by Nora Roberts
Cartier’s, New York, for a sum of ninety-two thousand, five hundred and ninety-nine dollars—plus all the accompanying taxes.”
“They hose you on that in New York,” Luke murmured and received an acknowledging nod from Max.
“I can’t believe I missed seeing a piece like that,” Roxanne commented.
“She wore it on farewell night.” Lily remembered it very well. “I think you and Luke were—occupied—until the show.”
“Oh.” Roxanne remembered, too, and slid a glance at Luke over her shoulder. “I guess we were.”
Luke wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back off of the hassock and into his lap. “It’s one of a kind, isn’t it?”
Max beamed. He’d taught his children well. “Yes, as it happens. That will make it more difficult, though not impossible, to dispose of. I believe that should be enough, Roxanne.” The set switched off. He settled back. Max’s mind was so clear he wondered if he’d imagined the fog that so often settled over it. “We’re awaiting blueprints of the house in Tennessee, as well as the New York pied-à-terre. The security systems on both residences will take some time.”
“That’ll give us time to enjoy Christmas first.” It wasn’t a question. For Lily, taking time to enjoy every aspect of the holiday was a sacred trust. “Since we’re all here, we can trim the tree tonight.” She shot a sly glance at Roxanne and Luke. “Jean’s got a roast in the oven.”
“With those little potatoes that get all crusty, and the carrots?” Luke felt his stomach, which had made do for two weeks with take-out and one disastrous attempt at fried chicken, give a yearning sigh.
Roxanne elbowed him in the ribs. After all, it had been she who’d fried the chicken. “The man’s a walking appetite. We don’t need to be bribed to stay.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Luke sent a beseeching look at LeClerc. “Biscuits?”
“You bet. And maybe enough left over for a doggie bag for a young wolf.”
The days to Christmas and the new year passed quickly. There were presents to buy and wrap, cookies to bake. In the case of the Nouvelle/Callahan apartment, there were cookies to burn. The annual magic show to benefit the pediatric wing raised five thousand much-needed dollars. But it was Luke who carried on Max’s tradition of entertaining the children who would spend the most magical night of the year confined to bed or wheelchair.
In the hour it took to pluck a coin out of a small ear, or cause magic flowers to spring up out of an empty pot, Luke discovered why Max devoted so much of his time to these children.
They were the most satisfying of audiences. They knew pain, and their reality was often unforgiving. But they believed. For an hour, that was all that mattered.
He dreamed again that night, after leaving those small faces behind. He dreamed, and awakened with his heart pounding and a scream burning his throat.
Roxanne shifted, murmuring in her sleep. He closed his cold fingers over hers and lay, for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
A long, rainy winter clung stubbornly to March. Those entertainers who plied their trade on street corners suffered. In the house on Chartres, LeClerc kept his kitchen cozily warm. Though it stung the pride, he stayed indoors, rarely venturing out even to market. When he did, he felt each gust of wind sneak through his thinning skin and whip straight into the marrow of his bones.
Old age, he thought when he allowed himself to address the issue, was a motherfucker.
When the door opened on a blast of cold wind and chilling rain, he pounced.
“Close the goddamn door. This ain’t no cave.”
“Sorry.”
Luke’s apology earned a scowl. He was hatless and gloveless, and wore only a denim jacket as protection from the elements. LeClerc felt bitter envy swirl into his heart.
“You come here for a handout?”
Luke sniffed the air and caught the unmistakable aroma of baked apples. “If I can get one.”
“Why don’t you learn to cook for yourself? You think you can waltz in here and waltz back out again with a full belly anytime you please? I don’t run no soup kitchen.”
“It’s like this.” Since Luke was too used to the rough side of the Cajun’s tongue to cower, he poured himself a cup of the coffee warming on the stove. “I figure a man can only be good, really good, at a limited number of things.”
LeClerc sniffed. “What you so good at, mon ami, you can’t boil an egg?”
“Magic.” Luke took a teaspoon of sugar, made a fist and poured a rain of white grains into the funnel of his thumb and forefinger. He waited a beat then opened his hands wide to show it empty. LeClerc gave a snort that might have been a laugh. “Stealing.” He handed LeClerc back the tattered wallet he’d lifted out of the old man’s back pocket when he’d passed to the stove. “And making love to a woman.” He picked up his cup and sipped. “But you’ll have to take my word on that one, ’cause you ain’t getting no demonstration.”
LeClerc’s leathery face split with a grin. “So, you think you do those things good, eh?”
“I do those things great. Now, how about one of those baked apples?”
“Sit and eat at the table like you been taught.” No longer displeased with the company, he went back to kneading his dough. His hands were competent with the homey chore; the snakes twining up his arms slithered. “Where’s Roxanne?”
“At that exercise class. She said she might have some lunch with a couple of the other women after.”
“So, you’re on the prowl, oui?”
“I was working out the kinks on this escape, needed a break.” He didn’t want to admit the apartment seemed empty without her in it. “It’ll be ready for Mardi Gras.”
“You have only two weeks.”
“It’s enough. Dangling over Lake Pontchartrain from a burning rope ought to draw a hell of a crowd. Challenger’s betting fifty K I don’t get out of the cuffs and make it back onto the bridge before the rope burns through.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I lose fifty thousand and get wet.”
LeClerc put the dough into a big bowl, covered it. “It’s a long drop.”
“I know how to fall.” He forked warm, spicy apple into his mouth. “I wanted to check over a couple of details with Max. He around?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Now?” Luke lifted a brow. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“He don’t sleep so good at night.” Worry creased his brow as he washed clinging dough from his hands, but his back was to Luke. “A man’s entitled to sleep late now and again in his own house.”
“I didn’t mean—he never used to.” Luke glanced toward the hallway, realized for the first time how quiet the house was. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”
Luke stared at LeClerc’s rigid back. In his mind he could see Max, working his hands, working his fingers, flexing them, spreading them, manipulating them again and again like a pianist before a performance.
“How bad are his hands?” Luke saw by the slight stiffening of LeClerc’s shoulders that he’d hit the mark. The homey scent of spice and apples and bread dough made him vaguely ill as he waited for the answer.
“Don’t know what you mean.” LeClerc kept his back turned as he shut off the water in the sink and reached for a dish towel.
“Jean. Don’t con me. Give me credit for caring as much as you do.”
“Goddamn.” But there was no strength behind the oath, and Luke had his answer.
“Has he seen a doctor?” Luke’s stomach churned. The fork rattled against his saucer as he pushed it away.
“Lily nagged him to one.” LeClerc turned then, his small, dark eyes reflecting all the frustration and emotion he’d suppressed. “They give him pills to ease the pain. The pain in his fingers, comprends? Not the pain here.” He tapped a fist to his heart. “It doesn’t bring the magic back. Nothing will.”
“There’s got to be something—”
“Rien,” LeClerc interrupted. “Nothing. I
nside each man is a timetable. And it says this is when his eyes will dim, or his ears clog up. This is the day he will get out of bed with his bones stiff and his joints aching. And today is the day his bladder will fail him or his lungs will go weak, or his heart will burst. The doctors will say do this, take that, but the bon Dieu has set the time, and when He says c’est assez, nothing can stop it.”
“I don’t believe that.” Didn’t want to. Luke scraped his chair back as he rose. “You’re saying we’ve got nothing to do with it, no control.”
“You think we do?” LeClerc gave a short bark of a laugh. “That is the arrogance of the young. Do you think it was an accident that you came to the carnival that night, that you found Max, that he found you?”
Luke remembered all too clearly the powerful draw of the poster, the way the painted eyes had seduced him into the tent. “It was good luck.”
“Luck, oui. It’s just another name for fate.”
Luke had had enough of LeClerc’s fatalistic philosophy. It dug too close to his own deeply buried beliefs. “None of this has anything to do with Max. We should get him to a specialist.”
“Pourquoi? So he can have tests that break his heart? He has arthritis. It can be eased, but it can’t be cured. You’re his hands now, you and Roxanne.”
Luke sat again, brooding into the black pool of his cooling coffee. “Does she know?”
“Maybe not in her head, but in her heart, she knows. Just as you.” LeClerc hesitated. Following instinct, and his own fate, he sat across from Luke. “There is more,” he said quietly.
Luke lifted his gaze. The look on LeClerc’s face had fear skittering up his spine. “What?”
“He spends hours with his books, with his maps.”
“The philosophers’ stone?”
“Oui, the stone. He talks to scientists, to professors, even to mediums.”
“It’s caught his imagination,” Luke said. “What’s the harm of it?”
“Perhaps nothing of itself. This is his Holy Grail. I think if he finds it, he’ll have peace. But for now . . . I’ve seen him stare at the single page in a book, and an hour later, he has yet to turn the page. At breakfast he might ask Mouse to move the parlor sofa under the window. And at lunch he asks why the furniture has been rearranged. He says to Lily we must rehearse this new trick today, and after she waits for him in the workroom, after she goes to find him huddled with his books in the library, he remembers nothing of a rehearsal.”
The fear dug in with tiny teeth and claws. “He has a lot on his mind.”
“It’s his mind that concerns me.” LeClerc sighed. He thought his eyes too old for tears, but they prickled hot and had to be fought back. “Yesterday, I found him standing in the courtyard. He was in costume, with no coat against the wind. ‘Jean,’ he says. ‘Where is the van?’ ”
“The van? But—”
“We have no van.” LeClerc kept his eyes level with Luke’s. “Not for nearly ten years, but he asks if Mouse has taken it to wash before the show. So, I tell him there is no show today, and he must come inside, out of the cold.” LeClerc lifted his cup and swallowed deeply. “Then he looks around him, lost, and I can see fear in his eyes. So I take him inside, up to bed. He asks if Roxanne is home from school, and I tell him no, not yet. But soon. He says Luke must bring his pretty girlfriend back to dinner, and I say bien, I will make étouffée. Then he sleeps, and when he wakes I think he remembers none of it.”
Luke uncurled the hand he’d fisted in his lap. “Jesus.”
“A man’s body betrays him, he moves slower. But what does he do when it’s his mind?”
“He needs to see a doctor.”
“Ah, oui, and this will be done because Lily will insist. But there’s something you must do.”
“What can I do?”
“You must see that he doesn’t go with you when you fly to Tennessee.” Before Luke could speak, LeClerc waved the words back. “He must be a part of the planning, but not the execution. What if he forgets where he is, what he’s doing? Can you risk it? Can you risk him?”
“No,” Luke answered after a long pause. “I won’t risk him. But I won’t hurt him, either.” He debated for a moment, then nodded. “I think we should—”
“Jean, what is that marvelous bouquet?” Max strolled in, looking so fit and alert that Luke almost dismissed LeClerc’s story. “Ah, Luke, so you followed your nose as well. Where’s Roxanne?”
“Out with some friends. Want some coffee?” Luke was already up and moving toward the stove. Max sat, stretching out his legs with a sigh. His fingers were moving, moving, moving, like a man playing an invisible piano.
“I hope she doesn’t dawdle too long. I know Lily wanted to take her out for new shoes. The child can’t seem to keep them on her feet.”
Luke’s hand jerked. Coffee splashed on the counter. Max was discussing Roxanne as if she were twelve again.
“She’ll be along.” His heart felt like an anvil in his chest as he carried the coffee back to the kitchen table.
“Have you worked out the bugs in the Water Torture escape?”
Luke wanted to scream at Max to stop, to leap off whatever time machine was holding his mind prisoner. Instead he spoke calmly. “Actually, I’m working on the Burning Rope. Remember?” he prodded gently. “It’s set for Shrove Tuesday. Next week.”
“Burning Rope?” Max’s hand paused. The coffee cup that was halfway to his lips trembled. It was painful to watch his fight to return to the present. His mouth drooped open and hung slack, his eyes darted wildly. Then they focused again. His hand continued to bring the cup to his lips. “You’ll draw a good crowd,” he said. “The early press is excellent.”
“I know. And I couldn’t ask for a better cover for the Wyatt job. I want to move on it that night.”
Max frowned. “There are a number of small details yet to be worked out.”
“There’s time.” Despising himself, Luke leaned back. He hooked an arm casually over the back of his chair. “I want to ask you for a favor, Max.”
“All right.”
“I want to pull the job myself.” Luke saw the shock on Max’s face, the disappointment. “It’s important to me,” he plowed on. “I know the rules about no job being personal, but this one’s the exception. There’s a lot of baggage between Sam and me.”
“All the more reason not to let emotions cloud the issue.”
“They are the issue.” At least this much was true. “I owe him. This would go a long way toward paying off old debts.” Then he pulled out his trump card, hating himself. “If you don’t trust me to carry it off, if you don’t think I’m good enough, just say so.”
“Of course I trust you. But the point is . . .” He didn’t know what the point was, except that his son was taking yet another step away. “You’re right. It’s past time for you to try something on your own. You’re as good as they get.”
“Thanks.” He wanted to take those restless hands in his, but only lifted his coffee cup in salute. “I was taught by the best.”
“What do you mean you’re doing it on your own?” Roxanne demanded. With her gym bag tossed over her shoulder she’d followed Luke from the living room, where he’d dropped his bombshell, into the bedroom.
“Just what I said. It’s my show.”
“Like hell. We all work together.” Despite annoyance, her ingrained tidiness had her unzipping the bag to remove towels and workout clothes. “Daddy wouldn’t agree to it.”
“He did agree to it.” Luke peeled off his denim jacket and tossed it in the vicinity of a chair. It slid off the arm and hit the floor. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is, too.” Roxanne rezipped her bag and set it in its proper place on the closet shelf. She kicked aside a jumble of Luke’s shoes. “If we’ve all been in on the planning stages from the get-go, why do you think you’re the only one who gets to have the fun?”
“Because.” He dropped down on the bed and tucked his arms behind his head. “That’s
the way I want it.”
“Look, Callahan—”
“You look, Nouvelle.” His use of her last name usually made her chuckle. Though her lips twitched, the stubborn chin was still up. “Max and I talked it over. It’s cool with him, so let it go.”
“Maybe it’s cool with him, but not with me.” She stuck her hands on her hips. “I’m in, pal. That’s that.”
