Remember Then

I. Of the Past

"You are causing them great frustration, darling," Eddie said to his wife. A wicked smile curled his wife's lips and he chuckled, his eyes wrinkling as he did so. "You do enjoy it."

Fiona Trilby's unsteadily settled beside him in the couch. "Of course I do, Eddie."

His smile softened as he took her wrinkly hand in his. "You gave them a glimpse of a world they never knew existed. Through your books you managed to cause them to thirst for more of that world and its people. An underground world that lives in the past, its people who are trapped in their own societal standards, their petty scandals and most of all, their enchanting tales of love," he added and then scoffed. "Of course our grandchildren would want for more."

"They are desperate for the answers, are they not?"

"You need not ask, my dear." He shook his head and let the silence fall between them. Turning to his wife, he asked, "But I cannot help but think that you are avoiding telling them the true version of the stories."

Fiona gripped his hand tighter. "I do not know what you are talking about, darling."

Eddie shifted in the couch to give his wife a level look. "Perhaps the children ought to know the real story behind your fairytales." Fiona averted her eyes. She had grown old and he was there to witness it—he went through the journey with her—and his heart filled with an overwhelming feeling far beyond love.

"I wrote them not to tell facts, Eddie. I wrote them the way I would have wanted."

"You intended to write fairytales, yes," he said with a sigh. "But things unfolded differently from the truth, my dear—some of them at the very least. You wrote fairytales based on events that held their own facts and you cannot deny that no matter how you wish you can. We cannot leave our granddaughters with a flimsy and incomplete history. I believe they are old enough to understand that magical fairytales are only for fiction." Eddie gave his wife's hand a squeeze. "My dear, you should share to them what you did not tell our daughter—what you did not write in those books."

He knew she was pretending not to consider his statement for he knew his wife all too well. Yet he also knew his granddaughters to be certain that they would not stop until their questions were answered.

If his wife did not write those books about the Everards, Violet and Valerie would not be in their home at that moment, sleeping in the guest room. If they did not find his wife's books in the cabin and read them from start to end, they would not have questions about the Everards—they would not have questions about the Trilbys.

And he had promised the twins that he would tell them about the Trilbys. But telling them about the Trilbys meant telling them what truly happened with the Everards. For it all started there—everything started with the Everards.

"Fee," he insisted, "you and I very well know that you have left out many things from Nick's story to the last one."

"Nick's?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.

"The sixth book, dear," he wryly stated. "Where it all started."

Finally, Fiona sighed and met his eyes. Hers were filled with tenderness and love as they glimmered with tears. "You know why, Eddie."

He gave his wife a tender look. "You are trying to protect me."

"No—yes, I believe I am."

"Fee, I did no wrong. My family is not who I am."

Fiona let out a breath. "Then perhaps you are correct. Perhaps it is time I provide the girls the missing details."

Eddie leaned forward and gave his wife's temple a kiss. "Yes. Tell them what truly happened so I can tell them what happened."