Page 1 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

Prologue: Irish Colleen and the Seven

Colleen Deschanel, known as Irish Colleen to her family and friends, walked past the faces of her seven children, as she did every night of her life. Beside them now were pictures of her four grandchildren, all born within the past year: Olivia, Nicolas, Anasofiya, and, most recently, Amelia. More would come. She felt it. But four was more than enough for one year, especially the year their family had.

Word had reached Irish Colleen of Charles’ illicit affair with the Sullivan girl. Almost half a year ago, according to the rumors, but if Irish Colleen knew about it, then so did most of New Orleans. So would the girl’s husband, Colin, Charles’ best, and maybe only real, friend. The rumors kicked up now, months after the crime, only because Catherine had gone missing. Fingers pointed at Charles, and tongues wagged without reprieve or clemency, and if Colin Sullivan didn’t know about it, he was a fool, intentional or otherwise.

And now Charles was openly taking up with the French nanny Irish Colleen installed to help him with little Nicolas. Well, this wasn’t the help she had in mind, and though it shouldn’t surprise her that he wouldn’t resist a young, beautiful woman, she’d hoped he had better sense than to keep all his problems brewing together under the same roof.

Augustus had taken three months off from work to look after his Anasofiya. If he mourned his dead wife, he didn’t speak of it, or of her, at all. Only necessity brought him out of the house in those days. He’d sent for his groceries, and if anyone saw him outside of Magnolia Grace, it was walking Anasofiya in the fancy pram he’d bought to keep her safe from the harmful effects of the sun and other weather events that might appear at any time in the erratic springtime of New Orleans. He was a man devoted, but also, she knew, a man lost. Going back to work only worsened his fears.

Motherhood looked good on Colleen, now living at The Gardens, at least temporarily, with her husband, Noah. Amelia was born with a head full of shockingly white hair, with only the hint of soft gold. There were other Deschanels with these traits, Irish Colleen recalled from the old portraits, though almost none from the current generations. There was a Fontenot, maybe one of Eugenia’s kids, but she couldn’t remember their name. What mattered was that, for the very first time, Irish Colleen could enjoy not needing to worry about her oldest daughter’s happiness. Though Colleen was mourning for her great aunt, for her brother’s loss, she was managing through her grief because of Noah. Because of Amelia. Irish Colleen could rest easy, finally, where Colleen was concerned.

Irish Colleen still didn’t quite know what to make of her quirky middle child. Evangeline seemed to be thriving in Massachusetts, at that technical college Augustus assured Irish Colleen was the best in the country. Leaving hadn’t cured whatever ailed her; she was still this odd marriage of wild and cold; different. Other. She’d grown witty in her time away, and Irish Colleen thought Evangeline would be the type of woman she’d enjoy a card game with, over a bottle of wine, but this was her daughter, and she wanted more for her than to be the charming, single friend of all the married women.

Maureen’s tempers had cooled, and she now invited Irish Colleen for lunch at her St. Charles home once a week. They talked mother-to-mother now, with Irish Colleen offering advice—rarely accepted—and funny anecdotes—always appreciated—over tea and whatever snacks Maureen’s staff threw together. Maureen, her wild, imaginative child had always lived her life in the extremes, and for years, Irish Colleen worried this would lead her down a dark path. It did, for a spell, but Irish Colleen could see now that Maureen’s obsessiveness could be a boon as much as a handicap. As a mother, she was utterly devoted. She’d found her purpose in Olivia.

Now, if only she could find a way to her husband.

Irish Colleen ascended the stairs, thinking of her grandbabies. She had so little to look after in her own life now, with Lizzy graduating in a couple months, and so she’d inserted herself into the world of her children’s children. Always available and eager to babysit. A day without a baby in her arms was a sad day now, and she thought of this as she made her way to Elizabeth’s room.

Connor, bless his heart, now at least pretended to sleep in the guest room. At least, until they thought she’d retired for the evening.

She found Elizabeth at her desk. The small lamp cast a glow over her paper and textbook, and the sound of her tapping her pencil against the wooden secretary echoed into the hall.

“Homework?”

“Studying for finals.”

“Those are a ways away, though, aren’t they?”

“I can test out now and graduate early.”

Irish Colleen perched on the end of Elizabeth’s bed, behind where her daughter sat. Elizabeth had asked to return to public school for her senior year, and though she’d never said why, Irish Colleen sussed it out one night, over cards and wine with the women who pretended to be her friends.

Connor couldn’t take Elizabeth to prom unless they were both students at the same school.

“Why ever would you want to do that?”

“I hate school, that’s why.” Elizabeth sat back in her chair, gazing up. “Not school but, you know, school school.”

“It was your choice to go back to a public education, Lizzy.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t, Mother.”

“Now I’m Mother? Not Mama?”

“Connor is trying to do the same thing,” Elizabeth replied, ignoring the question, dodging the potential argument that lay behind the exchange. “He got accepted into Tulane. Did I tell you?”

“You did. How wonderful for him,” Irish Colleen said. “But what about you? You haven’t mentioned getting any college letters for yourself.”

“I haven’t gotten letters because I haven’t applied to any.”

Irish Colleen wrung her hands in the fold of her apron. She was not good at this. August would’ve been, but she was many years past thinking of what he would have done. “I don’t know much about college, Liz, but shouldn’t you have applied by now?”

“So now I’m Liz?”

“You’re almost an adult.”

Elizabeth set her pencil aside and stared toward the corner of her room. “I don’t like it. Don’t much like Lizzy either. I’ll stick with Elizabeth, probably.”

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