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

by Sarah M. Cradit

  9- Adrienne

  "You are not going to see him again, Adrienne! You acted like a complete fool!"

  Adrienne stood in the corner and watched Angelique pace the floor from one end of the worn woven rug to the other. “I knew this was a bad idea. I knew I shouldn’t have supported such a foolhardy notion.” Adrienne was afraid to remind Angelique it had been her idea.

  “I know, Angelique,” she agreed, softly. She wasn’t quite sure how it had all happened; one minute she was seeing him again and she thought she had it together, and the next… oh, the next he was looking at her, and she knew he was thinking of her, and of them, and a million memories were streaming through his mind. Suddenly, she was saying and doing things she knew made him think she had gone completely crazy! The one ally she had–however unlikely–was no longer on her side.

  “And now…” Angelique appeared once again to be speaking to the air, “and now, this lawyer is going to be calling and calling, and Jesse will find out, and it will all be over, my life, your life, Jesse’s life!” She was running on and on, practically foaming at the mouth. Adrienne knew how she felt; the same thoughts were racing through her own mind. How had everything gone so wrong?

  “You were supposed to stick to business. What were you thinking, child?" Angelique had stopped pacing and was staring at her now.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!” Adrienne screamed at her, and ran from the room. She lay in her bed and closed her eyes, blocking out the sounds of Angelique’s voice as she stood in the doorway, asking her what, why, where, how; a litany of questions Adrienne simply did not know the answer to.

  It was not supposed to go that way. Adrienne was supposed to see Oz and all of the haze surrounding the piecemeal memories would fade away and suddenly everything would be clear to her: her life, her intentions, her past. All would be right in the world. She was sure of it, and to her great and grateful surprise, so was Angelique. Angelique had first thought up the idea, and was positive it was the right way to resolve the issue.

  Adrienne had not been so sure. She was not as confident as Angelique, who felt the encounter with Oz would put closure to her past. Ever since the dreams started to become clearer, she couldn’t discern between a remembered reality and a dream. First, the name Oz. Then, she recalled waking up in a hotel room somewhere in New Orleans with a boy–no, a man–and knowing love. A law office. Then, the face; dark green eyes, raven hair, unrelenting dimples, and lips with the most amazing angel’s kiss at the top.

  But for as much effort as she put into trying to resolve these “memories” and string threads together, she had to put twice as much effort into keeping her realizations from the Fontaines. Especially Angelique.

  Where her garden used to serve as a place of solitude, even from the scattered images which plagued her, she often found herself swimming in shadows only to look up and see Angelique studying her face.

  Angelique used a friend of hers to track down the law office in New Orleans that the man in Adrienne’s dreams worked at. All she had to go on was a first name and his apparent youth in the business. Once they identified him, it had been nothing to concoct the story of a bayou lawyer who recognized Adrienne, creating a spiraling series of events leading up to her inevitable meeting with Oz. In all honesty, her finances meant much less to her than discovering more about Oz and whatever it was they shared together. She wondered if he looked for her when she went missing; if he still thought of her now.

  The agreement was Jesse would not find out, which Adrienne supported. That she loved Jesse, she had no doubt. But what of her life before Jesse? What if her family had not intentionally left her in the bayou?

  But now… well, she ruined everything, didn’t she? She saw for a few moments the recognition–could it be longing?–in Oz’s eyes as he tried to stay focused. Surely he was sizing her up too, assessing the truth and gravity of her memory loss. Then, her emotions got the best of her and she could not stop her own selfish need to put aside the farce and get down to her true motives.

  Then, Angelique confessed everything to Jesse. And Jesse was hurt, understandably. He took the boat and left for several hours. When he returned, he took Adrienne into his arms and cried for the first time ever in her presence. He made her look him in the eyes–so desperate, so unlike Jesse–and promise never to do anything like that again.

  What else could she do but promise?

  Angelique came in later that evening.

  “I want you to know it’s over. I think you know that, but I have to say it again so you understand clearly. We’ve taken care of this issue, Adrienne. We’ve done it in the best way we know how.”

  Adrienne looked up. Her eyes were swollen, but dry now. “What did you do, exactly?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s handled, and it’s done”

  “But Oz… is he okay?”

  Angelique’s lips twitched. “He will be fine.”

  Adrienne sighed and dropped her eyes. “This didn’t resolve anything for me.”

  Angelique looked genuine in her sympathy when she approached Adrienne and ran her hands through her soft hair. “It never will, Adrienne. We tried, and we failed. A deal is a deal.”

  It is my life, thought Adrienne. Why do I have to make deals with someone to experience it?

  “So now what, Angelique? Am I supposed to forget all of this just because things didn’t work out according to your plan?”

  “Yes,” Angelique said. “You are.”

  Adrienne turned away. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Angelique, a woman she had loved for as long as she had clear memory of anything. There was nothing she could say to sway her. There was no one in her life who would understand this, no one she could turn to now.

  “Think of Jesse,” Angelique admonished when Adrienne refused to turn to her. “Look out that window, Adrienne! Look and tell me you don’t see the kindest, most dedicated man you will ever meet! What you have with him is good; it’s right. It's meant to be! You can’t change the past. This man, Oz, may have cared for you once but people change. People let you down. Jesse,” she hit her hand on the glass as she once again gestured toward her son, who was leaning down over the boat dock, “is not one of those people. Jesse will never let you down, Adrienne.”

  She backed away. “I don’t hear any disagreement from you,” Angelique asserted from the doorway. “You know I’m right.”

  “I need to be alone,” Adrienne said.

  10- Oz

  After giving the situation with Adrienne some thought, I could admit I acted quite irrationally in squiring down to Abbeville. I was ashamed. Who was I to think I had occupied such an important part of her life, that she would remember me despite her amnesia? Leaving when I did, I could keep my pride intact. Despite allegations to the contrary, I had not thrown myself at her, or betrayed any of my true feelings. The conversation with Jesse had been, for the most part, civil. My secret was safe.

  Walking away now, I could focus on all the things I had going for me. A great job, even if it was the source of most of my stress. A good, solid family and home, great friends. Adrienne was an affair of three years ago that lasted only a summer. Who doesn’t enjoy a summer romance? Isn’t there always an air of mystery and passion that comes along with one? Hadn't I felt almost the same way, once before, with Ana?

  Like Ana, Adrienne was a child when she gave her heart away; sixteen. Surely she couldn't have known her own mind at that age. Amazing it took this long for the magic to wear off so I could see the summer for that it was, but see it I did.

  I convinced myself of all the things I had argued against when we were in the middle of our courtship. With the perspective of time, they made sense.

  I was resigned to boxing up my feelings for her in this neat little package, and remembering her as I remembered Ana: a passionate, but brief, love affair. The two relationships were perhaps not so different, after all.

  It was a reality check that had been long overdue. Time
to let go and move on.

  I arrived home by mid-afternoon, never more grateful to see the familiar neighborhood. Turning off St. Charles at Seventh, I drove slowly until I reached my house.

  My home since finishing my undergraduate studies was a raised center-hall cottage where Seventh Street met Coliseum, in the palatial Garden District. Although modest when one considered my neighbors, in their richly painted Greek Revival or Italianate townhouses, it was nevertheless both graceful and assuming.

  One and a half-stories, the house was raised about three feet from the ground, supported by strong brick piers. It remained its original color, the color of a flesh white peach before ripening. A full-width gallery graced the front, framed by six Corinthian columns, which supported an ornate entablature. Five ceiling-to-floor olive-green-shuttered windows spanned the iron-wrought gallery, with a long French front door in the middle. A curved side-gallery was added in 1860, sitting off of the master bedroom and facing riverside.

  Outside, magnolias and sprawling live oaks surrounded the house and held court over the smaller trees and foliage. Purple altheas, olive and banana trees abounded in the backyard. After a summer rain, the air was filled with the sweet scent of oleander and magnolia blossoms. Bougainvillea crept up the wrought iron railings on the front and side gallery, threatening to take over.

  I felt the comfort of being home again and could not imagine living anywhere else but this languid and romantic town. I loved the old-world charm and sophistication of New Orleans, the fusion of decadence and decay. A feeling of tranquility stole over me every time I heard the dull roar of the streetcar blocks away on St. Charles Avenue. Many evenings I spent on my porch swing with my whiskey, watching mosquitoes and dragonflies dance around the gaslights.

  I loved even the upturned sidewalks, the denizens that threatened their way from the Warehouse District, through the old Irish Channel, into our private, haunting world, and the secretive thrill every time a hurricane passed too close to the city.

  The milieu of the French Quarter never threatened to become bland, despite the tourist crowds. As a college student, I sat in Jackson Square for hours on end, in the grass or on the benches by the statue of Andrew Jackson, studying for mid-terms and writing my senior thesis.

  All around me, people lived their lives steeped in tradition. Catholic celebrations and feasts all year long, in the only remaining active Catholic city in the United States. Whether it was the cycle of the sugarcane crops, or the inexhaustible weeks of the Carnival Season which began with Twelfth Night and ended with forty days of Lent, my world lived, breathed, and existed on the traditions that were our very foundation.

  In the midst of all this, sat my home, among the moldering mansions with their sprawling deeply-shadowed gardens. Some structures threatening to return to the earth, others boasting their strength and looming unchallenged, but all Gothic and seductive and decadent and beautiful.

  Being home had a calming effect on me. The familiarity, and traditions I loved, would envelop me back into their embrace and provide the comfort I needed.

  11- Oz

  Oz Reminisces…

  It was summer again, and that meant the annual Ophélie estate audit.

  Written as a codicil to his will, the original Charles Deschanel decreed that, in order for the family to maintain ongoing residence, an audit was to be done annually. Anything which had fallen into any kind of disrepair was to be repaired at once. Updates on the property were to be sent to the local historical societies for updating of their literature. Charles recognized the longevity of Ophélie, and made proper arrangements to ensure everyone–family, public, historians–continued to benefit from its existence. While doubtful this would legally hold up today, the current Deschanels complied willingly because they also desired to preserve their heritage.

  Of course, this was no job for a top attorney at the firm. And so, with formal auditors running high charges on such a large property, it dawned on my father I could take on this daunting task. I used a pre-made form to audit the property, and then turned it over to the official appraisers to finish. I did this every summer for years, even after I graduated and went to college.

  Auditing the entire property, from the house to remaining outbuildings, took just under a week, and so during this time I stayed with Nicolas in the garçonierre. At nineteen, the separation provided privacy to do things the adult figures might not approve of.

  Adrienne was home from private school for the summer, but she was the furthest thing from my mind. I barely noticed her. At fourteen, she was not at all the woman she would be at sixteen. Or if she was, I didn’t take the time to notice it.

  Finally over Anasofiya, I was now completely enamored with Giselle Deschanel, and it was seeing her that made the audit worthwhile.

  The garçonierre was almost entirely self-sufficient, and had living space for several people if needed. I slept on the lower floor, while the upper floor served almost entirely as Nicolas’ bedroom.

  I was preparing to sleep when Nicolas came in. I sensed his tension from across the room, but asked the perfunctory question anyway.

  “No, everything is not okay.” He walked to the small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. Using the countertop to open it, he then flipped the metal lid into the sink. “Ozzy, don’t pretend you are not fully aware of how severely fucked up my family is.”

  “Uh… no comment?” I responded. I was nearly part of the family, myself.

  He sat the beer down on the counter and turned to face me. “So, that man decided Adrienne needs to go back to Europe tomorrow, not end of summer. Tomorrow! She just got home two days ago!” Nicolas had referred to his father as “that man” as long as I'd known him. The relationship had always been fractured. Unlike everyone else, who believed Cordelia had always been a bitch, Nicolas seemed to think his father made her that way. He persisted to believe the best in her.

  “Honestly, Nic, why do you care when she goes back?” It wasn’t like they were close. Nic was more attached to Anasofiya, his cousin.

  He took another drink of beer, then swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because it isn’t about her, Ozzy. It’s about him, and his attempts to control everything. Nat, Giselle, and Lucie have always been subservient. Sure, he doesn’t know Giselle is a slut, or that Nathalie rolls her eyes when he turns his back, or how Lucie waits for him to shut up and then looks to Nathalie for direction. They don’t let him see it. Adrienne has always been very forthright, and she’s made it clear from the time she was old enough to talk that no one could control her.”

  I thought about this, and realized it was probably true. All of my memories of Adrienne were very colorful. She liked the things she liked because she liked them, not because anyone else did. I often saw her talk back to her father, where the other girls would agree with him and then go off and do as they pleased.

  “What about you? He doesn’t seem to care what you do,” I asked.

  Nicolas laughed bitterly. “Me? You know he’s never given a fuck about me. As soon as he had his way with the maid, he pushed me and my mother aside.” He finished his beer and went for another. “So yeah, you’re right. He doesn’t care.”

  “I don’t get it. Why is he sending her back? Did she piss him off?” I probed, trying to make sense of the decision, and Nicolas' response.

  He shook his head. “You remember why she was sent away in the first place, right?” I nodded. The Incident. “She told him today she didn’t want to go back, and that she felt safe now.”

  “Okayyyy… so?”

  “So then, he told her he didn’t want to guess on her safety. She said he was overreacting like he does about everything when it comes to her. That, if he was concerned, he could have sent her to Baton Rouge, or somewhere in this country, but Brussels felt like punishment. Then she speculated aloud, in front of everyone at dinner, he was punishing her for his own inadequacies at being unable to stop the lunatic.

  “That pretty much did it rig
ht there. If you could have seen the look on his face! He told her to apologize, and you know she didn’t. Backed into a corner, our patriarch announced he was planning on making it a surprise that she could stay home, but it was apparent she was as impulsive and impetuous as ever, so for her own safety, she would stay in Brussels until she graduated and could better make her own decisions.”

  I felt bad for Adrienne. What happened to her hadn’t been her fault, yet she was shipped away from her whole family. I could see why she thought of it as punishment. I used to wonder why she didn’t do as her sisters did, purposely deceiving their father into his sense of complacent control over their lives. Later, I understood. Adrienne was honest about everything, even if it meant hurting herself, or others. She wouldn’t sacrifice her ideology in order to get away with something.

  “So now what?”

  “Now I go to bed. When will you be finished with the audit?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I guessed. “Why?”

  “There’s a pub crawl in the Quarter tomorrow night. I could use some refreshment. You in?” The bars in New Orleans rarely carded anymore, but Nicolas had procured us some fake I.D.s just in case.

  “Cool.”

  He threw his last beer bottle in the garbage next to the fridge and let out a ferocious belch. “Night, Ozzy.”

  Charles was notoriously late for every meal, so I thought I could catch him in his office to update him on the audit status.

  When I approached his door, I heard voices inside and decided to come back later. As I turned away, I heard something shatter inside the room, and I stopped.

  “Send all of them away? Are you mad, woman?” Charles’ voice screamed at someone, whom I rightly presumed was Cordelia.