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

by Sarah M. Cradit

  “Oz,” she sniffed, “don’t let him do this. Don’t let my father do this. Please.”

  “I won’t. Adrienne, please don’t cry. I won’t ever let him come between us.” She was the little girl again, the child I had no right to be with, and I didn't know the words she needed to hear. All I knew was misery, and that I could not bear the thought of losing her.

  Adrienne stopped crying abruptly. I heard her take a deep breath before blowing her nose. She seemed decisive, even from the other end of the phone. “It’s going to be okay. Somehow. It really, really is.”

  I could sense in her words this morning had been the end of something. I hoped it also marked a new beginning.

  20- Oz

  "I guess we should go back,” Adrienne said, as she stepped away from the bar. She spoke in flat monosyllables, as if her mind was elsewhere. Her voice, her energy and warmth, seemed distant, a lifetime away instead of the few feet she now stood.

  “We might as well,” I agreed.

  The following day, I decided to take Adrienne to the jazz brunch at Commander’s Palace. We were both hungry and it seemed a natural fit for a Sunday afternoon.

  On the way there, I took her through Lafayette Cemetary No. 1 where my family’s tomb was. I showed her the names of my ancestors, moving through them with little anecdotes.

  “Aidan O’Súilleabháin, he was the one who started the firm, started it all,” I told her. She ran her finger over the carved marble lettering. “Here is his son Liam. Liam was the only male to survive the Civil War. He married his cousin Megan McDermott to sustain the family’s blood line.” I stopped. She had written the paper on this; she should already know what I was saying. But of course, she didn’t, how could she?

  “That’s lovely. Áine Kavanagh,” she said reverently.

  “She was Aidan’s wife, also his cousin.” I laughed. “The only incest in the family goes back far enough not to make me too nervous. Besides, everyone married their cousins back then, right?”

  She flashed me a humoring look, but it was so natural it put me back at ease. When I remembered there were several Deschanel plots in Lafayette as well, I steered her toward Commander’s, across the street.

  The tuxedo-clad host seated us in a corner, close enough to the jazz band to hear the music, but far enough away for us to hear ourselves. Adrienne was in a splendid mood, the best she had been in the whole visit. Her happy disposition, the congenial atmosphere, and nice weather all brought me to a conclusion, one I should have come to a week ago: I was being unfair to her.

  Adrienne smiled and asked what I was going to order. I recommended the traditional brunch with quail as a main course, and their famous bread pudding soufflé for dessert.

  “If all else fails, ask the expert,” she said agreeably, folding her menu and placing it on top of mine.

  Somewhere between the salad and appetizer I found my courage. Adrienne had come to New Orleans for one reason: answers. I had given her none, yet she remained here, patiently wasting her time on silly distractions. Why?

  I felt my heart shift for her then, the first real emotion since seeing her; something like pity only fonder. I wanted to help her, wanted to give her whatever was needed to undo the accident, and years in the swamp, so she could be herself.

  Adrienne seemed to sense my distress. She smiled at me and politely asked again about my family's emigration from Ireland.

  “Actually, I was hoping we could talk about you,” I offered and gauged her reaction. She was surprised, as I expected she would be, but pleasantly so.

  She fumbled with her napkin. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” I assured her. “I’ll be honest with you, I haven’t much thought about this, at least not clearly, so I don’t know where to begin. Except, there is one thing that has been bothering me ever since you resurfaced.”

  Adrienne tilted her head slightly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “What?’

  “The family you were staying with... the Fontaines, right?” She nodded. “Well, what I can’t seem to understand is why they never told you anything about your past? Why did they allow you to live there, oblivious for over three years, when they knew?” I spoke the way she always did, in earnest. I knew her well enough to know it would not offend her. I hoped.

  “They didn’t know.”

  “It was all over the papers, Adrienne. The estate spent an unthinkable amount of money sending feelers throughout the region, including throughout Abbeville. You're telling me they heard none of that?”

  “Yes, I am. They would have told me, Oz. They're not bad people.” She dropped her eyes. “They had no idea who I was.”

  “I did some research on Angelique Fontaine and she is very well-respected in her community. We spent time in Abbeville, questioning people there. She couldn’t have been totally unaware.” I stopped, mentally kicking myself. This isn’t where I should have begun. I didn’t want to upset her. The intention had been to make her comfortable with talking about herself so I could in turn become comfortable with talking about her. All this debate was doing was making her defensive. I saw it coming before she did.

  “Oz, I don’t know anything about that,” she said and drew a deep breath. The waiter brought the appetizer, an egg sardou, and Adrienne offered him a pleasant smile before turning back to me. “Angelique has been suffering from illness for quite some time. I don’t really want to go into it, but suffice to say, I don’t believe she has intentionally withheld information from me.”

  “A lot of people use illness as a scapegoat, Adrienne.” I pushed on, despite the growing agitation spreading across her face. I hated to upset her, but I worried if I didn’t get the questions out now, I never would. “All I am saying is, it seems suspicious she knew nothing. Especially in light of the money and effort we put into finding you, and the considerable time we spent in a region where she is an important figure.”

  The heat rose in her face as she clutched her napkin. “Are you suddenly the expert on Fontaine affairs? What business is it of yours where Angelique spends her time? You sit there, and in two minutes, speak such accusing words against her, the woman who kept me and protected me when I almost died. Saved my life! How dare you!”

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me, forget I ever brought this up.” I tried to pacify her rising temper but knew it might be too late. While I was positive Angelique Fontaine had hidden things from her, Adrienne was not ready to face such offenses.

  Adrienne leaned back in her chair, maintaining her steely gaze, but her eyes told me a different story. She didn’t want to be mad at me, and knew I wasn’t attacking her.

  “Tell me about Jesse,” I asked in an attempt to restart the conversation. Her eyes brightened. “How did you meet him?”

  “He was the one who saved my life after the accident. All I remember was waking, looking up, and there he was. He told me I almost drowned.”

  “In the swamp?”

  “Yes.”

  I wanted to ask her the kinds of questions I would have asked six years ago, when she was still my friend’s baby sister and held no other meaning for me; questions like, did she love him and was he good to her? But that was before I had held her, before she had lost her memory, and before I put up a wall between us in order to protect myself. Those inquiries didn’t seem appropriate now.

  “So you miss him then?” Her face changed to a dreamy state when she talked about this Jesse, the fiancée who saved her life. I supposed I should thank him.

  A blush came into her face but she didn’t drop her eyes the way most girls would. “I do miss him. The Fontaines are the only family I know.”

  Adrienne spoke those words without understanding the sadness of them. Three years ago, her life had been overflowing with love, family, and friendship. Now there was a limit to her world, and she seemed as happy as when she had everything.

  She told me how it had taken Jesse a while before he shared his feelings with her. She fell in love with him before realizing the
potential for it to happen. Although the marriage talk had only been seriously discussed recently, Anne and Angelique seemed to always assume it would happen.

  “So you two really were serious then?” I asked and it was I who dropped my eyes. Of course they were serious, they were engaged! What a dumb question, Oz. More than anything I didn’t want to sound like I was jealous of Jesse, because I wasn’t.

  “We are serious,” she corrected me. Had I said were? “Part of why I came here was for him, and for us. I wanted us to start our future off with the truth, both the good and bad. I don’t want us to have any secrets that could cause a problem down the road.”

  “You say this like it’s a sure thing,” I observed.

  “It is,” she affirmed.

  “Well, congratulations,” I said numbly and took a swallow of my Bloody Mary.

  Adrienne reached across the table for my hand, which I reluctantly let her take. “Oz, I know in my past you probably were like an older brother to me. This must be somewhat of a shock to you, my being nineteen and so young and all, but I’m old enough to know what love is, and to know when it’s the right thing. He's been devoted to me and I couldn’t ask for a more loyal husband.” Her words were harried; she desperately wanted me to understand. When I looked at her, she was the sixteen year old Adrienne again, full of life and childlike innocence. The girl who still believed one person could save the world.

  She talked of being young, but how would she react if she knew she had been prepared to take my ring at sixteen? I couldn’t tell her what was bothering me, that she had misjudged my turmoil to be that of a protective older brother rather than of a man who had once loved her to the limit of his capabilities. The fact I no longer felt this way only added to the pain I experienced upon hearing her talk about Jesse the way she had once spoken of me. This was not what I had in mind when I resolved to help her; it was, in fact, the one thing I feared would go wrong. I could not afford the heartbreak that came with Adrienne’s presence.

  I kept to myself for the rest of brunch, pretending instead to enjoy the jazz. If she sensed my deception, she said nothing. I wanted to go back to the past week, the way everything had been so carefree and none of this had mattered. I wanted to forget the reality of my current feelings and go back to how we had carried on in recent days. I was restless, Adrienne was seeking answers which would hurt us both, and she was in love with someone. Someone who was not me. I told myself I didn’t want it to be me, but yet I didn’t want it to be Jesse, either. I didn’t want it to be anyone!

  Honestly, I didn’t know what I wanted and my own indecision was the very cause for my confusion and anxiety. Adrienne patiently respected my wishes to be selfish. She had done this without judging me, and yet her selflessness was the very thing driving me crazy now.

  She finally broke the silence by asking me how I liked the bread pudding soufflé.

  “It’s marvelous,” I told her. Too wrapped in my own swirl of self-loathing, I answered her honestly and so it was a good thing she didn’t instead ask what I thought of her looming marriage.

  “I can make this,” she said. “If you want me to."

  I put on a smile and told myself it didn’t matter if she married this guy, Jesse, because she was old enough to make that decision and it was not in my power to influence her. I wouldn’t let it bother me, because I couldn’t think of a rational reason why it should, never mind that I hadn’t had a rational thought in two weeks. “That would be nice. We can go to the grocery tomorrow for the things you need.”

  She seemed pleased with my answer. We made small talk on the way back to my house; how that summer had been the hottest in years, and how Hurricane Lenny was picking up momentum and could come our direction at any moment. “They say he could be a category four at the rate he’s moving,” I remarked, mimicking the local weatherman.

  Adrienne didn’t offer anything more about Jesse, and I didn't ask. By the time we got home, it was as if he didn't exist.

  We took a walk down St. Charles at dusk, meandering the languid streets from Seventh to Napoleon amidst upturned sidewalks and flickering porch lights. A young man walking his dog smiled at us before disappearing into the crumbling wrought iron gates of his St. Charles mansion.

  The night was alive around us, from the mosquitoes dancing lazy circles about our heads, to the unassuming rumble of the distant streetcar making its way toward us. A sweet breeze came off the river, giving soft relief from the evening heat.

  We walked like this, side by side. She with her eyes half-closed, intoxicated by her surroundings; me, hands in pockets, deep in thought about nothing and everything all at once. Nothing serious consuming either of our minds, only the soft sounds of the Garden District and the luscious, deep fragrances of magnolia and jasmine after a summer rain.

  If I had ever felt more relaxed, more at peace, I could not recall it. I had always been enchanted by the stillness I felt in my home neighborhood. It was a reverent canvas on which the multitude of sights and smells lobbied to overwhelm the senses. My whole self shuddered with this feeling of being unwound. Whatever awkwardness or unease I had been experiencing since Adrienne’s arrival was momentarily put to rest. There was no one else I would have rather been with than her, for no other reason than she happened to be there.

  As we neared Napoleon Avenue, where I planned for us to turn around, Adrienne pressed her palm into mine and smiled, almost childlike in its sweetness, as if it say, it’s still early, let’s not rush.

  I smiled back, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze, as we walked on, past more of the formidable manses, as far as the sister universities and my alma mater. I broke the long-formed silence by pointing out Tulane, where I went to both undergraduate and law school.

  “Did you live on campus?” I had let go of her hand when I gestured toward the school, but it once again found hers as it fell back to my side.

  “For a short time. Your brother Nicolas and I had an apartment together in the Quarter before I bought my house.” This was the first I mentioned Nicolas in her presence, but she didn’t press me about it. It wasn’t the time to talk about the deeper issues which likely plagued both our thoughts. This moment was about us, and the peacefulness of the Southern sky, and the humid Gulf breeze.

  “This is absolutely beautiful,” she said in awe; the first either of us had ventured to voice it. It wasn’t necessary to say, but the sound of the words coming from her sultry, chocolate voice, added to the magic of the evening.

  We crossed the street, over the streetcar tracks, and under the entrance to Audubon Park. The magnolias and oaks swayed overhead in the soft breeze, bending to and fro with a comforting rustle. We found a long arm of an oak resting on the grass and Adrienne took a seat. I joined her. The branch neither bent nor bowed under our weight, so strong and old it was.

  “I could stay here, right here, for the rest of my life and need no greater happiness,” she whispered. “I could grow old on this very branch and be known for it. You could write a book about me Oz, The Woman of the Stately Oak.”

  “I’ll write it. It will be a bestseller and I’ll dedicate it to you,” I played along. I was happy to be there, so peaceful and detached from everything. I didn’t care we were being silly.

  “Make your dedication as so: To Adrienne, the girl who would be a woman one day.”

  “I’d rather be truthful and accurate. I prefer: To Adrienne, the girl who is a woman already, in more ways than she knows.”

  She closed her eyes and adjusted herself so she was lying backward, nestled into the branch. She slipped her arms behind her head, achieving a relaxed pose. “You can come visit me and bring me bread pudding soufflé every Sunday. We can talk about the weather and how close the hurricanes are.”

  “And what of Jesse?” I asked, keeping pace with her melodrama. “Won’t you be utterly lost without him?”

  “Oh, he can send me letters through you, and you can read them to me when you come to visit.” I much preferred this
casual approach to her betrothal over the one displayed in the restaurant. She seemed to know this, because she surprisingly added:

  “Besides, you’re the only man for me, my Big Hero.” She dropped her arms to her sides so they dangled down toward the ground on either side of the branch. Her voice was teasing and whimsical, but her words stopped my heart. My Big Hero. Those words, so familiar, so achingly familiar. Say it again Adrienne! Say it again and I could love you once more. Anything is possible on a night like this.

  Yet she seemed not to understand what her words meant, or that she’d ever spoken them before. She went on to talk about the trees, and the breeze, and her beloved oak, which she adopted and vowed to come visit whenever she could.

  “Promise me something, Adrienne,” I requested, as I watched her sway with the branch.

  “Yes?” She kept her eyes closed but stopped moving.

  “Promise me, when you’re back in Abbeville, and married to Jesse with your eight children, you’ll think of me and remember me the way we are right now. And when you begin to put the pieces of your past together, you’ll find I’m in it, but promise me you’ll remember only the way I am now, tonight.”

  My request was not a self-serving one. Seeing Adrienne lying on the branch with such innocence and ease, I sensed peace. That was all I ever wanted for her; to be happy, without the stress or problems that threaten the rest of us. For her to remember me as anything but the carefree friend under the stately oak would only cause her pain.

  She giggled, misunderstanding my seriousness for dramatics and said, “Oz, I shall remember only this night and forget any other moment we ever spent together. I shall forget forever our hilarious romp in the Quarter and our brunch at Commander’s!”

  I smiled at her girlishness. As she often did, Adrienne had it right. This was not a night for somber conversation and solemn vows. This was an evening for fantasy and reality to cross over and become partners. Freedom for everything that could be, to be, and for a girl of nineteen to let go and extract pleasure, and a brief respite, from what was a serious visit.