THE UNMASKING
A NOVEL BY
EMILIE RICHARDS
~ ~ ~
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2014
Cover by Tina McGee
Cover photo by [email protected]
Ebook Creation by Jessica Lewis
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission in writing from the author.
All the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Originally published by Silhouette Books in 1985
Dear Reader,
I’m delighted to share another of my classic romances with you. The Unmasking was originally published in 1985 and helped launch my writing career. When I wrote the novel I lived in New Orleans, and I experienced the French Quarter and Mardi Gras first as a new resident, then as an enthusiastic fan, and finally as an author doing research.
As I re-read the novel to revise it for publication I considered whether to attempt to update the time period. The story takes place in the mid 1980s, when I lived in New Orleans myself. The 1980s were a more innocent era in the City That Care Forgot, before Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast and changed the city forever. I realized as I read that this story had been set exactly when it should be, and that if I were writing about New Orleans today I would tell a very different tale.
Despite the chaos of Katrina some things haven’t changed. Mardi Gras is still a fabulous, acclaimed celebration, and the French Quarter remains a tourist Mecca. Mask makers still create and sell stunning works of art to be hung in galleries or used with costumes. Lovers walk hand and hand along Royal and merry makers still stroll Bourbon Street, drinks in hands and toes tapping to jazz from nightclubs. The city’s restaurants are still among the finest in the world, and nobody can make café au lait like the French Market’s Café du Monde.
Best of all the story is timeless. Lovers separated, then reunited. The struggle of a man and woman in love to come together despite obstacles. The fragrance of sweet olive and jasmine. The plaintive fiddles and accordions of Cajun music, the haunting strains of the blues, the out-of-tune calliopes on the Mississippi River.
This is the New Orleans and the story I wrote and loved. I’m delighted to make this newer, better edition available to my readers. I hope that you will love it, too.
Happy Reading,
Emilie
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
DREARY AND BLEAK weren’t words that were normally used to describe the New Orleans French Quarter, but on this morning the Quarter was the personification of the weather that threatened the sleeping city. Gray skies filled with rain clouds melted into distant concrete-and-glass buildings, and like the charcoal-colored streets below them, slate and shingle roofs were shiny with the previous night’s storm. No renegade shafts of sunlight lit the historic stores surrounding the French market, and the flea market, usually a lively, mass of color and humanity, was strangely subdued.
In the early-morning quiet, vendors were setting up tables. Those who had reserved stalls under the covered walkway were noticeably cheerier than those setting up spaces in the parking lot. A proliferation of beach umbrellas and makeshift canvas shelters testified to the pessimism of the latter. A rainy day could spell disaster for vendors who ignored the warning signs and allowed their displays of leather goods, watches, paperback books, or countless other items to face ruin.
Under the covered walkway two brilliant spots of color shone like beacons in the gloom. Hot-pink and scarlet ostrich feathers rode on top of the swirling dark hair of a young woman setting up one of the stalls. Next to her, a bright-eyed little imp wearing a woven satin headband of emerald-green and peacock plumes danced impatiently.
“I want to do it. I’m big enough!”
While most young children in the city were probably watching Saturday-morning cartoons, four-year-old Abby Walker was trying to help her mother unpack fragile feather masks and headpieces from a wooden crate. With studied self-control Bethany Walker didn’t interfere as her daughter carefully unwrapped an intricate mask of Lady Amherst pheasant and laid it reverently on the black velvet spread draping the folding table.
Hopping on one foot, then the other, the little girl finally arranged the mask to suit her taste. “Right there.” Bethany bent to land a quick kiss on her daughter’s cheek as Abby tried to brush her away. “That tickles!”
Straightening Abby’s tiny headdress, Bethany apologized. “Tickling’s the main problem with feathers.”
“I can tickle, too.” Abby lowered her head, flicking her mother’s waistline. “See?”
“You win.” Bethany threw her hands above her head in mock defeat. “If you tickle me anymore, I won’t be able to sell a single mask today.”
Selling masks at the French market wasn’t the way Bethany and Abby ordinarily spent Saturdays. Never a day of leisure, Saturday was always hectic and filled with work, but usually it was done in the little Royal Street shop, Life’s Illusions, that Bethany owned with her friend Madeline Conroy. For the past six Saturdays, however, Bethany had chosen to display choice pieces at the flea market in hopes that the added exposure would bring potential customers to the shop.
Bethany adjusted the mirror she had hung over her display so potential customers could view themselves in the masks she would try to sell that day. The one she was wearing was one of her favorites and her own creation. In addition to the graceful, curled ostrich plumes that swept down over her hair to brush against her shoulder, there was an arc of smaller dyed feathers, curving in a solid sheet over one eye. Only an almond-shaped peephole allowed her to see from that side at all.
Although one-third of her face was hidden, no one who knew Bethany could be fooled. The mask failed to hide enough of the pale skin, the large gray-blue eyes and the oval face with its decidedly pointed chin to keep her identity a secret. And secrecy had never been the point, anyway. Bethany never felt comfortable withholding anything from the world. Open and direct, she liked the scarlet-and-pink mask because she could give the illusion of disguise without really hiding at all.
“I think that’s it.” After adjusting the mirror to her satisfaction, Bethany finished putting the last masks inside the display case that held her most expensive creations. From the bottom of the packing crate she removed a small box of business cards and inserted a sign into a Lucite holder, taking a step back to measure the effect.
“Done,” she said.
Abby had managed to exercise all her patience, but now that she knew her mother was finished, she tugged at her arm. “I’m hungry.”
Bethany pulled a chair up behind the table, and with Abby on her lap, she opened a paper bag. “Beignets, kiddo, and I’ve got a cup of hot chocolate for you.”
The beignets, still warm and puffy from the nearby Café du Monde deep fryer, were a thank-you gift for Abby’s cooperation. The two quickly devoured them, taking care not to cover the black velvet spread with powdered sugar.
“I think you just gai
ned a pound.” Bethany lifted the little girl onto the ground, and they both dusted their hands over the sidewalk behind them.
“I like the flea market. I wish we could come every day.”
“Sorry to say this is the last Saturday for a long time. Business at the shop’ll be picking up now that Mardi Gras’s getting closer, and we won’t need the extra exposure.”
Abby, ignoring her mother’s explanation, crossed the aisle to admire a nearby table full of brightly painted wooden toys.
The flea market was beginning to come to life. Although it was only 8:00 a.m. and not all the spaces were filled, a few customers had begun to wander through the path between the tables. As she finished her café au lait, Bethany exchanged pleasantries with Elvira Hastings, an old woman who was setting up handmade Raggedy Ann dolls at the table next to hers. Although Bethany wasn’t a regular vendor, she had sold there often enough to know most of the others. On the shelf next to Abby’s bed at home was a three-foot Raggedy Ann Bethany had traded several weeks ago with Mrs. Hastings for a black-and-white ceramic mask of a clown.
“That baby’s getting more grown-up and prettier every day, darlin’.” Mrs. Hastings had a Brooklynesque accent with a Southern twang, as unique as New Orleans itself. “She’s gonna break some man’s heart before ya know it.”
Bethany watched Abby investigate the tables of the other vendors. The little girl was happily trying on cloisonné bracelets at a stall down the row, and that vendor was laughing and pushing more at her. “Do you believe that? I’ve seen him yell at potential customers just because they moved one of those bracelets an inch out of line.”
“Everybody loves your little girl. Your husband must be a proud man.”
It was a natural mistake, and Mrs. Hastings wasn’t the first to make it. “I’m not married,” Bethany said. “We live alone, but I’m proud enough of Abby to make up for anything.”
There was no surprise in the old woman’s voice when she responded. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy, darlin’, but the world wouldn’t be as bright a place to live in if Abby Walker weren’t in it. Not nearly as bright.”
The old woman’s words made Bethany smile. “My world certainly wouldn’t be as bright. Abby makes my life worth living.”
The little girl was a bright flame, infusing everything around her with life and warmth. Watching her daughter flutter from booth to booth, Bethany could almost forget that once, years before, pregnant and alone, she had been sure life would never be worth living again.
* * *
JUSTIN DUMONTIER SAT nursing the drink he’d bought an hour earlier to have with his breakfast. His mimosa had gone flat, but Justin couldn’t have cared less. The morning had gone flat, too. Wining and dining the major clients in his father’s firm was one of a hundred things he disliked about the private practice of law.
Unconsciously he allowed his feelings to cross his face in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, but the man sitting across the breakfast table didn’t even notice. His mimosas hadn’t gone flat—they hadn’t had time to.
Another lawyer in the firm, Paul Edwards, leaned over to murmur in Justin’s direction, “I think we need some fresh air.”
Privately Justin thought his entire life needed fresh air, but he only nodded. “Let’s go.” Together the two men helped their client to his feet. “Mr. Perkins, we thought we’d show you the sights.”
“I just wanna see Bourbon Street.”
Visualizing a scenario of stops at every bar up and down the famous thoroughfare, Justin shook his head decisively. “Not now. Maybe a little later. Let’s stroll around Jackson Square.”
“I wanna see. . .”
Justin helped the older man with his coat. “We’ll just walk this fine breakfast off for a little while, Mr. Perkins. Let’s go.”
With each lawyer gripping one of the inebriated man’s elbows they made their way out of the elegant restaurant and began to walk carefully down the sidewalk. Turning at the corner, they headed toward the square. Paul began a rambling history lesson, pointing to the quaint old buildings and expounding on the Spanish origins of the iron filigreed balconies overhanging the sidewalks. Justin, tuning him out, felt the onslaught of a depression that rivaled the gloomy weather.
In the distance he could see the familiar spires of St. Louis Cathedral. It had been years since he had been to Jackson Square on a weekend, but he knew from experience how little changed in New Orleans. He was sure when they got to the park he would hear the clamor of tourists exclaiming over the artists who had set up their stands, complete with paintings or charcoal drawings of celebrities to advertise their skills. He was equally sure at least one embarrassed teenage girl would have succumbed to the temptation to sit for a portrait. There would be flocks of pigeons, tour guides and cameras.
Jackson Square would be a festive place, and Justin felt anything but festive. In fact, in another moment of insight, he realized it had been a long time since he had felt anything of the sort. During his years in the federal attorney’s office in Chicago he had felt busy and productive. He had felt excitement and occasionally doubt, but he had never felt lighthearted or ready for merrymaking. In exchange he had rarely allowed himself to feel depressed.
He pushed back his hair and revealed the angular lines of his face. Thick brows, eyes nearly as dark as his black hair, and an olive complexion all testified to his Creole heritage. At Harvard his classmates had teased him about being well suited for the role of a wealthy planter with nothing more to do than sit on the veranda of his antebellum mansion and sip mint juleps. Tall and slender with an athletic, muscular body, Justin Dumontier had been created to dance at a thousand balls, gamble on luxurious riverboats, or ride like the wind through fields of sugarcane or cotton—or whatever it was folks grew in that far-from-Harvard place called Louisiana.
Justin had taken the teasing good-naturedly and quietly gone on to graduate with honors, making a name for himself at the Harvard Law School. He had chosen Chicago as his home, turning his back on his native New Orleans and the law firm of his father. Now he was home again, but he was counting the days until he could leave.
Once before he had felt empty, incomplete, drained of joy. Then he had been able to plunge himself into the work that gave him solace. Now there was nothing to help.
“Don’t you think so, Justin?” Paul’s was clearly making a supreme effort to keep up the chatter.
With a noncommittal nod, Justin helped guide Mr. Perkins over the curb and into the square. A quick glance told him that nothing had changed in all the years he had been away. Only Justin Dumontier was not the same.
* * *
“I KNOW YOU’RE tired of sitting, honey. I wish I could take you to the square, but I’ve got to stay here until dinner. Then Madeline will come and take over the stall for us.” Bethany watched her daughter make horrible faces and wished she could capture them in papier-mâché. They would be perfect for Halloween.
The morning was wearing on and wearing thin for Abby. She had visited all the vendors, rearranged masks and eaten the last of the beignets. She had exclaimed over a six-inch rag doll given to her by Mrs. Hastings and taken the doll on fantasy trips everywhere a four-year-old could imagine. Usually a good-tempered little girl, even Abby had her limits. Sitting quietly at the flea market all day was one of them.
“You’re always working, Mommy.”
The statement was true, but there was food to buy, rent to pay, supplies for the shop that Bethany had to purchase. And there was a hospital bill with Abby’s name on it from the year before. Bethany was paying it off a little at a time.
“It must feel like that sometimes,” Bethany said.
The conversation was interrupted by a booming voice rich with the lilting cadences of South Louisiana. “Sell me a mask, pretty lady?” The man standing above them was huge. Well over six foot, with a girth almost half as wide, the overall effect was softened by a broad grin barely visible beneath a straggly brown beard.
“Wh
ere would you put it, Lamar? Your face is almost covered, anyway.”
“Say the word, chère, and I’ll shave it off.” He pulled the beard with one hand, as if to be done with it.
“Don’t make Lamar shave off his beard, Mommy. I like it.” Abby crawled under the table to jump into the crouching Lamar’s arms. She buried her face in his neck.
“A loyal fan. I guess we’ll just have to dot the beard with sequins for Mardi Gras and forget the mask.”
A native of the bayou country of southern Louisiana and a descendant of the Acadian—Cajun—exiles who’d emigrated from Nova Scotia two centuries earlier, Lamar Robicheaux had arrived in New Orleans with a small band of Cajun musicians to start a nightclub in the French Quarter. Luckily for Bethany they had located around the corner from her shop and apartment.
Abby, who lived primarily in a woman’s world, had taken to Lamar immediately. No one could play the fiddle like Lamar; no one could tell such outrageous tales of voodoo and pirates or tell them with a Cajun accent straight out of the nineteenth century; no one else let her ride on his shoulders as if she were completely weightless. Lamar, lonely for his family, had adopted Abby, and Bethany with her.
“What really brings you here?” Bethany asked.
“Money. Me, I need a little child labor.” He tickled Abby, evoking loud giggles. “I’m going over to Jackson Square to fiddle, and I thought this p’tit zozo might like to come pass the hat. Madeline told me where you were.”
Bethany inspected her daughter. In addition to her headdress, the little girl was dressed in a bright-blue running suit decorated with green beads she had caught the year before at a carnival parade. With her dark hair and darker eyes, Abby would be appealing to the crowds. Nevertheless Bethany knew that Lamar had really made the offer to give the little girl a break.
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