The Legacy

by Shirley Jump

  Either way, these were crazy thoughts. He must have inhaled too many paint fumes. But as he made his way over to one of the tables that had been set up in the lobby, he knew that wasn’t the case.

  Paul pushed the thoughts away. Regardless of what might be happening—or not—between him and Marjo Savoy, he had a job to get back to. A job that would send him far from Indigo.

  He put his camera in his backpack, then took a seat at the table where he’d left his food. Immediately, several residents joined him, greeting him by name and making small talk about the weather and local news. Given their friendliness, it felt as if he’d lived here all his life. Even people he hadn’t been introduced to treated him like one of their own.

  Alain slid into the seat beside him. “See you’ve made some friends.”

  “I don’t know half the people sitting at this table,” Paul admitted under his breath. “Yet it feels like a family reunion. A lot like Cape Breton. This morning, before I could even get into my car, three people were offering me a ride over to the opera house.”

  Alain grinned. “A Cajun man will give you the hat off his head in August.”

  Paul looked around the room and decided that Alain was right. These people were like his family back home. Raucous uncles and food-bearing aunts included everyone in the party, blood relative or not.

  Maybe he saw similarities to his home in this place because he wasn’t here on assignment and hadn’t kept a professional distance. He’d allowed himself to blend with the community.

  Before he knew it, he’d be buying a raised cottage and tending to cypress trees in the backyard. Once before he’d fooled himself into thinking he was the kind of man who should put down roots.

  And only a true fool made that same mistake twice.

  “My wife felt bad she couldn’t be here,” Alain said. “She’s been having a lot of trouble with her first trimester. Exhaustion, morning sickness. Doc Landry ordered her to spend some time in bed, but she’s a stubborn woman. I practically had to take away her shoes to keep her home because she wanted to help so bad. Sophie’s one determined woman.”

  “Sounds like Marjo,” Paul said before he could stop himself.

  “Do I detect a little something between you and our resident funeral director?”

  “No,” Paul replied. “I’ve just been working with her a lot on this project.”

  “Uh-huh.” Alain gave him an I-don’t-believe-you nod. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

  “I don’t have any plans.” Marjo had been distant all day, making it clear there wasn’t going to be a repeat of yesterday’s kiss, which left a long evening stretching ahead of him, with just his camera and his laptop for company. A week ago, that would have been just fine, but lately he’d found himself craving company. Friendship.

  It must be a case of bayou blues, Paul thought. A temporary state, gone as soon as Indigo was a dot on the horizon.

  “Good,” Alain said. “Come on by Skeeter’s, the bar around the corner from the town hall. The Indigo Boneshakers have asked me to fill in for their fiddler tonight.” Alain laughed. “Apparently he went a little overboard on some crawfish and beer last night and isn’t up to playing anything but a porcelain bowl. They said they’d love a second fiddle, if I knew another player.”

  “I take it that’s a hint?” Paul asked, grinning.

  “Even better, a summons, from the chief of police at that.”

  “Sure,” Paul agreed. “I’ll be by. I can’t join you, though. I don’t have a fiddle with me.”

  “I’ll bring you one of my extras after we get done here today, along with some of the music we’re playing tonight. That’ll give you a couple hours to practice. The Boneshakers have a CD they’re planning on selling at the CajunFest. That’ll be the quickest way for you to get up to speed.” Alain leaned closer and gestured with his hunk of bread toward Marjo, who had sat down two tables away from him, with Cally and Gabriel. “And I think you should get Marjo to come along, too. Half of Indigo has been trying to talk her into singing in the CajunFest, including me. I’m in charge of booking all the acts for that day, but she won’t do it. She’s as stubborn as an alligator waiting for a dove to fly into its mouth.”

  Paul watched her, laughing at something Cally had said, and wished she’d turn that smile on him. “I’ll talk to her, though I doubt I’ll be much of an influence.” Hell, she clearly didn’t even want to sit with him at lunch. She’d maintained a friendly distance all day, as if she regretted what had happened between them.

  He turned from thoughts of Marjo and enjoyed his lunch with Alain, comparing notes about fiddling techniques. The rest of the day was much the same—hard work but fun. The residents of Indigo pitched in alongside the carpenters that Paul had hired, and the lobby and the auditorium seemed to transform. Chairs were repaired or replaced, wood was polished to its original luster. The space sparkled and gleamed.

  Marjo continued to avoid Paul, choosing to work as far away from him as she could.

  He should have been pleased. He had, after all, told himself a hundred times that he was leaving. That he wanted no ties to this place. Once the opera house repairs were well under way, he’d go. Another day, maybe two.

  But when the crews knocked off for the day and he saw Marjo striding out the door, he forgot all those plans and ran after her, catching up to her on the outside steps. “Are you interested in hearing a really bad fiddler try to pretend he knows what he’s doing?”

  She laughed, and Paul realized he had missed the sound. “And that rusty fiddler, I take it, is you?”

  He nodded. “Alain wants me to come down to Skeeter’s tonight and play with the Indigo Boneshakers. Their regular fiddler is sick.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Alain and his group are great guys.” The words were polite but dismissive. Once again, Paul wondered what had made Marjo back away.

  “Come with me,” he said before he could stop himself. “It’ll be nice to have a friendly face there. And…you could sing.”

  She shook her head before he finished the sentence, already rejecting the idea. “For one, I’m not singing in public. You’re not the only one who’s rusty.” When she gave him a self-effacing smile, he had the distinct feeling she was only making an excuse. “And for another, I can’t go tonight. I have work to do.”

  “You always say you have work to do.” He leaned against one of the pillars and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting as two men lumbered down the stairs, making plans for a late-night catfishing trip. “Are you avoiding me?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then prove it,” he said, moving forward and reaching up to catch an escaped tendril of her hair. “Ah, Marjo, I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

  “Touch my hair?”

  “No, this.” He cupped her jaw with his hand and placed a kiss on her lips. A short, sweet kiss, nowhere near what he really wanted to do. “Meet me tonight. Please.”

  She watched him for a long, quiet moment, and in her eyes he saw the icy wall she’d erected that day melt, inch by inch, and give way to the simmering attraction between them. “Maybe.” A flirty smile flitted across her face just before she turned away.

  As he watched Marjo leave, Paul knew he’d forgotten one thing in his plan for a quick getaway. To leave his heart by the door, too.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MARJO ENTERED Skeeter’s that night, caught up in the crowd that had gathered to hear the police chief show off his fiddling talent. In all her years of living in Indigo she’d never seen the bar this busy. Perhaps it was an extension of the upbeat mood in the opera house today, as if all of Indigo had been revitalized along with the opera house. She greeted a few people she knew, but lingered inside the door, Cally at her side.

  Alain, the members of the Indigo Boneshakers and Paul were all up on the stage, tuning their instruments while a jukebox pumped a catchy zydeco tune through the sound system. From across the room, she saw Paul scan the crowd, then catch her ey
e, as if he’d been searching just for her. He smiled and a quiver rushed through her veins.

  Oh, boy. There went her resolution not to get tangled up in a relationship, especially with a man like Paul Clermont, who made her forget her own name. “What am I doing here?” Marjo said.

  “Watching a really hot guy play some music,” Cally answered. “A really hot single guy, I might add.”

  “No, I mean, why am I getting involved with him? I don’t have time or room for a relationship. I have other priorities.”

  “Priorities that exclude what’s important to you?” Cally’s eyes were filled with concern. “You deserve a life, too. It’s been far too long since you’ve had one.”

  “I was engaged.”

  “That Kerry Tidwell had to be the biggest idiot this side of Bayou Teche for not seeing what a great catch you were. You and Gabriel.” The band continued tuning up, and the hum of anticipation increased in the crowd.

  “Which is exactly why I can’t fall for Paul Clermont. What man wants to take on a buy-one-get-one-free relationship?”

  “Gabriel and Paul get along just fine. I’ve seen them out by the bayou, taking pictures together. They looked like two peas in a pod. Why wouldn’t you think that Paul would understand about Gabriel?”

  Marjo sighed. She wanted to believe that, but couldn’t risk it, not again. “Because Kerry did the same thing, at least in the beginning. He was great with Gabriel, took him fishing and everything. But when it came to getting married, he didn’t want the bonus brother.”

  Two young women passed by on their way to the bar. As they did, Marjo overheard the girls debating which fiddler was cuter—Alain or Paul. A flare of jealousy rose in her chest, which she immediately tamped down. She had no claims to Paul, his fiddle or anything else about him.

  “Is that the only reason you and Kerry broke up?” Cally asked.

  “Of course it was.” But was that the truth? Or had it been a convenient excuse to avoid a marriage Marjo had never felt ready for?

  “If you ask me, there’s more to you running scared from relationships than just the Gabriel issue,” Cally said, reading her mind.

  “Hey, what about you? I don’t see you settling down and having two-point-five kids.”

  Cally waved off that idea. “Before I’m ready for anything like that, you’re going to need to call in Dr. Phil, Oprah and Jerry Springer. I’m a walking relationship disaster zone.”

  “I don’t think we have to go that far. A little yellow caution tape should be enough.”

  Cally laughed. “Let’s fix your life first, then we’ll tackle mine.”

  “Mine doesn’t need fixing. I have a life.” She did, and she liked it just fine. This recent unrest would go away, as soon as she had some downtime.

  “Marjo, nothing against the funeral home, but you spend your day with dead people.”

  Paul and Alain had picked up their fiddles and the group began to play in the tradition of Dennis McGee, performing one of the tunes he’d recorded decades ago. The police dispatcher, Billy Paul Exeter, kept up the tempo with a set of drums decorated with the band’s name and skeleton logo. People sitting at the tables clapped along and stomped their feet, clearly enjoying the show.

  Marjo, though, didn’t hear a note. From the second he started playing, the only thing she noticed was the deft fingers of Paul Clermont, working the fiddle.

  “Well, maybe my love life is a little lacking,” Marjo said to Cally, watching Paul move and feeling the same shiver of anticipation she’d felt every time she saw him. No matter what she’d just told herself, she wanted him again, wanted his kiss, wanted…more.

  “Live dangerously, Marjo. Lay it on the table, tell him how you feel. And see where that takes you.” Cally grinned. “Like into the bedroom.”

  “Tell him how I feel?”

  “Oh, please,” Cally said. “You’re half in love with him already. It’s written all over your face, plain as the stars in the sky.”

  “I am not.” Even as Marjo protested, her gut disagreed. She’d tried her best to avoid Paul, but even when she kept a physical distance between them, her mind was still focused on him. Thinking about what it would be like to kiss him again, to hear his laugh, to feel his touch.

  To wake up in the morning and see him there, filling the space in her bed and her life.

  “I should leave,” Marjo said, turning toward the door.

  Cally caught her before she could take a step. “No, you should stay and stop putting everyone in this entire damned town ahead of yourself.”

  “I do not.” But this last protest was the weakest of all.

  “Come on, let’s go grab a beer and listen to these guys. And after they play, you go play with Paul.” She winked at Marjo.

  Marjo followed Cally, but only because she loved music and wanted to support the local group. Not for any other reason at all. But as she slid into a seat at a front-row table, she knew she was kidding herself.

  She was soon caught up in the music, the magic of watching Paul send notes through the fiddle. He was good, much better than he’d said, and he had a way of fiddling and moving his hips, as if Elvis had gone Cajun. As far as Marjo was concerned, there wasn’t a single other person on that stage.

  At the end of their first set, Paul went up to Alain and whispered in his ear. Alain grinned and nodded, then grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very talented singer in our audience tonight, someone you all know. I’d like to ask Miss Marjolaine Savoy to come on up here and sing Le Pays des Etrangers.”

  “Oh, no. No, no no.” Marjo put up her hands, warding off the idea. But Cally was already pushing her out of the chair, and the crowd gathered in Skeeter’s was cheering her on. Before she could think better of it, she was climbing the stairs to the stage and accepting the microphone from Alain.

  It had been more than sixteen years since she’d held a microphone or sung in anything more public than a church pew. The metal felt strange in her hand, and yet, at the same time, like an old friend. Behind her, the band waited for her signal.

  She took in a breath, faced the crowd and then closed her eyes. With a tremor in her voice, she sang the first few words of the song, then, as the band picked up her cue and added the melody, her voice gained in strength and confidence. She opened her eyes, and the song burst from her lungs like a bird held too long in a cage.

  The notes sang through her heart, harmonized with the beat of her pulse, becoming one with her as always in the past. Joy soared inside her, as powerful as a tidal wave. Too soon, the song was done and the sound of applause shattered the quiet in the room.

  “Another!” someone shouted.

  “Come on, Marjo, one more!”

  “Your audience wants a full performance,” Paul whispered in her ear. “Don’t disappoint them.”

  She turned and grinned at him. In his eyes, she saw a reflection of the same pride that had risen in her chest. He was happy for her, that was clear. “Do you think you can keep up with me?”

  “I can handle anything you throw my way, Miss Savoy.”

  Marjo turned and whispered the name of a fast-paced zydeco tune to the band. Billy Paul nodded, then went at his drums with fervor. Marjo smile and danced a bit as the song took root, then she began to sing. Paul gave her a teasing look and moved up beside her, his body bending and swaying with the movements of his bow.

  Three songs later, the band broke for a break. Alain thanked Paul for joining them and offered to buy him a beer. Marjo sent a wave Cally’s way. Her friend had cozied up with Billy Paul in the corner, apparently deciding the love life advice applied to her, too.

  What had happened on that stage had been magical. Wonderful. But it was also a huge mistake.

  Singing onstage had only reminded her of the dream she’d long ago given up. But she couldn’t run off and pursue an impossible dream.

  She pushed on the door and exited Skeeter’s before she could change her mind about staying. Singing another song,
with Paul by her side.

  “That was amazing.” Paul said, catching up with her. “You were amazing. You got everyone dancing and really charged up the place.”

  She shrugged as if it was nothing, but, still, a tiny measure of pride grew in her chest. “It was fun.”

  Paul cupped his hand over his ear. “Is that you saying I was right?”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “A little.”

  “Then does that mean I can walk you home?”

  The gentlemanly question touched a soft place in her heart. Hadn’t she just told Cally she wasn’t going to pursue anything with this man?

  Yes, she knew better, but for the first time in her life, she was tired of doing what was right, what was expected, what was better for all concerned. Instead, she decided to do what she used to do when she’d been younger and hadn’t had all these worries crowding her shoulders like crows on a telephone line—she would go by the seat of her pants and take the opportunity that was walking right beside her. “Sure. I’d like it if you did.”

  The temperature had dropped a few degrees and she tugged her sweater tighter over her shoulders. Paul wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his warmth. She thought of protesting, but it felt so good.

  It was just one more sweet gesture. Cally was right.

  Marjo was falling for Paul. And falling really hard.

  They strolled along the street, not saying anything for a long while, just enjoying the subdued, ebony-cloaked version of Indigo. In that quiet, the attraction that had been simmering between them for days began to multiply.

  What would it hurt to extend this moment? Paul would be leaving town soon. Off to Tibet or Timbuktu, leaving her with only a few memories. Why not add one more to the pile? One more kiss?

  “Would you like to come in for a glass of wine?” she asked when they reached her house.

  “I’d like that,” he said. He followed her up the stairs, his hand in hers—when they had started holding hands, she didn’t know, but wasn’t about to let go—and then into the house and down the hall to the kitchen.