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Suzanne Rochelle was not a woman who was used to disappointment. She was not someone people said “no” to. She was beautiful, powerful and wealthy. That alone was enough for her to get her way more often than not. The fact she was also the right hand of the Prince was just extra.
Of course, in these recent nights, she had found herself having to step in more and more frequently to take over more of the Prince’s duties. Vannevar had not been well for many months now. Worse yet, the individual responsible - that horrible, two-faced Malkavian viper, had yet to be caught. Suzanne wished she could be confident that Vannevar would have his mind healed in time, but the truth was that she simply did not know if that would ever be the case. She had to prepare herself for what might happen if Vannevar never went back to the strong, confident, stable man she had known him to be. She had to prepare herself for disappointment.
In the meantime, Suzanne had strived to keep a straight, even happy, mask on her face. She had no choice, the way she saw it. She and Vannevar had been together for almost two hundred and fifty years and she would see to it that they would stay together for many centuries yet to come.
It was a hot, dry night in early August. Suzanne sat with Vannevar in their glamorous Los Angeles home. Vannevar had all but begged Suzanne to sit with him in one of the front lounges. He looked unkempt. He had gone without a tie or a jacket tonight and his shirt was buttoned up unevenly, but he had so far refused to let anyone help him fix it.
They were barely there a minute before Vannevar called for one of their staff to attend them. The young mortal man arrived briskly. “Sir?”
“Where is it?” Vannevar shouted at a servant. “Tell me, please, why it is not here?!”
“Why what isn’t here?” Suzanne tried to ask him
“It is…!” Vannevar turned in his chair to look at her, and suddenly stopped himself from whatever it was he was about to say. “It’s a surprise,” he said in a smaller voice. “It is a surprise, but it SHOULD,” his attention jumped back to the terrified servant in front of them, “HAVE ARRIVED BEFORE WE WOKE UP!”
“M-my apologies, my Prince,” the servant said. He seemed to know what it was that Vannevar was ranting about, even if Suzanne did not. “If I may, I can go make a call and discover what the hold up is?”
“Do that! Do it!”
The servant bowed and quickly left.
Suzanne reached over and placed a soothing hand on Vannevar’s arm. He jumped, then relaxed into her touch with a little smile. Suzanne returned the smile. Even as Vannevar ranted and raved at their servants and ghouls, she would not crack. She could not. He needed her to be strong, to be steady, until he was better.
Suzanne glanced over at another ghoul as he delivered the L.A. Times from the day before. Vannevar waved him away without glancing at the newspaper. The ghoul nodded and left, but Suzanne caught him giving herself and Vannevar a side glance. She frowned. It has been happening more and more often, lately. Side glances from the staff. She could also hear all their curious, dry, or rudely amused little thoughts. “The Prince has gone mad,” they thought, but few dared to say anything about it out loud, certainly not while Suzanne was in the room. She would shoot them a glare sharper than any dagger and they would hold their tongues, lest they risk losing their heads.
It crossed Suzanne’s mind that it might be time to dispose of some of the staff and bring on new ones. The only thing that prevented her from making this order was she knew it would upset Vannevar. Too many new faces distressed him greatly, and he would demand the old ones be brought back.
Vannevar squeezed Suzanne’s hand. “Tonight is special,” he told her.
“How so?”
“It’s our anniversary!” Vannevar hissed excitedly. He twitched in his chair, unable to sit still.
“Is it?” Suzanne forced another perfect, practiced smile.
Of course it was. She knew the date well, and Vannevar had always, in the past, did something to mark the occasion for Suzanne. She hadn’t been expecting it this year.
“Of course! Have you forgotten?” Vannevar asked, eyes wide and panic rising in his voice.
“No, no, of course, my darling, no,” Suzanne reassured him. She patted his hand. “I could never forget.”
“Good. Good. I planned something, but it’s not ready because of these INCOMPETENT FOOLS!” Vannevar was suddenly on his feet, pacing like a caged lion. “Do they not realise how important this night is?!”
Suzanne opened her mouth to respond and placate the Prince, but she was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Yes?”
The servant who had left to make a phone call cautiously poked his head in. “Sir? It’s arrived.”
Vannevar rounded on him. “What? Say again?”
The servant cleared his throat and stepped into the room. Suzanne noticed he was sweating and resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust. “It’s arrived, sir,” he said again, a little louder. “The surprise.”
“Ah, good! See? Was that so hard?!” Vannevar demanded.
“No, sir.”
“Bring them in!”
“Yes sir.” The servant opened the door wider to usher in the people waiting behind him. Suzanne gasped softly. Vase upon vase of perfect red roses were carried in and placed around the room, on every table and flat surface. Clearly Vannevar had ordered too many vases, and a few extra ones were placed on the floor near the walls. The air was quickly filled with their sweet fragrance. A string quartet stepped into the room next. Four poised and professional women, each carrying their string instruments. They set up quickly in a corner and obediently waited for their queue to play. Just as soon as they arrived, the workers and servants left.
“Oh, my…” Suzanne beamed at the flowers. She was genuinely pleasantly surprised. “This is so lovely, my darling.”
Vannevar continued to pace around, rubbing his hands together. “You like them?”
“I do,” Suzanne assured him.
“Oh, good,” Vannevar heaved a mighty sigh of relief. “I also, I wanted to dance with you.” He gestured to the string quartet, who immediately started to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D. He reached for Suzanne’s hand. “A waltz, yes? How long has it been since we’ve waltzed?”
Suzanne did not resist. She let herself be led by him into the start of a waltz. “I’m not sure… years, probably.”
They waltzed gracefully around the room. Muscle memory quickly took over and they didn’t misplace a single step. Suzanne twirled, her skirt swishing past the roses on the floor. She was both impressed and pleased that whatever malady was affecting Vannevar’s mind, did not seem to affect him here. For one brilliant, shining second, it was like the old days, before they had come to California. Vannevar was strong and confident and proud. He was still all those things, but the madness had tainted them, like aphids infecting a rose garden and bleeding it dry.
“You look upset,” Vannevar murmured. He stopped dancing. “Have I upset you?”
“No,” Suzanne said, stopping with him. “Just… remembering good times.”
“These are good times,” Vannevar insisted, “and more are coming!”
Suzanne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She could not agree with him on that point, not at all. She took advantage of the opportunity to be close to him and proceeded to fix his shirt buttons, unbuttoning and rebuttoning them quickly in the correct way. Vannevar did not seem to mind. Suzanne doubted he had noticed what she was doing at all.
“Je t’aime,” Vannevar said.
The French caught Suzanne off-guard. She gave him a little smile and squeezed his hand. Occasions like this, where Vannevar was quiet and in control were rare. She treasured them almost as much as she hated them. They would make the disappointment if he never did go back to how he used to be all the more difficult to take.
“Je t'aime aussi,” Suzanne replied, “toujours.”
Vannevar nodded and giggled, as if delighted that he understood her. She wanted to kiss him, but could not bring herself to do so.