Celine's Sorrow - A Damien Dickens Prequel

Celine sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the envelope in her hands. The sounds of the household - a knock at the door, a baby crying, footsteps on the stairs - were muffled by the beating of her heart. As she had done countless times in the last few months, Celine opened the flap of the unsealed envelope and drew out a newspaper clipping. Carefully, she unfolded the paper, which was threatening to tear at the well-worn folds, and smoothed it flat on her lap.

“Too bad you weren’t here. S.” The characteristic loops of Sylvia’s self-confident script sprawled in bright red ink that mocked her from the surface of the page. She would recognize Sylvia’s handwriting anywhere, even without the stylized curlicues of the ’S’ - her usual signature.

“Tobacco Heiress Weds,” announced the headline that straddled the entire width of the Society page of the South Jersey Times. “Atlantic City, NJ. Friday, December 26, 1969. Sylvia Sutherland and Gordon Sethwick were married in the chapel of the Atlantic City Episcopal Church on Christmas Eve in a quiet ceremony,” the story began. “The bride, who is the daughter of the late Ann Olivier Barnstable and stepdaughter of Arthur Sutherland, was draped in a long-sleeved, scoop-necked white silk sheath gown. The skirt was overlaid with antique white lace onto which were sewn at random a plethora of white pearls. She wore antique white lace gloves and white peau de soie pumps. White pearl earrings and a white pearl choker completed her bridal outfit. 

The bride was attended by her Maid of Honor, Susan Sutherland, and was given in marriage by her stepfather, Arthur Sutherland. The groom was attended by Mr. Arnold Barnstable, the bride’s brother, who acted as Best Man. The newlyweds will honeymoon on Hawaii before returning to their respective positions at the family firm, Sutherland Smokes.”

Celine refolded the news clipping, replaced it in the envelope and looked around the room. The closet and drawers were empty; her suitcases were packed. The baby’s cry penetrated her consciousness and she automatically rose to go to her son - then sat back down. He was no longer her son, she reminded herself. He belonged now to Mary and Zeb. Mary would cherish him; would keep him safe and happy. No one would every know about her son. Not Celine's father, not Baby Arthur's father. And most definitely not Sylvia.

The Suitcase

Carl breathed a sigh of relief as he closed and double-locked his hotel room door. He had been on the move for 18 hours. And he was only halfway to his destination.

He tossed his suitcase on one of the queen-size beds in the Grand Cayman suite, adjusted the combination on the latches, and slid the buttons. Nothing. He rechecked that the combination was correct: 927 - his grandma’s birthday - and tried again. Still no joy.

Carl stopped for a moment and thought. The only time the case had been out of his hands was when he used the washroom in the airport terminal. He distinctly remembered setting the bag down and then picking it back up after he’d washed his hands. Could he have grabbed the wrong suitcase?

This could be trouble. He had sensitive documents in that case, not to mention his ‘drop dead’ money - money that he planned to deposit in a Cayman Island bank. If he’d lost his bag, he was toast. The feds would love to get their hands on the info he was carrying. So would the Mafia. Those documents were his insurance policy.

Carl went into the bathroom and rummaged through the courtesy toiletries package on the washstand. Good. There was a small nail file. He returned to the bed and started to tease open the latches. It took ten minutes to work the first one free. By this time, beads of perspiration were traveling along the canyons formed by the worry lines on his forehead, and oozing into his eyes. He stopped and wiped his brow.

The second latch was easier. He knew now just how to tackle it. Hurriedly, Carl flung open the lid of the case. It looked like his. Everything appeared intact. He must have set the wrong combination. Relieved, he rummaged through the contents of the bag. The documents and cash were still sandwiched between layers of folded shirts, exactly where he had placed them. A ripple of relief roiled his stomach, and he fought to dominate a surge of nausea.

And then he saw it. Tucked into a corner, mostly hidden under the lining of the suitcase. A tiny rectangular object. He picked it up and examined it. It was an iPod. Perhaps a tracking device? He turned it over and over in his hands, wondering what to do. Suddenly, the iPod began to vibrate and the display flashed a single word: “GOTCHA!”

And Carl didn’t have to worry about the feds or the Mafia ever again.

©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.

The prompt: You arrive at your destination, and discover that you have the wrong suitcase. What do you find in it that might change your life forever?