The Legacy

by Shirley Jump

  “I’m a stubborn man myself.”

  “That’s what I thought—till I met my Celeste.” The old man chuckled, then grabbed a pipe out of the back pocket of his jeans and headed toward the back veranda. Even from where Paul stood, he could see the dark bayou waters making their sluggish journey past the property.

  He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. The rugged, roomy backpack had served him well in deserts, rain forests and dirt huts. A dozen interior compartments protected his camera equipment, yet left enough room for a couple days’ worth of clothes and a twelve-inch iBook. After years of carrying the same pack, he’d gotten used to the fifty or so pounds on his shoulder, along with the flexibility of just one bag.

  Paul crossed the lobby and headed up the stairs, but before he could reach the top, his cell phone started to ring. If he was lucky, it was Joe, his editor at World, calling with some hot assignment that would give Paul an excuse to leave this whole opera house mess behind. “Hello?”

  “Paul?” His sister Faye’s voice, always a welcome sound. “Where the heck are you? I can barely hear you.”

  “Stuck in the swamp. Or, rather, what looks like a swamp.” Entering his room, he shut the door behind him. “I’m in Indigo, Louisiana.”

  “What on earth are you doing there?”

  “Remember that piece of property Uncle Neil left me?” It was a rhetorical question, since his sister had been at the reading of the will. She’d inherited a bunch of furniture and he’d been stuck with a monument. “God only knows why he did, considering I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him over the years.”

  “He was the hermit type,” Faye conceded. “Gee, who does that remind me of?”

  Paul was a nomad, not a hermit. Two totally different creatures. Sort of. “Anyway, I’m down here to sell that opera house he left me. After that, I’m planning on heading to Tibet for a spec piece for the New Yorker.”

  “I thought you didn’t have to do that one until November.”

  Damn Faye’s memory. “I thought I’d go a little early. Rack up some brownie points with the new senior editor.”

  His sister sighed. “Are you ever coming home?”

  “I don’t have a home. I gave it to Diane in the divorce, remember?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean,” she said, the younger-sister annoyance still in her voice. “I mean here. Cape Breton. Paul, I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “When? You blow in and out like a storm. No warning, no hanging around. John and I love having you stay here, as long as you’re doing it because you want to see your family, not because we’re a convenient flophouse.”

  “Faye, you know that with my job—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She inhaled a breath, and in the background, he could hear her baby start to cry, a little girl he’d only seen in photos. “You know…” she said, pausing as an idea took root, something Paul could almost hear across the phone line. “I think you should hold on to the opera house. Don’t you remember all those stories the aunts would tell us about the Valois ancestors? That place is practically part of the family. It might be neat—”

  “We never had a real family, Faye. Hell, Dad was gone so much he was more of a stranger than a father. And Mom—” He left off the rest of the sentence. Faye had lived the story. Their mother, too overwhelmed by her nearly single-parent role, had spent her days with soap operas and wine, leaving Paul to raise Faye.

  Paul could only thank God that Faye had turned out better than he had. At least Faye had settled down, married a good man and was, as far as Paul was concerned, a nominee for Mom of the Year, the way she doted on her baby. “Besides, I don’t see the point in keeping something that’s only going to cost me in taxes and upkeep.”

  “This opera house could be the beginning of a life, Paul, a real one. Something you hold on to for more than five minutes. After that, you can work your way up to a couple kids and a dog.”

  “Nah, I’ll just borrow yours.”

  “The point is to start something, Paul,” she went on, ignoring his attempts to deflect the conversation with a joke. “Now, before you’re too old and you look back and realize you’re all alone.” Her voice softened with concern. “You can’t wander the world forever.”

  “I was married once.”

  “So was half of Hollywood. I think you just barely beat the stars in longevity.”

  He scowled. His marriage had lasted a good year and a half. He’d tried, she’d tried, but in the end, meshing the life of a constant traveler with that of a homebody simply hadn’t worked. Diane had been a good woman, but not the right woman. Theirs had been an impetuous youthful mistake, one he regretted, if only because Diane had been caught in the crossfire. “I’m fine the way I am. And might I remind you, I’m also older than you. So I don’t need a lecture.”

  “Yes you do, at least until you give me some nieces and nephews to spoil.” She laughed.

  He tossed the backpack on his bed. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Not when it comes to my brother, no,” Faye assured him. “So please, just for me, reconsider selling.”

  The cell phone crackled and static filled the line for a few seconds. “I’m starting to lose you, Faye—I’ll call you later,” Paul said, making no promises about legacies and especially none about producing nieces and nephews.

  Faye, he knew, was only speaking out of love. She just didn’t understand. He wasn’t the kind of man who could put down roots and stay long enough to watch them grow into trees. He’d seen so many Capers do that, refusing to leave their island home. They stayed, even as jobs dried up, futures were lost. To Paul, that kind of stubbornness equaled foolishness. He had left home as soon as he’d finished high school. Since that day, he’d been on the road, unattached. And he was happy that way.

  Which was exactly why he didn’t need to own a piece of property in a sweaty, swampy town he never planned on visiting again.

  Within two minutes he had himself unpacked. His cell phone and laptop were connected to their respective chargers, his toothbrush was on the bathroom counter and his bag sat on the floor of the closet, right by the door. He liked to be able to grab and go, with no worries about leaving something forgotten in a drawer.

  When he was done, he put the current thriller he was reading on the nightstand and lay down on the four-poster. Immediately his body sank into the featherbed. The mattress was as close to sleeping on a cloud as a man could get. A little slice of heaven in the hot room. Paul unlaced his shoes then kicked them off. They landed on the floor with a hard thud.

  Even with the French doors open to the veranda, the room was still warm, the breeze more of a whisper than a real wind. Still, he had to admit, the room was nice. An antique light fixture, made up of several tulip-shaped glass shades. The walls were white, the trim and floorboard wood-dark. The quilt—something he thought might be called a coverlet—was white, the pillows pink. Two small antique reproduction chairs flanked a dresser, complete with an ornate mirror and water pitcher. If he closed his eyes, he could easily believe he had stepped back in time, at least a hundred years.

  There was a knock at his door, followed quickly by another more insistent one. Paul got up to see who it was. There were none of those security peepholes in this building, which had to be nearly as old as the opera house. He pulled open the door, hoping whoever it was would go away fast.

  Marjo Savoy.

  He groaned. Not again.

  “Doc Landry downstairs was right,” Paul said.

  “Right? About what?”

  “You are as persistent as a tick on a hound dog.”

  He saw her bite back a retort, then suck in a breath. “I’m here to make peace.”

  “Peace, eh?” He arched a brow.

  “Well, sort of. I want to ask you to dinner.”

  For a second, the idea of going to dinner with the fiery Marjo intrigued him, but then he realized she wasn’t here
to ask him on a date. “So you can introduce me to the local gumbo, or sell me on the idea of keeping the opera house? Sorry. Not interested.”

  She parked a fist on her hips. “You’re a photographer, right? For World magazine?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Nothing stays a secret in the bayou. Soon as Slim Broussard’s wife saw a car she didn’t recognize driving around town, she was working the phone chain, finding out who you were.”

  “Well, I won’t be here long enough to make the society pages, I assure you.”

  She didn’t listen. “In your job, what do you take pictures of?”

  The question caught him off guard. “People, mostly. I’ve done pieces on a reindeer herder tribe in Siberia, an Incan mummy, modern-day pirates.”

  “Stories, you mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then meet me at the Blue Moon Diner at five o’clock and I’ll tell you a story that will change your mind about leaving.”

  He put up a hand. “I really—”

  “I’ll be there. And if you’re not, I’ll find you. Doc Landry forgot to mention that I also have the tracking ability of a hound dog.” She tossed him a grin, then left, leaving Paul wondering what the hell had just transpired.

  And how a woman like that could run roughshod over him so easily.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FIVE O’CLOCK came and went. Five-fifteen. Five-twenty. The waitress at the Blue Moon Diner finally stopped asking Marjo if she wanted to order and left her alone, except for the occasional ice-water refill. Marjo waited, patiently—well, as patiently as she could, considering she wasn’t sure she possessed the patience gene—for Paul Clermont to show.

  Earlier that Sunday afternoon she’d gone to work at the funeral home. There’d been no appointments, no funerals in progress, so she’d had a few minutes to get some work done and to also go online. She’d typed Paul Clermont’s name into Google, trying to find out who she was up against. Marjo was a woman who liked to be prepared, who wanted to know the odds—so she could beat them.

  What she’d seen had impressed her. Paul Clermont’s photos were more than just visual records. He captured the spirit—maybe even the soul—of his subjects. She felt as if she were part of his pictures, in the wilds of New Zealand, the refugee camps of Africa, the Appalachians of West Virginia. Surely the man who had photographed a rare albino gorilla in the Congo and a hidden pyramid chamber in Egypt could have some understanding of the historical importance of the Indigo Opera House.

  And if he couldn’t, well, she’d have to tie him up and keep him hostage in her back bedroom until he did.

  At five twenty-five, Paul entered the Blue Moon, looking so darn handsome she had to hate him on principle. He paused a moment in the doorway, framed by the setting October sun, which burnished his dark hair with gold. He had the broad shoulders and narrow waist that were mandatory requirements for any hero.

  A man who was determined to upset her best plans shouldn’t look that good. He should be Quasimodo’s twin, so that she wouldn’t feel her heart skip a beat whenever she looked at him.

  Her gaze caught his, and for a second she forgot the purpose for this meeting. How long had it been since she’d gone out on a date? Been attracted to someone to the point where she had trouble remembering her own name?

  As he approached, a charge detonated inside her gut. Mon Dieu, her own body was staging a mutiny. The trouble was, her mind wasn’t sending out any complaints.

  She’d never met a man quite like him. Most of the men around Indigo had been worn down by the hard work that living in the bayou demanded—the shrimping, the fishing, the constant worrying about keeping up with the bills and keeping ahead of the water, which seemed to slip in and erode more of the land along the bayou every year.

  Marjo wanted to preserve every inch of Indigo, cast it in bronze and show the world this special, incredible place.

  For that, she needed Paul Clermont’s cooperation. She silenced her hormones and crossed her hands on the table in her getting-down-to-business position.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, stopping beside the table. He had one hand behind his back, and when he brought it forward, she saw he was holding a bright bouquet of camellias. “And I’m sorry for being disagreeable earlier.”

  A flush of surprise filled her as she accepted the bouquet, marveling over the rich color of a pair of Kramer’s Supreme variety, the pale hues of a Pink Perfection, as well as a couple High Fragrance varieties, which added a sweet scent to the bunched flowers. She inhaled, a grin spreading across her face, even as she tried to ignore how the flowers had made her anger at him melt away. “You’re forgiven.”

  “Good.” He smiled, too, and slid into the seat across from her.

  She fingered one of the silky blooms. “Did someone tell you these are my favorites?”

  “No, it was a wild guess. Apparently a few things do stay secret in the bayou.”

  She laughed, then breathed in a second whiff of the blooms. “My mother planted these all around our house,” Marjo said softly. “I love camellias because they remind me of her.” Unexpected tears rushed to her eyes. She blinked them away. Why was she getting so emotional now?

  “Did she die?” Paul asked, his voice quiet and gentle.

  Marjo nodded, still touching the velvety petals of the flower. “In a car accident, with my father, when I was nineteen.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and she had no doubt he was being sincere.

  “Thank you.” She cleared her throat, ridding it of a sudden sentimental lump. “Anyway, let’s get down to business.”

  “I do have an excuse for being late, by the way,” Paul said. “I started taking pictures of La Petite Maison, because the light at this time of day was too good to pass up, and I lost track of time. And again, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Is that an occupational hazard?” she teased, the flowers having lightened her mood considerably.

  “It is. And a real problem when the last ferry has already left or you missed your plane out of Zimbabwe.” The smile on his face was far too attractive. It was the kind of smile that asked a woman to open up, to trust him, to take this beyond a simple conversation. For a moment she considered doing just that, forgetting her reason for being here and just talking to him as a woman talked to a man.

  A little selfish indulgence.

  The waitress came over and deposited a menu in front of him, but he didn’t open it.

  Marjo suppressed the attraction building inside her. “Aren’t you going to order?”

  “Are you sure you won’t have them poison my food? A little salmonella for the enemy?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” She laughed. “Maybe next time.”

  He arched a brow. “Remind me never to let you cook for me.”

  The words whispered an innuendo, a hint of them spending more time together, and a need that had gone unanswered for too long now made itself known.

  An image came to mind of Paul Clermont in her bed, his long, lean body curling around hers.

  She’d been alone for such a long time, playing the role of mother, head of the household, business owner, but not woman. And definitely not a woman who put her own needs high on the priority list. What would it be like to do that? Just for one night?

  Whoa, that wasn’t why she was here. She grabbed the other menu and read the day’s specials again, even though she’d figured out ten minutes ago what she wanted to eat.

  “What do you recommend?” Paul asked.

  “Well, if you’re adventurous, there’s the alligator special.” She gestured toward the stuffed alligator head hanging over the lunch counter, then laughed at the face he made. “If you’re more traditional, Estelle makes the best gumbo and turtle soup in the world. It’s her specialty.” She lowered her voice and cupped a hand around her mouth, knowing how easily even a whisper could travel in this town. “It’s even better than my tante Julia’s, but don’t tell anyone I tol
d you so.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” He smiled at her, and the electrical charges she’d felt before ratcheted up, increasing her appetite for something other than the Blue Moon’s Sunday night special.

  When their waitress returned with two icy glasses of tea, Paul took her suggestion and ordered the soup. Marjo opted for the same. Once they were alone again, she tucked the flowers into the space beside her, then began. “I promised you a story.”

  “About the opera house?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll tell that one now,” she said, changing her plan. Although he seemed interested, she was afraid that if she told him the opera house’s history today, it would still be too easy for him to walk away. Rather, she wanted to foster in him the same love for Indigo that she had, starting with the story that had long ago ignited her own curiosity. “Instead, I want to tell you about La Petite Maison.”

  “The bed-and-breakfast?”

  She nodded. “Their histories are intertwined, like most everything around here. The land was owned by Alexandre Valois and was just one of many properties he built in Indigo in the early 1800s.” She paused as the waitress deposited the generous bowls of soup in front of them. “Alexandre had a manservant who worked for him, a man by the name of Charles Baptiste. Charles was loyal to the core and had been with Alexandre since he was a baby. From what I’ve read in Alexandre’s papers, it was clear Charles would have done anything for the boy he’d pretty much raised into a man. Alexandre’s parents were distant, more the type that had children to carry on the family name, but little else.”

  “There are still people that do that—leave the raising of their kids to someone else,” Paul said, giving Marjo the feeling that perhaps his childhood had been less than ideal.

  She left that issue alone. “Shortly before Alexandre got married, Charles fell ill. So ill, he became bedridden and couldn’t serve Alexandre anymore.”