by Nora Roberts
He curled his fingers into his tingling palm. “So you’re, like, a psychic?”
Amused, she rose to bring the pitcher of tea to the table. “I see what I see from time to time. A little kitchen magic,” she said as she refilled the glasses. “It doesn’t make me a witch, just a woman.” She noted his glance at the silver cross she wore, tangled with colored beads around her neck. “You think that’s a contradiction? Where do you think power comes from, cher?”
“I guess I never thought about it.”
“We don’t use what the good Lord gave us, whatever talent that might be, we’re wasting his gift.” She angled her head, and he saw she wore earrings as well. Fat blue stones dangling from tiny lobes. “I hear you called Jack Tripadoe about maybe doing some plumbing work in that place of yours.”
“Ah . . .” He struggled to shift his brain from the fantastic to the practical, while his palm continued to vibrate from the skim of her fingers. “Yes. My friend Remy Payne recommended him.”
“That Remy.” Her face lit, and any mystery that had been in it vanished. “He’s a caution. Jack, he’s a cousin of my sister’s husband’s brother’s wife. He’ll do good work for you, and if he doesn’t give you a fair price, you tell him Miss Odette’s gonna want to know why.”
“I appreciate that. You wouldn’t happen to know a plasterer? Somebody who can handle fancy work?”
“I’ll get you a name. It’ll cost you a pretty bag of pennies to put that place back to what it was and keep it that way.”
“I’ve got a lot of pennies. I hope you’ll come by sometime so I can show you around. I can’t make corn bread, but I can manage the tea.”
“You got a nice manner, cher. Your mama, she raised you right.”
“Would you mind writing that down, signing it? I can mail it to her.”
“I’m going to like having you around,” she declared. “You come back to visit anytime.”
“Thank you, Miss Odette.” Reading his cue, he got to his feet. “I’m going to like having you around, too.”
The sun beamed across her face as she looked up at him. The angle of it, the amusement in her dark eyes, the teasing curve of lips, shot him back to the dim bar in the Quarter. “She looks so much like you.”
“She does. You got your eye on my Lena already?”
He was a little flustered to realize he’d spoken out loud, so he tried a grin. “Well, we established I like girls, right?”
She gave the table a little slap to punctuate the laugh as she rose. “I like you just fine, Declan.”
He liked her, too. Enough that he decided to buy a couple of chairs after all, so she’d have somewhere to sit when she came by. He’d find something on Saturday, he thought as he went back to prepping the kitchen walls. He could hunt some down in the afternoon, before he was due to have dinner with Remy and Effie.
Then, he’d cap off the evening with a drink at Et Trois.
And if Lena wasn’t working that night, he’d just walk back out and throw himself in front of a speeding car.
He worked until well after dark, then treated himself to a beer along with his Hungry-Man chicken dinner. He ate sitting on a sawhorse and admiring the progress of the kitchen.
The walls were stripped, repaired and prepped for paint. His pencil marks on them indicated the measurements of the cabinets he would start to build the next day. He’d even tried his hand at pointing up the bricks in the hearth, and didn’t think he’d done a half-bad job of it. The old pine flooring was exposed and protected now with drop cloths. He’d finally settled on the traffic pattern, and had earmarked the spots for the range and the refrigerator.
If he couldn’t find the right china cabinet for the long wall, he’d damn well build that, too. He was on a roll.
He carried a bottle of water upstairs, took his now-traditional nine-minute shower, then stretched out on the bed with his notes, drawings and books. Halfway through adjusting his plans for the front parlor, he conked out.
And woke, shivering with cold, in full dark. The baby had wakened him. The thin cries were still in his ears as he sat straight up with his heart banging like a hammer against his ribs.
He didn’t know where he was, only that he was on the floor instead of in bed. And it was cold enough that he could see the white mist of his own breath pluming into the inky dark.
He rolled over, gained his feet. Reaching out like a blind man, he felt at the air as he took a cautious step forward.
Lilies. His body shuddered as he registered the scent. He knew where he was now—in the room down the hall from his own. The room, like the one on the third floor, he’d so carefully avoided over the last several days.
He was in it now, he thought as he took another shuffling step. And though it was insane, he knew he wasn’t alone.
“You can scare me. But you won’t scare me away.”
His fingers brushed something solid. He yelped, snatched them back an instant before he realized it was a wall. Taking several steadying breaths, he felt his way along it, bumped over trim, tapped over glass. Fumbling, he found the knob for the gallery doors and flung them open.
The January air felt warm and heavy against his chilled skin. He stumbled forward, gripped the rail. The night was like the inside of a cave. The old adage was true, he decided. There was no dark like country dark.
When his eyes adjusted to it, he turned back, pulled the door to the room firmly closed.
“This is my house now.” He said it quietly, then walked down the gallery, opened the door of his bedroom, and went back inside.
“Sleepwalking?” Remy scooped up another forkful of rice.
“Yeah. I went through it for about six months when I was around eleven.” Declan shrugged, but couldn’t quite dismiss the weight of it.
He hadn’t meant to bring it up, at least no more than in passing. The dinner Effie had fixed in Remy’s Garden District apartment was welcome, as was the company. But somehow he’d gone from telling them about the progress of the rehab to his nighttime adventures.
“It must be terrifying,” Effie said, “to wake up and find yourself somewhere else.”
“Spooky anyway. It’s funny I’d end up in the two rooms that make me the most uneasy. Or, I guess it’s logical. Some subconscious deal.”
“As long as you stay inside the house,” Remy put in. “I don’t want to hear you’ve sleepwalked your way into the swamp.”
“That’s a nice thought. Thanks.”
“Remy.” Effie slapped his hand. “I think you should see a doctor,” she told Declan. “You could take something to help you sleep better.”
“Maybe. Been there a week, and it’s only happened twice. Anyway, taking a couple of tranqs isn’t going to do anything about the ghost.”
“It’s just drafts and old wood settling.”
Remy grinned. “Effie doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“Or in tarot cards or reading tea leaves or any such nonsense.” Her voice was prim, and just a little defensive.
“My girl, she’s very grounded in the here and the now.”
“Your girl just has good sense,” she shot back. “Dec, it just stands to reason you’d have some strange feelings, staying way out there in that big old house all alone. And I bet you’re not eating right, either. You ought to live here with Remy for a while, until you get used to things.”
“She won’t.” Remy jerked his head in Effie’s direction.
“I’ll live with you when we’re married, and not before.”
“Oh, but, chère. May’s so far away. I miss you when you’re not here.” He took her hand, kissing it lavishly as he spoke.
“Tell you what, Effie, you come out and stay with me for a few nights. Strictly platonic,” he said with a grin as Remy narrowed his eyes. “I bet you shift your stand on ghosts after one or two nights.”
“Sorry. I’m a city girl. What do you do out there all by yourself, Declan, when you’re not working?”
“Read. And speakin
g of that, I need to come by the library, see if you can help me dig up more about Manet Hall. I’ve been taking a few whacks at the garden, too. Take walks. Drove over to visit Miss Odette.”
“You met Miss Odette?” Remy asked as he polished off his dinner. “Something, isn’t she?”
“I really liked her. Truth is, the house is keeping me so busy I usually drop off by ten at night. I finally got a TV hooked up, and I never think to turn it on. But I did buy a table and chairs this afternoon, and some other things.”
It was always a mistake, he chided himself, to let him through the door of an antique shop.
“We’re not going to have you locking yourself out there and working yourself to the bone,” Effie decided. “I expect you to come into town and see us at least once a week from now on. And Remy, you should start going out there on Saturdays and giving Dec a hand. Spending too much time alone,” she declared as she pushed back from the table. “That’s what’s wrong with you. Now, y’all ready for pie?”
Maybe she was right, Declan thought as he hunted up a place to park. If she wasn’t right, Effie was certainly definite. He’d try mixing it up a little more. He could drive into town once or twice a week for a real meal. Maybe have Remy and Effie out for one—a very informal one.
He could spend an evening reading something other than research.
More, he thought. He was going to gear himself up soon and push himself through the mental block he’d erected about the third-floor room.
He had to park a block and a half from Et Trois, but when he stepped in, saw Lena at the bar, he thought the walk had been worth it.
He couldn’t even snag a stool tonight, but he did manage to squeeze between customers and claim a corner of the bar. The music was loud and lively, and so was the crowd.
There was a blond behind the bar tonight in addition to its owner and Dreadlock Guy. Each of them was hopping.
Lena flicked him a glance as she served two drafts and a gin fizz.
“Corona?”
“Better make it a Coke.”
She looked just as good as he remembered. Just exactly as good. She wore blue tonight—a shirt that was unbuttoned low and rolled to the elbows. Her lips were still red, but she’d scooped her hair back on the sides with silver combs. He could see the glint of hoops at her ears.
She set a tall glass in front of him. “Where y’at?”
“Ah, I think I’m right here.”
“No.” She gave him that quick, smoky laugh. “Don’t you speak New Orleans, cher? When I say ‘where y’at,’ I’m asking how you’re doing.”
“Oh. Fine, thanks. Where you at?”
“There you go. Me, I’m fine, too. Busy. Let me know if you want anything else.”
He had to content himself with watching her. She worked her third of the bar, filling orders, having a quick word, slipping into the kitchen and out again without ever seeming to rush.
He never considered going home. When a stool freed up, he climbed on, settled in.
It was like being studied by a big, handsome cat, Lena thought. Steady and patient and just a little dangerous. He nursed his Coke, took a refill, and was still sitting when the place began to thin out.
She swung by again. “You waiting for something, handsome?”
“Yeah.” He kept his eyes on hers. “I’m waiting.”
She wiped up a spill with her bar rag. “I heard you went by to see my grandmama.”
“A couple of days ago. You look like her.”
“They say.” Lena tucked the end of the rag in her back pocket. “You go over there so you could lay on your Yankee charm and she’d put in a good word for you with me?”
“I was hoping that’d be a side benefit, but no. I went over because she’s a neighbor. I expected she was an old neighbor—elderly woman, living alone—and thought she’d like to know someone was around who could give her a hand with things. Then I met her and realized she doesn’t need me to give her a hand with anything.”
“That’s nice.” Lena let out a breath. “That was nice. Fact is, she could do with a strong back now and again. Dupris, honey?” she called out with her gaze locked on Declan’s. “You close up for me, okay? I’m going on home.”
She pulled a small purse from behind the bar, slung its long strap over her shoulder.
“Can I walk you home, Lena?”
“Yeah, you can do that.”
She came out from behind the bar, smiled when he opened the door for her.
“So, I hear you’re working hard on that house of yours.”
“Night and day,” he agreed. “I started on the kitchen. I’ve made serious progress. Haven’t seen you near the pond in the mornings.”
“Not lately.” The truth was she’d stayed away deliberately. She’d been curious to see if he’d come back. She strolled down the sidewalk.
“I met Rufus. He likes me.”
“So does my grandmama.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, they like me fine.”
She turned toward the opening of a tall iron gate when he laughed. They moved into a tiny, paved courtyard with a single iron table and two chairs.
“Lena.” He took her hand.
“This is where I live.” She gestured back toward the steps leading to the second-floor gallery he’d admired the first night.
“Oh. Well, so much for seducing you with my wit and charm on the long walk home. Why don’t we—”
“No.” She tapped a finger on his chest. “You’re not coming up, not tonight. But I think we’ll get this out of the way and see what’s what.”
She rose on her toes, swayed in. Her hand slipped around to the back of his neck as she brought his mouth down to hers.
He felt himself sink. As if he’d been walking on solid ground that had suddenly turned to water. It was a long, steep drop that had a thousand impressions rushing by his senses.
The silky slide of her lips and tongue, the warm brush of her skin, the drugging scent of her perfume.
By the time he’d begun to separate them, she eased back.
“You’re good at that,” she murmured, and laid a fingertip on his lips. “I had a feeling. ’Night, cher.”
“Wait a minute.” He wasn’t so shell-shocked he couldn’t function. He grabbed her hand. “That was practice,” he told her, and spun her stylishly into his arms.
He felt the amused curve of her lips against his and, running his hands up her back, into her hair, let himself drown.
Whoops! That single thought bounced into her head as she felt herself slip. His mouth was patient, but she felt the quick flashes of hunger. His hands were gentle, but held her firmly against him.
The taste of him, like something half remembered, began to seep into her blood.
Someone opened the door of the bar. Music jumped out, then shut off again. A car gunned by on the street behind her, another blast of music through the open windows.
Heat shimmered over her skin, under it, so that the hands she rested on his shoulders trailed around, linked behind his neck.
“Very good at it,” she repeated, and turned her head so her cheek rubbed his. Once, then twice. “But you’re not coming up tonight. I have to think about you.”
“Okay. I’ll keep coming back.”
“They always come back for Lena.” For a while, she thought as she eased away. “Go on home now, Declan.”
“I’ll just wait until you get inside.”
Her brows lifted. “Aren’t you the one.” Because it was sweet, she kissed his cheek before she walked to the steps and headed up.
When she unlocked her door and glanced back, he was still there. “You have sweet dreams now, cher.”
“That’d be a nice change,” he muttered when she closed the door behind her.
5
Manet Hall
January 2, 1900
It was lies. It had to be lies, of the cruelest, coldest nature. He would not believe, never believe that his sweet Abby had run
away from him. Had left him, left their child.
Lucian sat on the corner of the bed, trapped in the daze that had gripped him since he’d returned home two days before. Returned home to find the Hall in an uproar, and his wife missing.
Another man. That’s what they were saying. An old love she’d met in secret whenever Lucian had gone into New Orleans on business.
Lies.
He had been the only man. He had taken an angel to wife, a virgin to their wedding bed.
Something had happened to her. He opened and closed his hand over the watch pin he’d given her when he’d asked her to marry him. Something terrible.
But what? What could have pushed her to leave the house in the night?
A sick relation, he thought as he rose to pace and pace and pace.
But he knew that wasn’t the case. Hadn’t he ridden like a wild man into the marsh, to ask, to demand, to beg her family, her friends, if they knew what had become of her?
Even now people were searching for her, on the road, in the swamp, in the fields.
But the rumors, the gossip, were already rushing along the river.
Lucian Manet’s young wife had run off with another man.
And he could hear the whispers behind the whispers. What did he expect? Cajun trash. Likely that girl-child got started in the bayou and she passed it off as his.
Horrible, vicious lies.
The door opened. Josephine hadn’t bothered with even a cursory knock. Manet Hall was hers, now and always. She entered any room at her whim.
“Lucian.”
He spun around. “They’ve found her?” He’d yet to change the clothes soiled from his last search, and hope shone through the dirt on his face.
“They have not.” She closed the door at her back with a testy snap. “Nor will they. She is gone, and is probably at this moment laughing at you with her lover.”
She could almost believe it. Soon, she thought, it would be the truth.
“She did not run away.”
“You’re a fool. You were a fool to marry her, and you remain a fool.” She strode to the armoire, threw it open. “Can’t you see some of her clothes are missing? Hasn’t her maid reported as much?”
