audrey esme wolfgang; city council secretary, the queen bee's heir spare.
she had the look in her eye when you kick and kick at the door and it doesn't open,
when you write a boy letters and letters and he never loves you,
not ‘til the day he dies. Not even then.
Renzie went late to the Houseboat, just after the crest of its vibrant evening when all the younger people (’younger’ meaning 50 and under) crowded the bar for drinks and socializing. He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t even realize that Esme was perched on the stool one-over from him, at the bar counter.
“The usual,” Renzie said with a grin at the bartender, who procured a bottle of rootbeer and a frosty mug for Renzie right before Esme began to speak.
Renzie stared at her with slight abashment. Ever since the whole…Mr Wolfgang thing, he wasn’t really sure how to talk with Esme, considering what she’d learned about her father. And her father’s activities, under Renzie’s Inn roof. That he’d made no mention of, in all his time of knowing Esme.
So he attempted a smile, and tilted his glass to pour. “Craft beers, man. They’re hit and miss, especially this place. It’s so new and all. I think ‘old seaship’ means…notes of tar and a subtle hinted aftertaste of barnacles?” He lifted his glass to cheers her.
“So how’s it going, Es. Been a while since we…ah…talked.”
“has it?” she took another sip of her beer, blaming the bitter taste in her mouth on whatever the extra tasting notes were supposed to be. perhaps the drink was all made of regret and indecision, that would have explained how she awkwardly shifted in her seat “i guess i’ve kept busy.”
realistically, she knows that it is no one else’s fault other than her father’s for what has happened to her family and to their image. and least of all, it is renzie’s for doing nothing more than his job. still she hangs on to the questions she might ask as if they’ll offer anything but more heartache and realization. as if it was ever her right to ask at all. “drinking...tar.” she looked at his own glass as it was being poured, noting the difference— as her mother might have called it the advantage. but she was trying to avoid participating in such games these days. “you?”
“It means this town would sooner tank its drinks than part with its gimmick,” Moray remarked with a chuckle, lifting his own tall glass of old seaship in cheers. He can’t recall when exactly their occasional-weeknight tradition evolved, much less when surrendering to alternating blind selections from the menu became a part of it, but he could hope that the next round of closing-the-eyes-and-pointing would find them better luck.
Besides, bilge water beer or not, this had become a welcome routine— picking up pints and putting down cares in the corner of a town bar. Especially a place Victoria couldn’t stand, and Xander didn’t have much time to visit.
“It also means that I’m picking what we try next time.” He clacks his glass against the counter and challenges, “race you to the bottom?” Then lifts it to brave the rest of the drink.
the smile that found its way to her face was small, a sliver of what it might have been for a photo or professional greeting, but it was made of genuine warmth. it spilled out where there was little else to hint that she might have felt anything at the comment. he was right, wasn’t he? it was all a gimmick, the cheesier the better.
she looked at the remaining beer that was left in her glass, wondering if it was too much to try and tackle in one fell swoop. it might have been, but this was the kind of establishment that was made for such decisions. “depends on what you’re picking.” but her voice is all teasing, made up of far less edge than one might have come to expect from a wolfgang. “say it’s not another beer and i’ll go on the count of three.”
There was a small moment where the two of them only stared at one another, Elistra expectantly and Esme blinking, bewildered or drunk, Elistra couldn’t tell. “Are you-” But then Esme was up out of her seat and moving through the crowd quickly. Was she feeling sick, Elistra wondered. Concern propelled her away from the bar as well, following the trail of space that Esme had left behind her, which would quickly be filled up in time with the bar’s patrons. Elistra jogged after her into the chilling night air, breath puffing out in pale clouds.
“Esme!” she called, calling after her and catching up quickly. “Are you alright? Were you feeling sick?” Elistra ducked down to take a glance at her face, then shot out a hand to feel Esme’s forehead. It didn’t feel particularly clammy or feverish, but she kept her hand there anyway, sure that the cold air around them was skewing the results. Why else would someone leave a conversation so abruptly? “Do you think you’re going to throw up? Was it because I mentioned clam chowder?”
she could feel her own footsteps echoing on the pavement as she tried to keep a quick pace, but the street stretched on endlessly and there wasn’t a single quick turn to make that might offer her escape. it seemed as though her town was conspiring to force her into to conversation, even as she struggled to find anything to say. “i am going to throw up.” she managed finally, turning and facing the conversational assailant. only from whatever questioning was going to follow. it wasn’t strictly elistra’s fault, only a growing squeamishness in having to discuss anything that had to do with her mother, or what her mother might need to know.
“i don’t respond to my email on the weekends.” she found it hard to maintain any eye contact, a trait that would have otherwise been crucial— engrained into her from birth as the mark of a polite person. but instead she scanned her surroundings for a possible exit that she might have overlooked. “work life balance, have you heard of it?”
The boathouse was not where Allegra worked, because she’d learned not to party where one worked. Or — something like that. There was a saying, but Allegra wasn’t great with those, so whatever. Tonight, she was having a night to herself, though when they drank, Allegra rarely kept to themselves. Whoops. People didn’t tend to complain though, which is why the siren managed to get away with such behavior most of the time.
Blue eyes flicked to the other when she spoke about the beer, Allegra’s brow raising. How could any human really know what an old seaship tasted like? Well – they were always coming to retrieve things from the bottom of the ocean that really should be left behind. “Imagine sinking your teeth into brine softened wood.” The brunette shrugged. Not that Allegra was going to admit having done that. But they’d also discovered that humans were really weird, and you could pretty much say things that might seem suspicious, but it was just seen as ‘quirky’.
the description that she received was enough to catch esme off guard, the slight tilt of the head as she tried to process the idea that was presented. it didn’t seem like it would be the case. “you’re saying this should be salty?” she twisted the glass, letting the condensation drip down, unable to force herself to take another sip in the pursuit of finding out if the taste that lingered on her tongue was in fact brine soaked. “you’d think that’s something more along the lines of an appetizer.” at least that would be better than finishing the drink she’d picked out. “especially if i’ve got to sink my teeth into it.”
“Maybe,” Gemma agreed, mainly because she’d noticed that humans seemed to use artistic license as a catch-all to explain away just about anything done in poor taste or with a total lack of expertise. Further escalating her opinion would likely only serve to sow discord, especially if anyone who worked at this establishment happened to come within earshot as she discussed it. “I suppose the description does match this place’s schtick.” Out of the new words she’d learned since coming to land, schtick was one of her favorites. Of course, that was probably just because it had turned out to be such a useful one in a town like this.
“I don’t know if I’d call it confidence,” she admitted. “But it is one of the better things I’ve eaten today.” Did that make it good, or did it just mean that it was less bad than the other things she’d eaten today? She really couldn’t say for sure, so it seemed best to frame her answer as a comparison to other things - especially when this place had something on their menu called clam chowder. She didn’t know what chowder was, but it sounded absolutely disgusting.
she nodded, the kind of casual agreement that she’d learned to offer everyone from a young age. there was some politeness still engrained in her although it had a habit of flaring once and leaving a burn in her mind. she didn’t need to just agree with everyone. there was no reason to, not over the houseboat. but the moment passed, the opportunity to cause a disagreement where there didn’t have to be one. she was still a politician’s daughter, after all.
“well, that makes it seem like it depends on what you’ve eaten today.” although the plate did look more tempting as she tried to think about what it was that she’d eaten today, and if it would compare to something with melted cheese and a pile of tortilla chips. “completely biased, especially if you’re going to say something like you had oatmeal for breakfast.”
Nereida had yet to discover the appeal with bars. They were usually crowded, noisy, and they only got worse the later it got in the night. She discovered the hard way that she hated beer when she took her first sip and immediately spat it out. There was a slight saltiness to it that she might’ve enjoyed if it wasn’t so overwhelmingly disgusting. It almost tasted like licking the slimy side of of a barnacle–not that she ever tried that before. Needless to say, she didn’t think alcohol was for, but maybe she just needed to find the right drink.
She wouldn’t say she excited about the opening of The Houseboat, but she decided to stop by anyway, mostly so she wouldn’t have more reasons to be left out of conversations. She hesitantly made her way to the bar, wrinkling her nose as she squeezed past a few humans, and leaned against the edge as she carefully read the menu. It didn’t take her as long as it used to read anymore, but she was still slow compared to humans. Reading ability or no reading ability, she couldn’t tell anything about the drinks based on their names.
When the human next to hear complained about her drink, Nereida curiously looked down to see what she had–beer by the look of the amber liquid. She definitely wouldn’t order that. “How is Old Seaship meant to describe a taste that isn’t moldy wood?” Nereida asked with a sneer. “I can’t tell what any of these drinks are meant to be. What’s Sex With the Captain?”
“moldy wood.” esme pondered the description, letting the foam continue to deflate in the glass as she considered the hazards of taking another sip. then again, how did she even know what wood was supposed to taste like. maybe someone was trying to get creative with the theming. part of the gimmick wrapped up in these descriptions that did little to actually, well, describe. why wouldn’t you, the bar name matched the town, the drinks matched the bar. cute.
“that one— i’ve got. it’s definitely got to be just sex on the beach.” she appreciated complex drinks from time to time, trying to disguise the taste of alcohol as she passed from drinks at bonfires to being able to finally step foot in bars. “change one word and voilà.” she looked down at drink she’d foolishly ordered. “have you ever had one of those? all fruit.”
It wasn’t often that Elistra frequented establishments like the Houseboat. Bars, she knew, were a staple of port towns, but Elistra had never found the taste for drinking, and so had no reason to step inside the ones that Port Vale called its own. She would occasionally glance at the warm, rowdy atmosphere, the yellow din and the sticky, sweet smell of alcohol in the air. She never partook though, wholly uninterested.
That evening though, she was lingering at the edges of the crowd on the Houseboat, near a corner of the bar that was less crowded. The clutch of bodies was numerous enough to keep the November air warm and Elistra rubbed her hands together to encourage more blood flow. Once the bite of the night wind seemed less harrowing, Elistra would be off towards Cecil’s truck. She wasn’t properly paying attention to the chatter around her, until a few words drifted around her ear and made her turn her head.
“I hear they have clam chowder here, if that sounds more appealing,” she offered, glancing at the tacky surface of the bar and then back up at Esme. “By the way, did you get the email I sent you a few days ago? You haven’t responded to it.”
she heard the voice that picked up her comment, too familiar to mean anything good, and she pushed the glass back without another sip, standing up from her spot at the bar. and then it continued, her eyes tracking over to the waiting figure of elistra. she didn’t have any issue with the church, on the contrary it was one of her favorite spots on the island, the perfect mix of quiet and history. the perfect position of being overlooked by her mother, and yet it had to be ruined. the spotlight dragged back onto it time and time again with emails and questions.
the question that was posed to her was met with nothing but a stare, slowly blinking as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. another blink, and then she turned on her heels and took off through the crowd of bodies without a second thought. she refused to dignify the question with an answer, weaving through the populated bar until she spilled out the exit and onto the empty street. steps quick but sure, without hesitation long as it meant she was no longer going to have to entertain that question. did she get the email? who asked that.
her feet took her in the direction of the mermaid inn, a predictable but well-worn route, safely away from whatever conversation elistra was going to try and have with her while she was definitively off the clock.
It wasn’t out of interest in the houseboat that Gemma found herself sitting at a barstool with a plate of ‘nachos’ and something called a beer, but rather obligation. If she had her way, she would be having a strategic meeting with one of her fellow sirens, or otherwise sulking strategizing in the cottage she was calling home for the time being. At the end of the day though, those couldn’t be the only two activities she took part in here in Port Vale. As a newcomer who had been around for just shy of a month now, she was sure that some of the townsfolk were suspicious of her. Being a recluse would only make her more suspicious, and so she’d made it a point to at least get out and be seen in public.
At the sound of someone a little ways down the bar complaining about their drink, she glanced over. She’d assumed that whoever it was would be speaking to a companion - or anyone else, really - but that didn’t look to be case. Was this person talking to her, then? “I think it just means the owner doesn’t know what they’re doing.” She slid the plate of nachos slightly in the direction of the woman. “You can have a few, if you want. They kind of cover the aftertaste.” That, and sharing food seemed like a good way to earn trust.
there’s a sharp little laugh given in response to the suggestion that’s been put to her. there’s really no other polite way of responding the description, just that it was worth acknowledging. it was a little harsh, certainly, but she wouldn’t say it was her new companion’s fault. just because something was harsh, didn’t mean that it wasn’t equally accurate. “maybe it’s artistic.” she put forward the new suggestion, as though they had entered into a game where there might be a winner for the best answer. she took another sip of the beer, as though it was going to make the ship come to life if it could be finished quick enough.
“there are a few ships around here.” as if the costal view wasn’t obvious enough. she looked at the plate that was pushed towards her, trying to cover the shock that flickered across her face. it wasn’t that people didn’t offer her things, that was a facet of her life that she had grown used to. but they hardly did it without knowing who she was, and without some embedded question of what she might offer back. but she has nothing but a half drank beer. “is that a vote of confidence in the food here?” she didn’t make a move to take anything just yet, still playing at banter before she could be sure in the genuineness of the offer. “or are you just a nacho fan.”
there was a strange catch twenty-two with newer establishments. on one hand, of course you wanted a new business to thrive in town. it was the sign of a flourishing economy, a well-rounded community, blood continuing to pump in the hearts of all eager residents. on the other, it deviated from everything that was known about the town image and disrupted all the comfort of the town’s routine. it took years to settle, a decade even. mostly, what esme found, was that her mother didn’t make a habit of frequenting such locations after their grand opening. and that, was good enough for her.
although it didn’t always mean the beer that she ordered was, as she took a sip of the sweating glass with a poorly masked grimace. “should have known better than to order something that was supposed to taste like an old seaship.” still she took another drink, at the end of a day a beer was still a beer. especially a weekday. “i don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean”
it has always been you and your mother. your father has been in the picture as well, you know, but off to the side. like a badly written character, left to only comment on events, never participate in them. at some point you are aware that this is a problem, the angry whispers that seem to seep out from under every closed door you pass. but you’re never sure what there is to do about it. your mother insists that everything is fine and she makes sure to attend your every school event. as long as he’s on time for the pictures that might decorate the pages of the local newspaper, the friendly handshakes with teachers and coworkers, everything for the sake of an image. you think, for a long time it was you and your mother by your own choice. an artful dance between the two of you, with lots of coded messages and hidden jokes. and you loved every minute of it.
you thought your father’s affairs were a natural part of their relationship. they didn’t spend time together anyways, companionship taking different forms. she was always busy with you, you were never troubled by the rooms booked at the inn. it seemed a casual fact that you let slip with the assurance that it was a mutual understanding. it was not, it was a bloodbath that they labeled divorce. you never thought of your father as particularly in the picture, but it’s not until your mother tells you that they’re getting a divorce that you realized leaving was an active choice. that he had been there for more than just a few quips in the kitchen and a father-daughter dance.
he moves away with the parting remark that you need to come with him, that there’s something wrong with your mother, with the two of you together. throwing around words like unhealthy, codependent, manipulative. asserting an understanding that you can’t possibly believe, he hasn’t been there. he’s only been in the spotlight for a few scenes. but he insists, he begs. he presses the money for a plane ticket into your hands, he says one day you’ll understand.
♪ present
all that’s left of you in port vale is the reputation that you built up. you’re a wolfgang, you’re a decorated student, you came back every summer and worked dutifully next to your mother because at it turns out it is not that you’re lucky to have her, it is that she only has you. the loss of the election is an implosion, the perfect image that she had worked so hard for is the last straw. she no longer has a husband, she does not have her title, she will not lose her daughter.
you have withstood the spotlight this long, it’s not going anywhere, even now as you grow to blister under it. the more time you spend with the label adult, the more the town around you shifts, the more it stays the same, the more you feel an itch under your skin that something is wrong. and the more your mother loses her grasp on it, the more she digs claws into you, the grasp that you thought was the secret handshake of two best friends starts to draw blood.
there are ways to hide this, to slip into a second version of yourself who hides in the rooms that your father once haunted. to climb up every step of the lighthouse, and call it research, call it anything but the truth. the money for a plane ticket sits in your account, you almost have the courage to spend it.
♪ personality
esme is of two minds. she knows the thought processes that built her up in port vale, followed by the reputations of a golden girl with a wild streak. the kind of thing that could be mentioned, but only in tandem with the fact that it was to be expected. the expectations too high, her father’s disappearance, one thousand excuses built to keep her in good graces. this has started to get worse, a downward spiral with no clear direction. she can still play the part, plaster on the proper smile, and keep up with the vacant small talk. but she’s finding the effort for it to be more and more exhausting.
she can be genuinely clever, even charming when in a one-on-one interaction. those who have known her longest will have sensed the hostility that is growing in her. you can call it maturity if you’d like, but she’s rapidly losing her ability to sustain an interaction that has anything to do with the town. as she finds herself working with the city council, she has become more and more tied to her mother’s temperate. she knows it now. and she hates it.
