St. Charles at Dusk: The House of Crimson and Clover Series Prequel

by Sarah M. Cradit

  “One moment.” The woman set down the phone and called out, “Adrienne!” My heart began to race. She was there, in that house. What if she were to pick up the phone? What would I say? I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. My stomach cramped, then churned.

  The woman came back to the phone. “She will meet with you at 3 PM, at Lafitte’s.” She sounded very put-upon.

  “Lafitte’s?”

  “Yes. Lafitte’s.”

  Apparently she assumed I knew where that was, or in any case, would provide no guidance. I would find it myself.

  There was no turning back. A time had been established, and there was now a certainty around my meeting Adrienne.

  I checked my watch. 2:30 PM. Time to go. I took a deep breath, shot a cursory glance in the mirror, picked up my keys and briefcase, and left to go see Adrienne for the first time in three years.

  I arrived ten minutes late to the small diner in the middle of town, and attempted to pull myself together before walking in.

  As prepared as I was for discussing Adrienne’s estate, I was not at all equipped for the task of sitting across from her and putting on a professional mask. And, what later? Eventually, I would have to tell her who I was, who she was. That her parents, and sisters, were dead.

  The diner was small and unremarkable. It had seats enough for perhaps thirty, if you counted the four stools at the counter. The countertops and tables had the same marble Formica, peeling and corroding at the ends where metal strips held them together. The floor, once white, was a faded and cracked yellow. The light came in from the front windows and brought out all the imperfections. Despite the evident age and disrepair, it had a cozy, almost homey, feel.

  I spotted her immediately, sitting alone toward the back. She was reading the front page of the local paper.

  “Adrienne?” She looked up and our eyes met. Yes, it was definitely her. From her gaze, I felt a sudden hope that she recognized me. Her eyes twinkled and her head tilted slightly to the left.

  “Mr. Sullivan, is it?” She remained seated, but extended her small hand toward me. I eagerly shook it. The moment was surreal; like I was seeing a ghost.

  “Colin, actually. People call me Oz though.”

  Her mouth twisted in amusement. “Oz? As in The Wizard of?”

  I grinned at her. She always had a way of making a person smile, even in the least favorable circumstances. I took stock of her for a moment, before she could notice me staring. Her red hair had grown much longer, and she now wore it down her back, where it curled slightly at the ends from the humidity. This last, small detail made her seem more real to me somehow. She still had the round baby face, with a spray of freckles running along the high line of her cheekbones. Adrienne remained every bit the presence she was three years ago. She wore a short, white, gauzy dress that draped limply over her upper body, but clung tightly to her curvy hips and the delectable cut of her cleavage, which had filled out quite nicely. Her knee-length worn, brown suede boots were scrunched at the top, revealing lightly tanned skin. On anyone else, this look was trashy. But if exquisite was a color, she was painted with it.

  Seeing her like this had an unexpected physical effect on me. It was the pain of detachment and familiarity, but not a physical longing for her, thankfully.

  Do you wish me to be your Antony or your Caesar? I thought with a chill.

  “Shall we get started?” I asked with a forced smile.

  Adrienne looked down and away, her head angled slightly toward her shoulder. Her hair fell over her cheek and she pushed it aside. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

  “Don’t be.” I tried to put her at ease with my smile, which was not at all putting me at ease, but she only glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “This is all very overwhelming.” This time she looked at me. I could see her face clearly now, and her eyes were two large blue orbs staring directly at me. “I’m still not sure how to react.”

  I wasn’t sure, either. Three years ago, when she looked at me like that, it was all I could do not to pull her into my arms. Now, without her memory, and three years in another life, she was a different person. So was I. “You have to take it one day at a time, I suppose. If you want to know my opinion, this is the first step. That’s why I’m here.”

  As soon as those words left my mouth, I realized I was both relaxed and composed. Using my position as a lawyer was not only a foot in the door, but it also allowed me an escape into my own element. I knew I was going to be okay.

  I decided not to mention the phone call yesterday. I didn’t need to talk about how it made me feel when she called me and then hung up, leaving my thoughts hanging in the balance. None of that seemed to matter.

  Adrienne crossed her arms under her chin and leaned forward. “I know why you’re here Oz. So why don’t we get this over with,” she said with her woman’s voice. The rest of the place was empty, save for a few locals up at the counter.

  I didn’t like her tone. “I should think you do know, being that you’re the one who tracked me down.”

  “Give it to me straight. How much am I worth?” Her accent was a little thicker now, compliments of the southern Louisiana lifestyle. I hadn’t noticed it at first.

  I had thought I would control the conversation; open up my briefcase, review the documents and then go over any questions she had. “You don’t waste any time.”

  “Is there something else you’d like to discuss first?” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

  I began to consider the possibility Adrienne knew more than she let on. She knew I was coming, where I was staying, what my motives were. Had she planned this? My professional edge began to slip. I wasn’t prepared for this, whatever it was.

  “How did you know I would drive down here?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I couldn’t think of a good reason, though many would come to me later. I tried to be tough, but I was really quite a pushover, especially when it came to the woman across the table from me. I knew if I didn’t take control soon, she would walk right over me.

  Adrienne closed her eyes and leaned back. “I apologize, Mr. Sullivan. This has been a trying time for me. Please, go on.”

  I propped the briefcase up on the checkered table and shuffled through some papers, but it was all show at this point. I glanced to my left, past the briefcase, and saw she was still giving me the same look of anticipation with those infamous blue eyes. Still articulate, braised with social polish and the same, seductive frankness that made you forget her age.

  “Some things never change,” I whispered without meaning to.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Here, I have some documentation for you. I apologize in advance for the size; we were not expecting to prepare these for review. I think it best we start with your immediate estate. If you want to take a look…” I slid the portfolio toward her, but she pushed it back.

  “Tell me what you meant.” She seemed to be pouting now; the urgency in her eyes was gone.

  “Ms. Deschanel-“

  “Cut the formalities. Show me some respect and answer my question.” Her face softened slightly as she leaned forward once more. “I know you, don’t I?”

  I felt my heart suddenly race. “You remember me?”

  “No, of course I don’t. But I did know you before, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” I acknowledged after a pause. “I’ve known you since you were born.”

  “Ahh, I see,” she said. From her expression, I ascertained she wasn’t taking this very seriously. It seemed almost a game to her. Or, perhaps she had been handed so many pieces of the puzzle these last two days she wasn’t even sure which pieces were supposed to fit. I knew it must be overwhelming for her, but it was not my role as her lawyer to provide comfort.

  I thought of my father’s words and tried to keep focused on the reason I was there.

  “Adrienne, I’m not here to reassemble your personal memories. I honestly hope, for your sake, s
omeone can help you do that. I am here to give you what is rightfully yours.” I went back to the comforting shuffle of papers.

  “Don’t you think my memory is rightfully mine, Oz?” she demanded, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I thought she was attempting to hold back laughter. I was extremely confused. “If you know things about me, then tell me! What was I like? Was I fun? Was I a bitch? Did I have a lot of friends? What kind of things did I like to do? Was I close to my family?” In a matter of moments, her mood changed once again and she seemed to me as if she were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know what to do. This was not at all what I expected to find. No longer was she the fantasy of my youth, but a woman now, with fire and hardness.

  “Adrienne, calm down-”

  “Calm down? How can you ask me to calm down when you know things about me that might mean something, and you sit there with your papers and say nothing?”

  The fire flashed in her eyes, and despite the thick hostility of the moment, I found myself relieved at least that part of her old self remained intact.

  I looked around at the cafe. All eyes seemed on us and I didn’t want to be there any longer. “Adrienne, maybe we shouldn’t do this here.”

  “Fine, then, let’s not do this here,” she parroted, and took off out of the cafe before I could say another word.

  By the time I collected my papers and stepped out of Lafitte’s, she was gone. I should have seen it coming, I knew this, but we were getting nowhere back in the diner.

  “Adrienne?” I called in false optimism. It still hadn’t sunk in yet, how quickly it all had happened.

  “Shit!” I yelled and kicked at the ground. “Shit, shit, shit!” A nearby woman stopped to gawk at my tantrum.

  How did this go so wrong?

  After some thought, I decided the best course of action was to call Adrienne and try to set up another appointment. Since this wasn’t personal, I knew I should have no difficulty putting aside any offense I felt from her rebuff.

  The first time I called, the woman from earlier answered. “Ms. Deschanel is indisposed.” Would she take a message, I asked. “Not necessary,” she answered.

  The second time I called, I got an answering machine.

  If she didn’t return my call, I would return to New Orleans in the morning and she could deal directly with the office.

  My cell phone rang as I was about to leave the diner.

  “Please, Mr. Sullivan, don’t call here anymore.”

  Another man this time. He sounded young, possibly close to me in age, but it was hard to say for sure.

  “I’m sorry, Mister-?”

  “You can call me Jesse.”

  “Alright, Jesse. I apologize for disturbing your home, but I am not a solicitor. I’m Adrienne’s attorney and I am calling to settle the matters of the estate with her.” There. Who did he think he was?

  “Mr. Sullivan.” I heard him make a very weary-sounding sigh. “I know who you are.”

  “I'm Adrienne’s attorney,” I repeated, with emphasis. “More specifically, the attorney for the remaining Deschanel children, of which Adrienne is the primary heir.” I sounded calmer than I felt.

  “Look,” Jesse took a more reasonable tone, “if you want to discuss the business of Adrienne Deschanel, meet me at the Water Hole at 5:00 PM. There are a few things you need to know.”

  “Are there, really?” I asked, unable to keep the cynicism from my voice.

  He sighed again. “Will you meet?”

  I agreed because there was nothing else I could do.

  The first big shock of my life had been learning Adrienne was still alive. The second was meeting Jesse.

  The Water Hole turned out to be not much more than its name; it was a wooden building, hardly bigger than a living room, with a bar, a corner stage, and five small tables. The décor consisted of a few pictures of the area from the previous century, posters from various local acts, some worn so completely the letters were gone, a dartboard with a picture of Bill Clinton worn through in the middle, and a cigarette machine. The “bathroom” opened to the outside, where a rusty antique tub sat waiting for you to relieve yourself in the moonlight.

  A thin young woman was sitting up on the stage tuning what looked like a modified cello. Aside from her, and the bartender, the place was empty.

  “What would ya like, kid?” the bartender asked me. She was pretty; long blonde hair, and a very comely face. She reminded me of some of the local girls in New Orleans they used for department store ads in the Sunday paper.

  “Heineken, please.”

  She looked at me, sneered a little, then repeated, “What would ya like, kid?”

  I glanced over her shoulder and saw it was either Budweiser, Bud Light, or liquor.

  Tempted to say something smart, instead I gave a friendly smile and requested, “Bourbon and seven.”

  Turning at the sound of my name, I saw a man walking toward me. He was my age, maybe a year or so older, with dirty blonde hair, and a kind face. From what I could see, he was obviously in great physical shape, presumably from working on one of the various plantations.

  I extended my hand. He extended his. We shook. It all started off so congenial.

  Without him asking, the bartender handed him a Budweiser, then slid my drink over to me. Jesse took a series of long swallows, finishing the bottle, before handing it back. He seemed very young to me as I studied him, soft and almost effeminate, though from his size I presumed he would lay flat any man who dared call him that.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I am going to be straightforward with you, because I don’t know how else to be. That okay?”

  I nodded. Thinking back, I can’t imagine how I could have been so naïve and unsuspecting. His softness had put me at false ease.

  He took only a small sip of the second beer, in the way girls do on a first date when they don’t want to look like lushes.

  “Adrienne and I are getting married, Mr. Sullivan. Married. She’s very special to me, and that isn’t going to change, no matter what comes up from her past.” He put up his hand as if to stop me from speaking, but he need not have bothered; I was speechless. “I know you were more than her lawyer, so no need to go on about how you are just here to do your job.”

  Later I might lament her marrying this guy, as she had once promised to marry me, but at the moment I was only offended. Extremely offended. “Excuse me?” What a presumptuous ass! I knew right away Adrienne had sent him here to be her muscle, which made me angrier with her than I had been earlier.

  Jesse looked as if he had delivered bad news to a dying patient, while he ordered me a second drink. It was then I realized I had already finished the first one. I looked at him, and recognized he was a good guy, the kind of guy I might even want my sister to marry if I had one, but the only thing I could think to say was, “You can have the crazy bitch!”

  He looked taken aback. Clearly, this was not the reaction he expected from me. I had to admit, I surprised myself. Barely into my second drink, I felt far more buzzed than usual.

  “Jesse, if you do care about Adrienne you would want to help her find out about her past, not keep her from it by bringing me here and trying to intimidate me. I have no intentions of trying to get back together with her. The past is the past. But I do have a job, and I intend to do it.”

  Jesse stared at me, still looking confused. “She doesn’t want to see you, Oz.”

  “I guess you didn’t hear me the first time. I’m not going to intrude on your little game of house, Jesse, so can we move past that and get to the point?”

  Just then, I noticed a middle-aged woman at the bar next to me. I hadn’t seen her sit down, so I had no idea how long she’d been there. She didn’t say a word, but I saw her eyeing my drink strangely.

  “Mr. Sullivan, are you listening to me?” Jesse was asking.

  No, I wasn’t. I realized I had finished the second drink and someone–the woman beside me?–had ordered a third. “Not especially.”
/>   “I said Adrienne would like you to deal directly with me from now on.”

  I sighed. What did I care? “In order to do that, she would need to sign over Power of Attorney to you. If she’s willing, then we can talk,” I approximated, in a professional voice.

  “Where do I get these Power of Attorney documents?”

  “I can have them prepared and sent to you. I just need your address.”

  He turned over a small napkin and borrowed a pen from the bartender. He wrote down a P.O. Box, then handed it back to me. “When can I expect these?”

  “I’ll drive home tonight and have them overnighted tomorrow.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we can set up an appointment.”

  Jesse finished his beer and looked past me, at the woman. He looked annoyed, and I wondered if he knew her. “I want to apologize for assuming… well… for assuming that…”

  I interrupted his awkward apology. “Well, Jesse Fontaine, I will have the Power of Attorney documents forwarded to you at this address tomorrow, and I will be in contact with you shortly to arrange your visit to New Orleans for reviewing the estate documents. It was a pleasure to meet you and I wish the two of you the best in your… impending nuptials.”

  The woman left without a word. Jesse seemed ready to say something more, but then he also left. I ordered another drink.

  Why had I not taken my car to the bar? Because it was close? Because I knew I was going to be drinking a lot? Did I need the exercise?

  I got lost on the way back. How I managed to do so was baffling, because the walk had taken no more than ten minutes on the way in, and consisted of one road. Everything felt heavy to me: my clothes, my briefcase (why had I brought it to the bar?), even the skin on my bones. I turned down one road after another, stumbling past locals who took no notice of my rambling passage.