The Legacy

by Shirley Jump

  A single light burned over the kitchen sink, and the rest of the house was silent and dark, a sure sign that Gabriel was, once again, out with Darcy. Marjo pushed her worries aside. She could have a glass of wine with Paul and deal with everything else later. “Merlot? Or Chardonnay?”

  “Surprise me.”

  She poured them two glasses of Chardonnay, then pivoted away from the counter.

  “You drove me crazy up there on the stage,” Paul said, taking a step forward.

  “I thought it was my painting style that you appreciated,” she teased, holding out the goblets toward him.

  “Everything about you gets my attention.” He took the two glasses of wine from her hands, placed them on the counter then took another step forward, bringing him centimeters away from her skin, her lips.

  All she had to do was to lean forward a teeny bit and she would be in his arms again, taking what they had started in the opera house to the next level.

  Her heart began to race, her pulse thundering in her head. She wanted him in a way that almost engulfed her.

  She opened her mouth, but whatever witty thing she’d intended to say flitted away. “Paul…”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but leaned down and brushed his lips across hers, a tease of what was to come. “You drive me crazy,” he said again, “absolutely crazy.”

  His kiss was slow at first, as if he was treasuring the moment, treasuring her. When she responded with a greater pressure, the tempo picked up, as the music had earlier, going from soft and soulful to fast and heated.

  She wanted him, more than she’d ever wanted anyone. The desire nearly seared her with its intensity, the way it overpowered all rational thought.

  “Paul,” she murmured against his lips before clasping his neck and pulling him closer. She slid her tongue into his mouth, waltzing with his, driven by need, instinct. He groaned, hauling her against the hard planes of his chest, then slid his hands along her back, her hips, her buttocks, his touch both firm and gentle, making no secret of how she made him feel.

  She grasped the edge of Paul’s T-shirt and tugged it over his head, then tossed it to the side, not caring where it landed. Her palms explored his naked torso, the warmth and hardness of him intensifying the insistent want deep inside her.

  His fingers slipped between them, and with fast, nimble movements, he undid the few buttons keeping her shirt together. Every one he opened sent another wave of anticipation surging through her. With tantalizing slowness, he spread apart the two panels of fabric, revealing the lacy pink bra she wore underneath to the golden light above the sink.

  “You are…incredible, in every way,” he murmured. Then he dipped his head and trailed kisses along the nape of her neck, down her throat, teasing along the crest of her cleavage.

  She gasped and arched against him. “Paul,” was all she could say, her words lost somewhere in the drumming of her pulse.

  He slipped a finger under one of the silky pink straps, then slid it slowly to the side, taking his time, admiring her, stoking her to near fever pitch.

  Marjo ran her fingers through his hair, inhaling the scent of him, memorizing the way he felt against her. He tasted every inch of her skin, and then, when she thought she could bear it no longer, he pushed the lace to one side. A draft of cool air raced along her breast, but before she could even gasp, he drew her nipple into his mouth, sending her soaring.

  “Oh, oh, my,” Marjo said, the words jerking out of her on a moan and a breath. “Paul, I—”

  Outside, she heard the sound of tires on gravel. It took a long second before her mind made the connection, but when it did, she jerked away from Paul, clutching at her shirt and hurriedly rebuttoning it. “Gabriel. He’s home.”

  “He has really bad timing,” Paul said, grinning. He released her, grabbed his shirt off the floor then slipped it back on. By the time Gabriel entered the house, she and Paul were at opposite ends of the kitchen table, sipping wine.

  Marjo bit her lip when she noticed that Paul’s shirt was on inside-out. She could only pray her brother didn’t make the same observation.

  “Hey, Paul,” Gabriel said. “You here taking pictures?”

  Paul slid a grin Marjo’s way. “No, no pictures,” Paul said. “Not tonight.”

  “I took some.” Gabriel pulled the camera Paul had given him out of his backpack. “Wanna see?”

  “Sure.”

  Paul and her brother started a discussion about focal points and composition. Marjo picked up her wineglass and headed out to the porch, taking a seat in the rocker. The warm Indigo night wrapped its familiar comforting blanket around her.

  “Sorry about that,” Paul said as he joined her a few minutes later. “I get talking about photography, and before you know it, hours have gone by.”

  “That’s okay. I’m glad to see Gabriel having so much fun with the camera.” Paul was obviously a good influence on her brother.

  “He has an eye for it. He could apprentice under someone part-time and take some classes in photography. I think eventually he could make a good living at it.”

  Marjo didn’t want Paul encouraging Gabriel to run off on a whim. “He makes a good living already.”

  Paul started to speak, as if he was thinking of disagreeing, then stopped. “As long as he’s happy.”

  Of course Gabriel was happy. If he wasn’t, he would have said something to Marjo. Either way, she refused to entertain the thought of Gabriel becoming a photographer. He had a good job at the funeral home, one that would be there for as long as he needed it. She wasn’t going to push him into a competitive field where he could suffer rejection.

  Gabriel had had enough of that in his life, simply because he was different. She’d shielded him as much as she could, but there’d always be that one person who would say something that would put a chink in Gabriel’s gentle spirit. Marjo knew from competing in singing competitions when she was younger just how easily a few mislaid comments could destroy someone’s confidence.

  “So, how did you learn to play the fiddle?” Marjo asked, opting for a change in subject.

  “My dad taught me. It’s pretty much a family tradition in Cape Breton. My uncles would come over on the weekends and create a party out of nothing more than a fiddle and a case of beer.”

  She finished her wine, then twirled the glass in her hands. “What’s your family like?”

  “Ordinary. Two parents, a younger sister named Faye, and me. My dad worked himself half to death for too many years, but now he’s retired.”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged, then settled into the wooden chair beside hers. “Yeah.”

  He hadn’t exactly opened up a door into his soul, yet he knew almost everything there was to know about her.

  He’d kissed her, made his interest in her clear, but hadn’t done anything that would take this relationship past the superficial.

  Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? Nothing long-term. Nothing that would take her from the roots she’d worked so hard to build for herself and Gabriel. If that was so, then why did Paul’s reticence sting so badly?

  “I forgot to tell you,” Paul said, his hand slipping into hers. “There’s one condition to my support of the opera house.”

  “A condition?”

  “You sing at the festival.”

  “You can’t force me to sing just so I get the opera house support.”

  “I can and I did. With the committee’s approval, of course. In fact, it was a group idea. I spoke to Joan Bateman, who is writing the program.” He grinned, clearly pleased with his plan. “You’re already written into it, so there’s no backing out.”

  “I can’t sing—”

  “Oh, yes, you can. You proved it tonight. You gave a hell of a performance, too.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, rising and crossing to the porch railing. “It’s not that simple. I can’t just start singing again.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have resp
onsibilities, Paul.” Gabriel coming home late had been a clear reminder of where she should be directing her attentions. Paul wandered the earth with nothing more than a camera and a passport. He couldn’t possibly understand her commitment to her brother, the family business, her need to stay on solid ground instead of grasping for clouds.

  “You have an amazing voice. You shouldn’t keep it hidden away in that funeral home.”

  “Don’t talk to me about keeping things hidden away,” she said, making an effort to keep from shouting because Gabriel was within earshot, inside the house. “You’ve barely told me more than three sentences about yourself since I met you.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  She shook her head. “One thing I’ve learned in researching the histories of this town and the people who have lived here is that there is always a story to tell. Every one of us has a story.”

  “Not me. I gave you all there was. I’m divorced, I spend my days traveling all over the world, taking pictures and earning a living.”

  “That’s it, huh?” She crossed the porch until she was close enough to see the reflection of the moon in his eyes. They seemed like deep, dark pools she could lose herself in. “Why did you get divorced? Why did you sell your house? Why did you choose a job that makes you a nomad? Why—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, getting up from his chair. “Somehow this got turned around into an argument about me, when all I wanted was for you to sing in the CajunFest.”

  “And I think you have no business telling me how to live my life when you are barely living your own.”

  He stepped back, and she could see that her words had hit their mark. Immediately she wanted to take them back, to seal up that mouth that often got her into trouble. There were definitely times when speaking her mind wasn’t the best choice. “I’m sorry, Paul, I—”

  “No, you’re right.” His voice went cold and hard, as rigid as his posture. “I don’t have any business telling you what to do. Nor do I have any business owning something in this town. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looked away for a second, as if deciding something, then turned back to her. “I will honor our deal and pay for the rest of the repairs on the opera house. But when that’s done, I’ll tell Sandra to find a buyer who will agree to honor the town’s plans for the place—someone who has an appreciation for roots and legacies.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING Paul was packed and ready to go, as always, in less than a minute. He’d called the airline, arranged a flight to Nova Scotia, talked to Joe, his editor, and promised the pictures by the end of the week. Everything was set for him to leave Indigo.

  To resume his life.

  He crossed the room, exiting out the French doors and onto the veranda. The sun was just coming up over the bayou, turning the foliage from deep emerald to a bright, lively green. The golden light seemed to wash over the land, making it sparkle, as if it were a magic place.

  He shook off the feeling, then turned and reentered his room. As soon as he got on the plane, this wistful feeling would stop. He’d slip back into work mode and everything would go back to exactly the way it had been. He’d be free again, which was exactly how he liked it. Even if a couple of nagging doubts persisted. Thoughts centered on a certain feisty brunette who expected more out of him than he ever had himself.

  It was best to leave, before the idea of staying took hold of him again.

  A knock sounded at his door, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulled the door open.

  Marjo.

  She wore her hair loose again and he was sure she hand never looked so beautiful.

  Stay, his mind whispered. Tell her you’re not going anywhere.

  Ever again.

  Before he could utter those words, he reminded himself he had a plane ticket. An assignment. A career to get back to.

  “I came by to give something to you,” Marjo said, handing him a thick manila folder.

  “What is it?”

  “Documents, tracing the history of the opera house. I thought you might want to know everything about the property. Before you sell it to the highest bidder.” She turned on her heel and headed down the hall.

  “Marjo, wait!” When she didn’t stop, he hurried after her, catching up with her at the top of the staircase. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Don’t go, not yet.”

  “Why? You’re leaving. It’s all over town. Paul Clermont is getting on the first plane out of hell.” Her eyes glimmered with sadness. “Why should I stay and delay the inevitable?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m leaving because I have a job, a photo assignment.”

  She gave him a short, polite nod. “Good luck with that. And if you’re ever in the area again, do stop by.”

  That had to be the coldest goodbye Paul had ever received. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but it sent a fist into his gut all the same.

  “Marjo, I hate to leave things like this.”

  “Like what? Did you think a few kisses meant anything between us? How could they? We barely know each other. You’re only doing what you said you were going to do. Moving on, severing all ties.”

  Put that way, it sounded like he was abandoning the town, abandoning her.

  Indigo would be just fine without him, and he without it. But as he looked at Marjo, he had to wonder whether he was selling himself a bucket of rotten crawfish.

  “Marjo, you don’t understand. I know what it’s like to tie yourself to a place so tight you cut off all other avenues. I watched my relatives work hard all their lives, only to see everything they owned wiped away in one bad fishing season. But they stayed in Cape Breton, thinking things would get better someday, when the only way out was to leave.”

  “You mean, run away.”

  “I’m not running away from anything.” Yet, as the words left his mouth, he wondered how true that was. “You may think I’m deserting all of this, but I’m not. I’ll be back.” He gave her a grin, hoping to return to the camaraderie they’d had before, the easy connection that seemed to have disappeared. “I have to check on my investment.”

  She gave him a broad smile. “I appreciate what you’ve done for the opera house, and this town will be fine, regardless of who owns it. And so will I.”

  She was making it clear that there was no reason for him to come back. There was nothing waiting for him here.

  The right thing to do—the only thing he could do—was to let her go and not look back.

  “Then will you give Gabriel this?” he asked, taking a business card out of his wallet. He cleared his throat of the lump that had suddenly formed there. “If he ever wants to pursue photography, have him call me.”

  “If you talk to him,” she said, “please don’t encourage him to follow some foolish dream. I might not always be here to take care of him, and he needs to have a secure job. Besides, you know how these creative fields are, Paul. The criticism can be brutal. Gabriel has had enough of that already.”

  “I know that,” Paul said. “I’ve been on the receiving end of a vicious critique more than once. But sometimes those things can make a person stronger instead of crushing them.”

  She shook her head. “Not Gabriel.”

  “And not you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Is that why you aren’t singing?” he asked. “Because you don’t want to be hurt?”

  “Of course not.” But she looked away from him. “I’m simply not a risk-taker. Nor do I want my brother to live that way.”

  “Oh, Marjo, don’t be afraid of taking risks,” he said.

  She quirked an ironic grin. “I could say the same to you. Either way, thank you for the card and have a safe trip.” She tucked his business card into the back pocket of her capris, then turned to head down the stairs. On the first step, she paused, and in that second, Paul willed her to turn around, to undo all of this, to demand he stay instea
d of letting him go as easily as a balloon string slipping through her fingers.

  And then she did turn around, rose on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  But her kiss lacked passion and tasted instead of goodbyes and bittersweet memories. Too quickly, she broke away from him. Her hand cupped his face for one brief second, and then she was gone.

  MARJO DID THE ONLY THING she could do after leaving La Petite Maison and Paul Clermont.

  She worked.

  She did everything from organizing the old files at the Savoy Funeral Home to polishing the floor of the opera house. In the days after Paul had left town, she came home every night tired, sweaty and…miserable. What was it about that man? How could he have gotten under her skin in such a short time?

  “Hey, Marjo!” Cally called, pulling into Marjo’s driveway on Thursday night just as Marjo was climbing the porch steps, exhausted and ready for bed. “I thought you might need this.” She held up a six-pack of light beer and joined Marjo on the porch.

  Marjo sank into a chair and reached for the chilled bottle her friend proffered. “Thank you. You read my mind.”

  The heat wave had broken, leaving them with the moderate days and cool nights that were normal for October. It seemed as if the minute Paul Clermont left town last week, the heat stirred up by his presence had dissipated.

  Cally sat beside her, twisted the top off her own bottle and took a drink before speaking. “So, are you trying out for the Toughwoman competition or what?”

  Marjo laughed. “Maybe I am working a little too hard. But look at the benefits.” She held up her right arm and flexed a bicep.

  “I’m more worried about your cardio muscle.”

  “Cardio? I’m fine there.” She patted her chest. “Breathing well, no murmurs or racing heartbeat.”

  “That’s because there’s no man around to make your heart beat faster.”

  “Well, there is that,” Marjo admitted. She’d struggled all day to blot the memory of Paul Clermont from her mind. It didn’t work. He remained there, as stubborn as a mule. “Look at the bright side. My nights are free again.”

  “Yeah, and what are doing with those free nights? Working until you run yourself into the ground. I don’t think you’re doing all this to help the opera house, but to get one good-looking Cape Breton man out of your system.”