Chapter 2: Shades of Purple

Chapter 2 : Shades of Purple

Lavender Gate, the home David Ellery built, stood frozen even with the crowd leaving, illuminating the sorrow of his quick death. Everyone would remember him. Missing is a choice. But nobody can forget the legacy he built and the humble man he was—even though he had everything. Gentle and calm like the sea. Whatever he was holding beneath it, he never showed to anyone but smiled wholeheartedly.

As the cars passed the gate, James read:

David Ellery

Founder and CEO of Feather and Frames

Lavender Gate.

His father was a legend, a name known to the smallest and the biggest people in the business field—and maybe outside it. He sat in the backseat as one of the bodyguards drove. He was alone in the car. He felt he should leave. Without his father, he had nothing here.

As his mother, siblings, relatives, and other people got out of the cars and he heard them shutting the doors one by one, he couldn't move.

Where was his father now? That's all he could think. He was in his late twenties but still longing for his father like a child.

"Jamie." Henry knocked on his car window. He slid it down, and they exchanged a sorrowful smile. Henry was 16 or 17. He didn't know, because James was absent his whole life. He didn't know how much Henry was feeling. But he could see his father in Henry—the gentleness and calmness even when the world was tearing upside down. He cared, even though they never met. Maybe it was the power of blood relations and brotherhood. Henry didn't know the chaos surrounding him—the family dynamics or sensual politics. He just knew James as a brother, and that's what made their interactions easier than with the others. James opened the door and followed Henry. He heard the door shut by the bodyguards. There were servants to take care of everything. They just had to live. Simple yet complicated. People wasting their entire lives to take care of a wealthy family for money. Some of them actually cared because of his father. He had helped a lot of people with their financial problems. He was a great listener and advisor. He knew what to do.

The entrance was soaked with mud and dirt, and servants were cleaning and arranging furniture like earlier. Couldn't they wait? They had just arrived after burying their father. Tomorrow, his brother Antony would take his father's place in the company. It was always supposed to be Antony. James could never manage it. He was more of an artistic, poetic type. He didn't know much about Bruce.

He unbuttoned and removed his coat and lay on his bed quickly as he reached his room on the second floor . The rain had stopped, and a shimmer of evening sun gave the room an orange-fade glow. He hated it. Rain was better. Everything was changing, shifting, and draining. He untied his watch and put it on the table. He didn't want to harm it or destroy it ever. It was the last thing that held a connection to his father.

He didn't care for food or drinks. He wanted to hold on to the memories. He didn't want this day to end and the night to come. He wanted time to stop and stay frozen. He picked up his journal from his messy suitcase and tried to write to let everything out, but nothing came. Only the date and day. He could write nothing else. Or what should he write? Today I buried my dad? It was no use. He closed it. He never stayed in the house—only some days in his childhood that he couldn't remember. His dad's study room was just above his room. He remembered trying to hear his walk in childhood. But his father walked gently and sat there and wrote or worked. He didn't know what he did. His father loved memories and wanted to keep everything close in photographs. That's how he started the business. From a flower shop to a gift shop. It took a long time to reach here. Feather and Frames was his dream. They created memory boxes, portraits, pressed flower arrangements with poetry included, audio recordings, collections of fragrances from moments, memorial services. There were artists for drawing loved ones, choirs. Everything that associated with memory. Isn't that beautiful? That's all big market too. Rich people stuff. Most of them were for show. But business is business. His father used to share stories from his encounters with different people. He met hundreds of people every day. He used to journal. He always found time for that. He loved his children, he loved his wife. They had problems he didn't know about. James didn't remember his mother being affectionate towards him. He saw even Henry was avoided when he needed a mother's care now. His mother was close to Antony and they had a bond he could never understand. They were business-minded people. His father looked at everything with love and hope, finding meaning in everything and everyone.

James felt warm and loved even remembering him. He changed to his nightclothes and untied his ponytail. It was getting dark and cold. He wanted to put on his hoodie, but he didn't feel like it. He wanted to feel everything. The cold, the hurt, the past, the grief, even the hunger. He came out of his room wanting fresh air. He thought of going for a walk, but downstairs was crowded and he didn't want to deal with people now. He didn't like to deal with people earlier either. He closed his door from the outside, just then Bruce arrived from downstairs. James's room was close to the stairs. Bruce was holding a blonde girl. They were talking in whispers, giggling and touching. James felt a sudden urge of anger. How could Bruce be happy on this day? This is how he dealt with a loss? Or was it even a loss to him?

"Hey! Didn't see you at tea time." Bruce winked at him and walked upstairs holding her hand. The girl looked at him and gave a shy smile. James frowned. Bruce was happy. He wanted to scream at him and beat him. He suppressed his thoughts of Bruce by taking a deep breath. He walked upstairs. He didn't know his destination. He saw Bruce and the girl getting into his room on the third floor and shutting the door. He didn't want to go near it. He moved towards his father's study. As he turned, he saw children running and people talking on the balcony. He jumped into the study, avoiding a glimpse. He locked the room.

The room was old with bookshelves, journals, and pens arranged in an orderly fashion according to the year. His father had diaries from a young age and it was all stored here. The gifts he received. Small statues of women made of marble. He had photographs of his children throughout the room. James saw a picture of himself being hugged from behind. He was wearing spectacles then. He saw Henry's growing photographs. His father was not that close with Antony and Bruce. Bruce was a rebel from what he knew and saw, and he knew for sure he would never get along with Bruce. He never felt hate towards any of his family, but Bruce was something. His father's photo frames were of purple shades. Lavender, Lilac, Plum, Violet, Orchid, Heather, and so on. He had a purple vase of dried flowers. He always knew his father loved purple, but he never knew this much. He saw Freya's photographs on one of the wall hangings. She was hugging his father and laughing wholeheartedly. They were close. His father never talked about her to him, nor about his family. And he didn't pressure him. He cherished every moment with his father and considered it special. But seeing that photo made him jealous. She came to visit him with his favorite color umbrella. That didn't make him angry earlier. It just felt like an ordinary umbrella—but seeing how his father adored purple made him furious. He looked around the room, and it screamed more purple. His father was a great man, but he didn't—or couldn't—accept Freya sharing the same bond with him. He didn't know they shared anything. But from what he saw, he knew enough. Purple was something for his father. He even named the home Lavender Gate. He didn't know why he searched the shelves for evidence, but he began to search. Turning pages in books, opening drawers, looking through the cupboard—and then something fell down.

A letter.

He opened it in desperation, and it read "For her..." on the backside. There was nothing written other than that, and there was a locket inside it. He felt anger. He shivered and sat on the nearby chair. He threw the locket with all his strength, disgusted.

The locket was made in the shape of an eye—ethereal and magical. An eye that looked just like hers. Why was she so special to him that he made this? For his brother's divorced wife? He couldn't decipher the meaning of it. What happened between his brother and her? His father never got close to anyone this much. It was deeper than just a daughter-in-law bond. He was thinking what he should not think of his father—it was an insult to his memories. Maybe his father was not a saint as he thought. Maybe he was pretending to be nice. Everything around him began to anger him. He sat on the floor. He saw the locket laying on the floor, unbroken and shining. Green eyes. All this time, another set of eyes had been haunting him in his dreams. He wanted to get rid of everything and just leave the place—or leave the world. He didn't want to deal with anything. He wanted to see Freya and ask her everything—more like question her about forbidden relationships. His mom never talked and was always distant and silent. What was the reason? Did they know something he didn't? He looked around the room and couldn't find a single picture of their mom, Amara. Did he never love her? Not even enough to fit a small canvas in his large study? But he could fill pictures of a random girl he knew for two years? He wanted to break things in that room, destroy his entire study. But he didn't. He couldn't. He sat there, clenching his arms, resistant even to standing up.

Brown eyes… Green eyes… everything was haunting him.

( To be continued ...)