by Nora Roberts
“I’ll keep him busy.”
“Why don’t you come back into town with him?” she said as she headed out. She wanted to lock her arm around his and tug him through the door and away. “We’ll have some dinner, go out to the movies.”
“Stop worrying about me.”
“I can’t help it. I think about you way out here, alone in this house, with that room up there.” She glanced uneasily up the staircase. “It gives me the shivers.”
“Ghosts never hurt anybody.” He kissed her forehead. “They’re dead.”
But in the night, with the sound of the wind and rain, and the bang of spirit bottles, they didn’t seem dead.
He gave himself Sunday. He slept late, woke to a sky fighting to clear, and spent another hour in bed with the books Effie had brought him.
She’d marked pages she felt would have the most interest for him. He scanned and studied old photographs of the great plantation houses. And felt a thrill race through him as he looked at the old black-and-white picture of Manet Hall in its turn-of-the-century splendor.
Formal photographs of Henri and Josephine Manet didn’t bring the same thrill. With those there was curiosity. The woman had been undeniably beautiful, very much in the style of her day with the deep square bodice of her ball gown edged with roses, and the high, feathered comb adorning her upswept hair.
The gown, tucked into an impossibly small waist, gave her a delicacy accented by the sweep of the brocade skirts, the generously poofed sleeves that met the long white gloves.
But there was a coldness to her face, one Declan didn’t think was a result of the rigidity of the pose or the quality of the print. It overwhelmed that delicacy of build and made her formidable.
But it was the photograph of Lucian Manet that stopped him in his tracks.
He’d seen that face, in his dream. The handsome young man with streaming gold hair, riding a chestnut horse at a gallop through the moss-laced oaks.
The power of suggestion? Had he simply expected the face in the dream to be real, and was he projecting it now onto the doomed Lucian?
Either way, it gave him the creeps.
He decided he’d drive into New Orleans and treat himself to a few hours’ haunting the antique shops.
Instead, less than an hour later, he found himself walking into Et Trois.
It did a strong Sunday-afternoon business, he noted. A mix of tourists and locals. He was pleased he was learning to distinguish one from the other. The jukebox carried the music now, a jumpy number by BeauSoleil that do-si-doed around the chatter from tables and bar.
The scent of food, deeply fried, reminded his stomach he’d skipped breakfast. Recognizing the blond tending bar from his second visit, Declan walked up, tried a smile on her. “Hi. Lena around?”
“Back in the office. Door to the right of the stage.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, cutie.”
He gave the door marked PRIVATE a quick knock, then poked his head in. She was sitting at a desk, working at a computer. Her hair was clipped back and made him want to nibble his way up the nape of her neck.
“Hi. Where y’at?”
She sat back, gave a lazy stretch of her shoulders. “You’re learning. What’re you doing at my door, cher?”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d see if you’d let me buy you lunch. Like a prelude to tomorrow night.”
She’d been thinking about him, more than was comfortable. Now here he was, all tall and rangy and male. “I’m doing my books.”
“And I’ve interrupted you. Don’t you hate that?” He came in anyway, sat on the edge of the desk. “Bought you a present.”
It was then that she noticed the little gift bag he carried. “I don’t see how you could’ve fit a new car in there.”
“We’re working up to the car.”
She kept her eyes on his a moment longer as she took the bag from him. Then she dipped in for the box. It was wrapped in gold paper, with a formal white bow. She took her time with it; she’d always believed the anticipation was as important as the gift.
The bow and ribbon she tucked neatly back into the bag, and after she’d picked at the top, slid the box out, folded the paper precisely.
“How long does it take you to open your presents Christmas morning?” he asked.
“I like taking my time.” She opened the box, felt her lips twitch, but kept her expression sober as she took out the grinning crawfish salt and pepper shakers. “Well now, aren’t they a handsome pair?”
“I thought so. They had alligators, too, but these guys seemed friendlier.”
“Are these part of your charm campaign, cher?”
“You bet. How’d they work?”
“Not bad.” She traced a finger over one of the ugly grins. “Not bad at all.”
“Good. Since I’ve interrupted you, and charmed you, why don’t you let me feed you? Pay you back for the eggs.”
She eased back in her chair, swiveled it as she considered. “Why do I get the feeling, every time I see you, I should start walking fast in the opposite direction?”
“Search me. Anyway, my legs are longer, so I’d just catch up with you.” He leaned over the desk, lifted his brows. She was wearing a skirt, a short one. His legs might’ve been longer, but they wouldn’t look half as good in sheer stockings. “But you could eat up some ground with those. How come you’re dressed up?”
“I’m not dressed up. Church clothes. I’ve been to Mass.” Now she smiled. “Name like yours, I figure you for a Catholic boy.”
“Guilty.”
“You been to Mass today, Declan?”
He could never explain why a question like that made him want to squirm. “I’m about half-lapsed.”
“Oh.” She pursed her lips. “My grandmama’s going to be disappointed in you.”
“I was an altar boy for three years. That ought to count.”
“What’s your confirmation name?”
“I’ll tell you if you come to lunch.” He reached over for the crawfish, made them dance over her desk. “Come on, Lena, come out and play with me. It’s turned into a nice day.”
“All right.” Mistake, her practical mind said, but she got to her feet, picked up her purse. “You can buy me lunch. But a quick one.” She leaned over, saved her file, and closed down her computer.
“It’s Michael,” he said, holding out a hand. “Declan Sullivan Michael Fitzgerald. If I was any more Irish, I’d bleed green.”
“It’s Louisa. Angelina Marie Louisa Simone.”
“Very French.”
“Bien sûr. And I want Italian.” She put her hand in his. “Buy me some pasta.”
From his previous visits Declan knew you had to work very hard to find a bad meal in New Orleans. When Lena led the way to a small, unpretentious restaurant, he didn’t worry. All he had to do was take one sniff of the air to know they were going to eat very well.
She waved a hand at someone, pointed to an empty table, and apparently got the go-ahead.
“This isn’t a date,” she said to him when he held her chair.
He did his best to look absolutely innocent, and nearly succeeded. “It’s not?”
“No.” She eased back, crossed her legs. “A date is when we have a time arranged and you pick me up at my house. This is a drop-on-by. So tomorrow, that’s our first date. Just in case you’re thinking of that three-date rule.”
“We guys don’t like to think you women know about that.”
Her lips curved. “There’s a lot y’all don’t like to think we know about.” She kept her eyes on his, but lifted up a hand to the dark-haired man who stopped at the table. “Hey there, Marco.”
“Lena.” He kissed her fingers, then handed her a menu. “Good to see you.”
“This is Remy’s college friend from Boston. Declan. I brought him by so he can see how we do Italian food here in the Vieux Carre.”
“You won’t do better.” He shook Declan’s hand, gave him a
menu. “My mama’s in the kitchen today.”
“Then we’re in for a treat,” Lena said. “How’s your family, Marco?”
Declan saw how it happened then. When she shifted in her chair, lifted her face, looked at Marco, it was as if the two of them were alone on a little island of intimacy. It was sexual, there was no question about it, but it was also . . . attentive, he decided.
“Good as gold. My Sophie won a spelling bee on Friday.”
“That’s some bright child you got.”
They chatted for a few moments, but Declan entertained himself by watching her face. The way her eyebrows lifted, fell, drew together according to the sentiment. How her lips moved, punctuated by that tiny mole.
When she turned her head, he shook his. “Sorry, did you say something to me? I was looking at you. I get lost.”
“They got some smooth talkers up North,” Marco said.
“Pretty, too, isn’t he?” Lena asked.
“Very nice. Our Lena here’s having the seafood linguini. You know what you want, or you need some time to decide?”
“You don’t get the same.” Lena tapped a finger on the menu Declan had yet to read. “Else it’s no fun for me picking off your plate. You try the stuffed shells, maybe. Mama makes them good.”
“Stuffed shells, then.” He had a feeling he’d have tried crushed cardboard if she’d requested it. “Do you want wine?”
“No, because you’re driving and I’m working.”
“Strict. San Pellegrino?” He glanced at Marco.
“I’ll bring you out a bottle.”
“So . . .” She tucked her hair behind her ear as Marco left them. “What’re you up to today, cher?”
“I thought I’d hit some of the antique stores. I’m looking for a display cabinet for the kitchen, and stuff to stick in it. I thought I might go by and see Miss Odette on the way back. What does she like? I want to take her something.”
“You don’t have to take her anything.”
“I’d like to.”
Lena hooked an arm over the back of her chair, drummed her fingers on the table as she studied him. “You get her a bottle of wine, then. A good red. Tell me something, cher, you wouldn’t be using my grandmama to get to me, would you?”
She saw the temper flash into his eyes—darker, hotter than she’d expected from him. Should’ve known, she thought, that all that easy manner covered something sharp, something jagged. It was impressive, but more impressive was the lightning snap from mild to fury, and back to mild again.
A man who could rein himself in like that, she decided, had a will of iron. That was something else to consider.
“You’ve got it backwards,” he told her. “I’m using you to get to Miss Odette. She’s the girl of my dreams.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Good, you should be.”
Lena waited until their water and bread were served. His tone had raised her hackles. Mostly, she could admit, because she’d deserved the quick slap. Folding her arms on the table, she leaned toward him.
“I am sorry, because that was nasty. I’m going to tell you something, Declan, nasty words have a habit of popping right out of my mouth. I don’t always regret saying them. I’m not a sweet-mannered, even-tempered sort of woman. I don’t have a trusting nature. I’ve got good points, but I’ve got just as many bad. I like it that way.”
He mimicked her posture. “I’m single-minded, competitive and moody. I’ve got a mean temper. It takes a lot to get it going, which is a fortunate thing for the general population. I don’t have to have my way in the little things, but when I decide I want something, really want it, I find a way to get it. I want you. So I’ll have you.”
She’d been wrong. He hadn’t snapped back to mild. Anger was still simmering behind his eyes. As the one person she tried to be honest with at all times was herself, she didn’t bother to pretend it didn’t excite her.
“You’re saying that to make me mad.”
“No, that’s just a side benefit.” He eased back, picked up the basket of bread and offered it. “You want to fight?”
Feeling sulky, she picked out a piece. “Maybe later. Getting riled up spoils my appetite. Anyway.” She shrugged, bit into the bread. “You don’t want to go by Grandmama’s today. She’s over visiting her sister this afternoon.”
“I’ll stop in later this week. I got the kitchen counters installed. Remy gave me a hand, so to speak, with the wall units yesterday. It should be finished in a couple of weeks.”
“Good for you.” She wanted to brood, and could see by his amused expression that he knew it. “You been back up on the third floor?”
“Yeah.” He’d had to prime himself with a good shot of Jim Beam first, but he’d gone back. “Didn’t fall on my face this time, but I had a major panic attack. I’m not prone to panic attacks. I found out more about the Manet family history, but there are pieces missing. Maybe you’ve got them.”
“You want to know about Abigail Rouse.”
“That’s right. How much do—” He broke off because she’d turned her attention away from him and back to Marco, who brought out their pasta. He reminded himself as they fell into a lazy discussion about the food, that the wheel turned more slowly in the South.
“How much do you know about her?” he asked when they were alone again.
Lena rolled up a forkful of pasta, slid it between her lips. She sighed deep, swallowed. “Mama Realdo. She’s a goddess in the kitchen. Try yours,” she ordered, and leaned over to sample from his plate.
“It’s great. Best meal I’ve had since a microwave omelette.”
She smiled at him, one long, slow smile that lodged in his belly. Then went back to eating. “I know the stories that came down in my family. Nobody can say for sure. Abigail, she was a maid in the big house. Some of the rich families, they hired Cajun girls to clean for them, to fetch and carry. Story is that Lucian Manet came home from Tulane and fell in love with her. They ran off and got married. Had to run off, because nobody’s going to approve of this. His family, hers.”
She broke off a chunk of bread, nibbled on it as she studied him. “Mixing classes is an uneasy business. He moved her into the Hall after, and that was an uneasy business, too. People say Josephine Manet was a hard woman, proud and cold. People started counting on their fingers, but the baby, she don’t come for ten months.”
“That room upstairs. It must’ve been the nursery. They’d have kept the baby there.”
“Most like. There was a nursemaid. She married one of Abigail’s brothers later. Most of the stories about the Hall come from her. It seems a couple days before the end of the year, Lucian was off in New Orleans on business. When he came back, Abigail was gone. They said she’d run off with some bayou boy she’d been seeing on the side. But that doesn’t ring true. The nursemaid, her name was . . . Claudine, she said Abigail never would’ve left Lucian and the baby. She said something bad had to have happened, something terrible, and she blamed herself because she was off meeting her young man down by the river the night Abigail disappeared.”
A dead girl on the tester bed in a cold room, Declan thought, and the pasta lodged in his throat like glue. He picked up the fizzy water, drank deep. “Did they look for her?”
“Her family looked everywhere. It’s said Lucian haunted the bayou until the day he died. When he wasn’t looking there, he was in town trying to find a trace of her. He never did, and didn’t live long himself. With him gone, and the twin his mother favored by all accounts, dead as well, Miss Josephine had the baby taken to Abigail’s parents. You’ve gone pale, Declan.”
“I feel pale. Go on.”
This time, when she broke off a hunk of bread, she buttered it, handed it to him. Her grandmama was right, Lena thought, the man needed to eat.
“The baby was my grandmama’s grandmama. The Manets cast her out, claiming she was a bastard and no blood of theirs. They brought her to the Rouses with the dress she had on, a small bag of crib toy
s. Only thing she had from the Hall was the watch pin Claudine gave to her, which had been Abigail’s.”
Declan’s hand shot out to cover hers. “Is the pin still around?”
“We hand such things down, daughter to daughter. My grandmama gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Why?”
“Enameled watch, hanging from small, gold wings.”
Color stained her cheeks. “How do you know?”
“I saw it.” The chill danced up his spine. “Sitting on the dresser in the bedroom that must have been hers. An empty room,” he continued, “with phantom furniture. The room where Effie saw a dead girl laid out on the bed. They killed her, didn’t they?”
Something in the way he said it, so flat, so cold, had her stomach dropping. “That’s what people think. People in my family.”
“In the nursery.”
“I don’t know. You’re spooking me some, Declan.”
“You?” He passed a hand over his face. “Well, I guess I know who my ghost is. Poor Abigail, wandering the Hall and waiting for Lucian to come home.”
“But if she did die in the Hall, who killed her?”
“Maybe that’s what I’m supposed to find out, so she can . . . you know. Rest.”
He wasn’t pale now, Lena thought. His face had toughened, hardened. That core of determination again. “Why should it be you?”
“Why not? It had to be one of the Manets. The mother, the father, the brother. Then they buried her somewhere and claimed she ran away. I need to find out more about her.”
“I imagine you will. You’ve got a mulish look about you, cher. Don’t know why that should be so appealing to me. Talk to my grandmama. She might know more, or she’ll know who does.”
She nudged her empty plate back. “Now you buy us some cappuccino.”
“Want dessert?”
“No room for that.” She opened her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I get one pack a month.” She tapped one out, ran her fingers up and down its length.
“One a month? What’s the point?”
