“But they are my children. I gave them life.”
“They are also your husband’s children and the court has the final say on where they live.”
“Appeal it!”
“It’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Private judge.”
“What difference does that make?”
“No court reporter. That’s how it works.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not in our state.”
“There must be something you can do.”
“It’s like I told you, the judge doesn’t have kids. She has dogs. National champions, for God’s sake.”
“Mel, I’ve got to go. I think I’m going to vomit.”
“There are some additional court costs and I’ll need...”
“I’m broke, Mel.”
“One more thing; this is very important. You must be on the scheduled return flight from Montreal and have Samuel delivered to Matthew at the airport. If you don’t return on time, there will be an order for your arrest.”
I hang up and rush to the bathroom where I retch until I collapse into a heap on the cold slate floor.
“Mommy, I have to pee,” Sammy says while knocking on the door.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I say and splash cold water on my face. As I exit, Amanda walks down the stairs.
“Good morning,” she says in a cheerful voice.
“I’m going into St. Agathe today. I want you to make certain Samuel is watched every minute. He told me he was teased and treated badly by the children last night. They cut chunks from his hair. Mr. and Mrs. Sandeley will be very upset when I explain what happened in your charge.”
“I was with them all evening. It must have happened when I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.”
“Yes, I heard you went to the bathroom, but weren’t alone.”
Amanda flashes me a lovely smile and says, “Mum’s the word, Mrs. Brighton?” The girl uses her dimples like a priest his crucifix and it is hopeless to try and breach such an impregnable barrier. She takes Sammy’s hand as he exits the bathroom. “Come, Sammy, we are all going to a country fair today, with games, clowns, and elephant rides. I’ll fix your hair later. I’m going upstairs to help the children get dressed. Meet us when you’re ready,” she says, and turns to ascend the staircase.
“Are you coming, Mom?”
“I’m not feeling well, darling. Go along with the children and have a wonderful day at the fair. Amanda will take care of you.” A wave of sadness washes over me as I say the words and a horrible sob escapes as I begin to weep.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“I love you so much, Sammy.” I kneel down to embrace my child, and he wraps his arms around my neck and tells me he loves me too. And his words break the last thread of whatever remains of my strangled heart. I could cry a lifetime in his arms and it would not be enough to empty my well of sorrow.
My life, as I have known it, has ended.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
ANDRÉ LABAT
ST. AGATHE DES MONTS IS A QUAINT AND LOVELY VILLAGE—AND unusually fertile. Children are everywhere: riding bikes down the sidewalk, running through sprinklers on the lawns of cottages, and walking behind baby carriages pushed by their doting parents. The soil is rich, with abundant flowers and vegetation growing in spectacular landscapes and gardens and winding along fences and up the sides of buildings. At the end of the main street I see the town has a lake at its edge, dotted with paddleboats and striped umbrellas set along the shore, where families and lovers picnic and lounge. The air smells magical—and perhaps it is.
A brick building, taking up nearly a block of the mid-city, is oddly discordant with the architecture of the rest of the town. Near the rooftop, below the gutters, corroded bronze sculptures of fierce looking animals jut out from the structure. The predatory figures lurch from the eaves with arched necks and bared fangs. A few of the beasts have human torsos. Est. 1928 is imprinted in copper on the building’s side. Likely, it was once a sanitarium.
On the next block I find the building I’m looking for—the city library. I plan to have a nice lunch and spend the day researching the history of Black Lake and the house on the island. If I dwell too long on the nightmare of this morning’s news, I’ll either go mad or drown myself in the lake.
As I drive into the heart of the village I see, amidst garlands of flowers, a sign outside a lovely cottage nearly hidden from the street. It says Labat’s—the name of the restaurant Ruth recommended I have lunch. I park in front of the restaurant and walk through a swinging gate into an outdoor seating area with wrought-iron tables adorned with blue and white china and cut crystal wine glasses. Above me, fragrant azaleas throw off shoots from ceramic pots and hand painted lanterns hang from the latticework arbor. There are no more than ten tables in the patio area, and only a few are occupied.
Once seated, I notice a young man with sleek black hair partially covering his face in the back of the courtyard. He reclines casually in his seat, with a package of cigarettes and a coffee cup on the table in front of him. He has a pencil in his hand and is focused on something he is drawing on a piece of paper.
“Bonjour Madame,” says a man with a friendly smile as he approaches my table. “I am Peter Labat, the proprietor. We don’t have a menu, as our specialties change daily.”
“What would you recommend?”
I notice the young man has looked up from his drawing and is watching me.
“A very tasty loin of lamb sandwich; the meat is spit roasted, hand carved, and served over a crusty French bread with pomme frites. We also have a wild boar caught early this morning.”
“You have wild boars near town?”
“Maybe two hours west; we hunt at sunrise and at sunset.”
“You hunt, cook, and serve the food yourself?”
“Oui, Madame, with the aid of my family.”
“The lamb dish sounds delicious.”
“I recommend it be prepared very rare since the meat is fresh,” he says, and fans away a yellow jacket.
“Not too bloody,” I say, and steal a peek at the young man.
Monsieur Labat finishes writing up my order and walks back inside the restaurant. The mysterious stranger lifts his head to meet my stolen glance, and the intensity of his eyes nearly takes my breath away. I turn away to look out to the busy street. The sidewalks are filled with pedestrians and the streets lined with cars and bicycles. Couples of all ages saunter past me, chattering gaily, enjoying the beautiful summer day. My loneliness is exacerbated by their joy, and the proximity of an enigmatic force beginning to play havoc with my lonely heart.
“Enjoy your lunch,” Monsieur Labat says, as he sets down the dish.
It doesn’t take me long to finish the sweet lamb and crispy fries, leaving an empty plate decorated with lilacs in its place. The proprietor returns, and I pay him for the lunch. As I stand and prepare to leave, the young man smiles and raises his drawing.
I walk to the table, forcing myself against the desire to flee. Up close, I see he is stunningly beautiful, yet not in a classical way. His eyes are dark slits and his nose is not quite straight. He hands me a drawing that appears to be an image of me reclining against a fallen tree in the woods. My hair is entwined in the twigs and leaves, my filmy gown attaches me to the trunk, and my arms and legs are spread akimbo, like broken branches.
“Do I appear to you as this?” I ask.
“Oui.”
“Are you a professional artist?”
“Oui.”
“Do you show your work in a gallery here?”
He continues to look at me, but does not answer.
“Do you speak English?”
“Sorry, I was lost in your eyes,” he says in perfect English. “I show my work in Montreal and Quebec City.” His face crinkles into a boyish smile that reveals a crooked front tooth. “Come with me,” he says, taking me by the arm. “I will show you some o
f my pieces.” He walks me out of the restaurant and down the sidewalk.
“I’m here to visit the library.”
“I am just around the corner.”
“But I...”
He stops abruptly and his face breaks into an enchanting smile. “I promise, only a few minutes,” and takes my arm to guide me along a side street veering away from the main district.
“What is your name?”
“Alexandra Brighton.”
“My name is André Labat.”
“Are you related to the restaurant owner?”
“I am his son and favorite hunting partner. And here we are, you see, I told you it was only a short walk.” We pass a white-washed picket fence and step through an archway covered in red carnations. A stone path leads through the grounds of a colonial home with stately pillars. Off to the side of the house, in a spacious area of lawn, sits a cottage overgrown with crawling vines and bell-shaped hyacinths intermingled with baby blue periwinkles.
“It’s lovely,” I say as we approach the charming house.
“I also have a place in Quebec City.”
The sleeve of his T-shirt lifts as he pushes open the door, revealing the coils of a rattlesnake tattooed onto his upper arm.
“Welcome to my home,” he says and I follow him into an airy room with well-worn plank floors and high-beamed ceilings. “Let’s bring some light into this scene.” He draws back curtains from the windows, and the room explodes with vibrant color. The walls are covered with canvases. They are large paintings—taller than André, who must be well over six feet—painted with bold strokes using vivid primary colors. Wild mammals are the subjects.
“This is my latest project.” He walks to a canvas leaning against the wall behind the kitchen table. The painting is of a raging bull’s head with steam spewing from flared nostrils and stout horns butted forward, with a matador’s feathered sword stuck in its neck and blood spilling out onto mottled hide. On another canvas, a lion with amber eyes glares from behind wheat-colored stalks and seems to track my every move.
“Do you paint from your sketches?” I ask, and turn to look into a herd of charging big-horned wild buffalo emerging from a cloud of dust on the opposite wall.
“I paint in the style of automism—from the school of the surrealist. I start with a blank canvas, put my hand to it and let my subconscious begin to compose. Once my subconscious is finished, I allow my conscious to shape the piece into a cohesive whole. I inform my art and it informs me. When a project is complete it is released, so others benefit from the experience.”
“Your work is very masterful,” I say and circle the room to admire the manner in which he catches the fierce moment between life and death.
“And what is your job?
“I’m a writer. Or I was. I’ve recently been advised it is not a profession.”
“I’ve also been advised art is not a profession, so we have that in common,” he says with an infectious laugh.
“Are you a novelist?”
“I take mythical stories and fairy tales and rewrite them with a contemporary twist.”
“Are they filled with the same bloody horrors as the originals?”
“They’re written for adults and not children, so there’s less violence and bloodshed,” I say, and cast a wry smile.
“With more sex, I hope.”
“There was plenty in the originals.”
“So you are drawn to the world of fantasy and magic?”
“I’m drawn to a different world, that’s all I know.”
“I would like you to draw me into that world,” he responds with an enigmatic grin.
“Would you like some champagne and soup? I have a pot that’s been simmering since early this morning.” Before I have a chance to reply, André retreats to a corner of the room where windows look out onto a terrace lined with flower pots.
“Do you live here most of the time?” I ask, and move to take a closer look at a group of small paintings of naked bodies engaged in lurid sexual acts. It is difficult to tell the gender, or the number of people involved.
“I am here a couple days a week. These are only a few of my paintings. Most are in galleries in Montreal and Quebec City. And you, Alexandra, why are you here in St. Agathe, a single woman, beautiful and alone?”
“I’m visiting friends, Ramey and Ruth Sandeley, on Lac Noir. Do you know them?” I ask, turning to him.
“Everyone knows of them.” A mysterious shadow flits beneath the contours of André’s face as he places a bottle of champagne on a dining table painted with fleur-de-lys and set with a vase of long stemmed calla lilies.
“I plan to do some research on the house where I stayed my first night. It’s an old Victorian on an island.”
“Alexandra, sit down. Let me pour you a glass of champagne. The soup is still simmering.” He hands me a flute and motions me to a damask-covered daybed.
“First of all, the library is not open. Also, you will not find anything pleasant about that house, or of its previous inhabitants.
“Salute,” he says, raising his glass. “To Art, may she never sleep with Commerce.” He sits on the daybed next to me and I join him in the toast.
“Do you like the champagne?”
“Delicious.”
He looks at me with soulful eyes while leaning forward to lift my leg onto his lean thigh and remove my shoe.
“André, what are you doing?”
“I’m making you more comfortable,” he says, using his boyish grin to disarm me while he removes my sandals.
“My grandfather took me there when I was a young boy. We rowed to the shore, but did not disembark. My mother’s father was of the Iroquois tribe. He taught me many of the beliefs and customs of the Iroquois. The island is said to be the gateway to the underground, where the spirits of the dead reside. It was a burial ground for the indigenous people for hundreds of years.”
“What do you know of the man who lived in the house, Egan Schlotter?”
André draws my foot up and takes my big toe in his mouth.
“Stop it.”
“You don’t like?”
“Listen to me. I was rowed out with my son to stay in that horrible old place in the middle of the night. Doesn’t that seem strange?”
He runs his fingers from the arch of my foot along my calf to my inner thigh.
“André...” I remove his hand and adjust my skirt.
“What is wrong?”
“I’m leaving. I just met you; I can’t do this.”
“What is the difference if you met me an hour or a year ago? We do not own the past or the future. It is only here, now, this moment that exists for any human being. The rest is illusion.”
“That’s very poetic. But to be honest, you frighten me.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, your tattoo, for one.”
“What frightens you about a tattoo?”
“It’s a poisonous snake. Is that a warning sign?”
“It was my first drawing, a teenage boy’s right of passage. I marked myself to scare away the bullies.”
“And you continue to scare them away with your paintings?”
“You may have a point, but I view it differently.”
“What way is that?”
“Tell me more about your fears.”
“What happened in that house, André?”
“What happened in the house and what is happening inside you is the same thing.”
“Stop talking in circles.”
“What is it that haunts you, inside yourself?”
“What haunts you, André?”
He pauses for a moment and his face lights up.
“The Madonna.” A smile flickers across his face and he wears a faraway look. “When I was a young boy I marveled at the art on the walls of the church at mass every Sunday morning. It was always the image of the Madonna that felt most powerful. A woman who is mother, lover, wife, virgin, and seeded by the God of the universe,
that is what I am haunted by—the impossibility of her beauty and perfection.” He leans forward and lowers his eyes to my lips.
“Tell me about your fears, what causes you to fear?”
He pulls off his T-shirt and exposes the full image of the snake. Its fierce head juts forward, poised to strike, with jaws spread wide, revealing a long forked tongue and sharp fangs. “I thought you might like to see the entire picture,” he says with a beguiling smile.
“Deep water,” I say, and avert my eyes from the venomous reptile. “And I have claustrophobia, a fear of being closed in and unable to free myself, especially in darkness.”
“My grandfather once told me that behind every fear lies a hidden truth. When you feel fear, it is a signal to take action, but the action is not always to run away. You must first expose the fear and confront it, and then you may decide whether to back away or move forward.
“I wonder how you would feel to kiss,” André says, and lifts a hand to caress my hair as he graces me with his full lips.
“Why are you afraid of water, Alexandra?”
“I can’t swim,” I say, nearly breathless from the erotic charge.
“Why can’t you swim?” he whispers in my ear.
“My mother wouldn’t let me near the water.”
“Why didn’t she take you to the water and teach you how to swim?”
“She was afraid.”
“Well, there you are. Rather than teach you the skills needed to master the forces of nature, you were taught to keep away from them. Have you ever thought about the pleasures your fear has denied you?” His lips trail down to the hollow of my neck. “The body is the temple of God; pleasure is his gift. It is meant to be savored, not feared.” He lowers me back onto the daybed and pins me with the full weight of his body. I can feel his heart beating through his skin; it’s racing. “The door is locked. You cannot move or get away. Are you afraid?”
I’m terrified, but am loath to admit it.
“Do you want me to set you free? You can leave if you desire. I will let you go. Or you can move past your fear and open the door to the unknown.” His hands glide along my body while he moves sensuously against me and his kisses grow more hungry and impassioned.
The House on Black Lake Page 11
