logical. Necessary.

The worst she can do is say “no”, he reminded himself. That’s just a risk you’ve gotta take.

But if Solange said “no”, Tristan didn’t know what he’d do.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Honestly Solange was kind of worried right now. All day Tristan had been acting very nervous, not himself. Something was up, she could tell that much. She'd really begun to worry when he'd come up to tell her that he wanted to talk to her after work. the words 'We need to talk' were never good for any relationship, personal or work related. It had to be especially bad when it was said between two people who were both dating and co-workers. She wasn't sure what Tristan wanted to talk to her about, but the worry was creeping in.

The day seemed to drag on for an eternity while she waited for it to come to a close. She was having a bit of a hard time focusing on her work. All she could think about was what Tristan could want to talk to her about that would make him so nervous. He'd asked her to wait till after work...did that mean it had something to do with their relationship? Was he going to break up with her?! She didn't think that was it. Things between them were going really well! Of course her mind couldn't stop playing worse case scenarios. She didn't deal well with suspense obviously.

Finally she had finished up all her work for the day and all that was left was stop by Tristan's office. She grabbed her purse and and headed for his door, pausing a moment to take a breath before pushing it open. He was sitting at his desk, writing on some paper, though she recognized the movements as drawing more than writing. He was distracted though and she knocked on the open door to announce her presence.

"Hey," she said with a warm smile as she stepped inside. "You wanted to talk to me about something? Everything okay?"

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

A knock on the door made Tristan looked up and though he knew it would be Solange, he was surprised to see her nonetheless. She’d come into his office a zillion times before, but Solange didn’t look like Solange-as-girlfriend or Solange-as-secretary. She hadn’t really all day long, not since Tristan printed off the preliminary contract this morning. Tristan smiled at her, trying not to look as shaky as he felt.

"Hey," Solange said. Her brilliant smile spread across her lips as she walked into the office. "You wanted to talk to me about something? Everything okay?"

“Yeah,” Tristan said. He looked down at the paper he’d been drawing on -- a resume, actually – and the robot he’d doodled in the corner. He tucked it back into the folder. “I just… Do you know what today is?”

Tristan twirled the pen he was holding between his fingers. He didn’t usually have a head for numbers and dates. He was better with concrete things – with people, with corpses, with paints – than abstract things like what day it was. But Tristan knew full well what today was. Today was Solange’s one year anniversary of working at the funeral home. He’d been holding out for this particular day, even though he could have asked her a week ago. It had seemed perfect and the right kind of dramatic this morning. But Tristan was neither perfect nor the right kind of dramatic and now his stomach caved in at the corniness. So much for clever and collected lines.

“Actually, don’t answer that. Just… sit. Everything’s fine, I swear. I just wanted to talk to you,” he said, shaking his head. Then with an exasperated and self-deprecating shrug, Tristan said, “I’ve been talking with our financial planner. First quarter’s numbers are in. And… Well. I’m not exactly a mathematical genius, but it’s definitely looking good. Like, I can’t remember things looking this good in… What I’m trying to say is… How do you like working here, Solange? Honestly.”

He almost said “don’t spare my feelings”, but Solange had never really done that, whatever context their relationship put things in. Honesty was their policy – sometimes brutal and not-pretty. That wasn’t going to change.

But Tristan hoped for a genuine “I love it”. Because anything less than, “It’s good” and he didn’t have a plan for what to say next.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

She hung by the door for a moment, feeling a little wary about stepping inside his office. It was ridiculous really. She'd been in his office hundreds of times before, lots of time without his permission. She had no reason to be cautious now. She just had to remind herself that whatever happened, Tristan was her boyfriend and they could manage to make this work.

“Yeah,” he said, returning her smile. “I just… Do you know what today is?”

She thought for a moment. It had been a year ago last week that her grandmother had passed away. Tristan had taken her to lunch that day and they'd spent the time just talking about Jaqui, her grandmother, remembering funny or touching stories about her. Solange had desperately needed that and was grateful to have someone who understood the person her grandmother had been like Tristan did. It was about a week after the funeral Solange had taken over her job...it was a year ago, today, she realized.

Before she a chance to reply, Tristan spoke again. “Actually, don’t answer that. Just… sit. Everything’s fine, I swear. I just wanted to talk to you,” he assured her.

"Okay..." she said softly, coming to take a seat in the chair across from him that was usually reserved for mourners consulting with him about the funeral arrangements. "You know you don't have to call a meeting just to talk to me..." She gave a small smile, showing she was only teasing him good naturedly.

“I’ve been talking with our financial planner. First quarter’s numbers are in. And… Well. I’m not exactly a mathematical genius, but it’s definitely looking good. Like, I can’t remember things looking this good in… What I’m trying to say is… How do you like working here, Solange? Honestly.” he asked her.

It was a bit to take in. She was thrilled that numbers were doing so well. It took a second to rememer that he had asked her a question. Again she thought on the question for a moment, trying to figure out how to word her answer.

"Honestly? I'm starting to think that this is kind of job I was meant to do all along," she admitted. "I love helping the people that come through here and it brings me this...peace to give them closure. I admit it wasn't my ideal job starting out, but its grown on me. I think you rubbed off on me."

She gave a wry grin before finally asking. "Why did you want to know?"

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan’s whole body was made out of springs – taut, fit-to-snap springs. He wanted nothing more to stand up and pace when Solange sat down. He didn’t. He was so wound up that he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but lean forward and listen.

"Honestly? I'm starting to think that this is kind of job I was meant to do all along," said Solange. “I love helping the people that come through here and it brings me this...peace to give them closure. I admit it wasn't my ideal job starting out, but it’s grown on me. I think you rubbed off on me. Why did you want to know?"

Tristan readjusted the folder in front of him. He thumbed past the resumes submitted to him in the last two days, since contacting his alma mater and the few trade schools in Paris. At the back of the folder was a copy of Solange’s current contract and a draft of a potential new one. He smiled at the old one tenderly, tracing the header with his index finger.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “I’ve been thinking – for a while, but since inspection in January – about the future. And… well. We’re in a place where expansion is a possibility. I mean, it’s inevitable, if we want to stay in business, but…”

Tristan cleared his throat and looked up.

“I put out ads for an apprentice,” he said. “Two or three, actually. I used to say, ‘In five years, I should expand’ and then it was, ‘In ten years’ or whatever… And for the first time… We’re in a position to expand. But I don’t want to unless... Well, unless I’ve got a partner to help me run things.”

He met Solange’s eyes significantly.

“You’re technically more qualified than I am,” he told her. “If it wasn’t for my field experience and your never having embalmed a body, you would be more qualified than me, since a psychology degree is the new national standard. And, well, frankly, even if that wasn’t true and even if we weren’t hiring anyone else at all, things only got better after you signed on. And frankly, we’ve been business partners unofficially for… A long time. This would just be in writing. It would mean a pay-increase – obviously – and more flexible hours and… We’ll work out the details if you say yes. But what I’m asking is: Solange, how would you feel if we were officially business partners?”