Subj: Consequences of Falling-Part 1:Chapter 1
Date: 7/2/01 2:37:12 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Nicole
Consequences of Falling: Part I: Chapter 1
I don't think anyone knows what evil is. I don't think anyone has the
right to know.
-Ghost from Poppy Z. Brite's Lost Souls
April 12, 1972, Collinwood, 7:00 p.m.
She stood outside the door, unconsciously smoothing her blue silk dress
in impatience. She knew that the most fashionable styles were much more
whimsical, much flirtier. She still preferred the classics. Besides, the
dress appeared young . . .at least on her. Most everything did.
Maybe this will catch his eye. She did not know if she wanted to obtain
his attention, though. She was being set up on a blind date with her landlady's
"handsome" distant cousin. If he's so handsome, why does he
need to be set up? She knew that she should not meet this guy because
nothing good would possibly come of it. Yet, these people did not know anything
about her past or her dubious history with men. If they had the slightest
inkling as to what she was, they would have never wanted her to meet their
cousin.
She swallowed her fears and knocked at the large door. A lovely young blonde
woman answered, her face exhibiting a mixture of amusement and jealousy.
"Hello. . . um. . . Mrs. Stoddard is expecting me. I'm. . . "
"Of course Ms. DuVane," answered the young woman curtly. "Please come in."
She entered cautiously, slightly frightened to enter the old mansion. But
the place had a certain charm, a certain je ne sais quoi that struck
her as delightful. Maybe I should have tried to get a room here. Her
concentration was ultimately broken when Mrs. Stoddard appeared from behind
double doors, followed closely by a redheaded woman with sharp features.
Mrs. Stoddard made sure the doors were firmly shut before approaching her,
studying her features for the anxiety she refused to show. "Ms. DuVane,
I'm please you came," she said warmly. "You look lovely."
"Thank you. You're too kind."
Mrs. Stoddard smiled and brought the blonde woman to her side. "This is my daughter Carolyn and this," she said motioning to the other woman, " is Julia Hoffman."
She attempted to offer greetings but the other women chilled her. Both seemed
outrageously suspicious of her, as if she had something to hide. Maybe
they can see through me? Maybe they know what I am? She eventually shook
off their negativity, knowing it best not to let them get the best of her.
"I don't mean to seem rude, but I think it's best we get to the heart
of the matter."
"Yes! You must be ready to meet him," said Mrs. Stoddard. "He's
just as excited to meet you. You see, our cousin has had a rough streak
of luck in all matters over the last two years."
"Oh, what happened?"
"I don't think you would believe it if we told you," said Julia.
"I don't mean to pry," she insisted, "but I wouldn't want
to accidentally hit a touchy subject."
"I don't believe this will come up."
She ignored her. Directing her attention to Mrs. Stoddard, she said, "I'd
love to meet him now."
Mrs. Stoddard nodded and went to open the door. She crept up behind the woman, anxious as ever to meet her mystery man. Once the door was opened, she slipped in and saw him before he turned to her. Tall, thin, and dressed in black. Not bad, not bad at all. She thought his hair could stand to be cut, but the thick chestnut locks seemed at place on him. He seemed as she had expected.
She had not expected the shock she felt when he turned to her. His handsome
face seemed familiar to her although she could not place it to a name. It
was his eyes that quickly gave him away. How could I forget? She
had often thought of those eyes, large cerulean pools that one could easily,
and happily, drown in. That was so long ago. To her surprise, he
seemed to notice her as well, his eyes widening to breathe her in. She cautiously
stepped forward, her hand extended in what could be a tumultuous meeting.
"Hello Mr. Stoddard, I. . . "
"No, I'm afraid you're mistaken," he said softly. "My name
is Collins. Quentin Collins."
This is highly unexpected. She hoped her apprehension did not show as she shook his hand. "I apologize Mr. Collins. I am Constance. Constance DuVane."
"Constance. . . DuVane?"
"Yes."
Quentin nodded and turned to the onlookers. "Can you please leave us?" he asked, brandishing the priceless smile Constance knew too well. "I would like to speak with Ms. DuVane in private."
The three relented, if somewhat suspiciously, and returned to the foyer. As soon as they left, Quentin locked the doors. Constance watched as he ran around the room, frantically searching for invisible stragglers. Once he convinced himself that they were alone, he fixed himself a drink. He could only sneak a sip before Constance confiscated it, knowing well what the drill would be if she did not. Quentin seemed angry at first but quickly cooled. "Constance?" he asked again.
"Quentin! Long time, no see, huh?" she asked whimsically.
"Long time indeed. I had almost forgotten."
"How?" Constance raised the snifter in a faux toast, saying, "Happy New Year, Quentin: may 1901 be brighter than 1900."
"Seventy-one years," he whispered, sounding as if the weight of
those years had hit him for the first time. "I can't believe we met
seventy-one years ago."
"And you've not changed a bit."
"Neither have you." Quentin fixed another drink, guzzling it down
before she could stop him. "You can't imagine how odd it is to see
a familiar face."
"Try me." Constance suddenly remembered what Mrs. Stoddard had
said, realizing she could easily hit a sore spot if she was not careful.
She took one of his hands into both of hers and asked, "What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong. Who said something was wrong?"
Constance could see the heartbreak streaming from his eyes. It made her
want to cry. "Mrs. Stoddard told me that you've had a rough couple
of years. Why don't you tell me what happened? On second thought, why don't
you tell me who she was?"
Quentin chuckled softly and patted her hand. "Am I really so predictable? Yes, it was a woman, more a memory than anything else."
"A strong memory?"
"Yes. Sometimes good and sometimes bad but always overpowering."
"They're just memories, Quentin. They can't hurt you."
"I'm not so sure," he mumbled. "You never quite know what
can hurt you at Collinwood."
"Why don't you leave?"
"I don't know. I suppose I'm a glutton for punishment."
Constance smiled and nestled her head into his shoulder. She had forgotten
how warm he was, how much she had enjoyed being so close to him even if
their relationship had always been completely platonic. Platonic female
friend of Quentin Collins! Isn't that a contradiction of terms? "So
you still live here?"
"In the same room I've always been in."
Constance wanted to scream and pull his hair, try to break the haze as she
had years before. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and
said, "I've never seen you as a stay-put guy. You need to leave."
"And follow you to God-knows-where?"
"No because I'm living on the estate."
Constance was shocked by how quickly his jaw dropped, an exasperated "ugh"
creeping out before he began to laugh. "You're living on the estate?
I had no idea! Where are you staying and how long have you been there? I
need to know how inattentive I've been."
"I'm living in the cottage. I've been there for the past. . . um. .
. month and a half."
"You've hidden yourself well," chided Quentin playfully. "Don't
you think it's time you crawled into town?"
"Probably. Is there anything to do in town?"
"No but we could grab a bite to eat, catch a movie, come back and maybe.
. . no, I'm sorry Constance. I didn't mean for that to sound the way it
did."
"I hope not." Constance punched his shoulder mischievously and
moved towards the locked doors. "Besides, I'm not that easy. You won't
have me that quickly."
"That's not what Jack Andrews was flying off at the mouth about last
time I saw him."
"Jack Andrews is an idiot, Quentin. Never believe a word he says."
Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production.