by Nora Roberts
“I’ll never be rid of her, not all the way. No matter what I do.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m sorry. No, damn it, I will say it,” she snapped when his face tightened. “I’m sorry she came into your home. I’m sorry she touched on your family. I need to ask you not to say anything about this to my grandmama.”
“Why would I?”
She nodded, then rising, wandered the room. She loved this place because she’d made it herself. She respected her life for the same reasons. Now, because she cared for, because she respected the man who was so determined to be part of her life, she’d explain.
“She left me before I was two weeks old,” she began. “Just went out one morning, got in her mama’s car, and drove off. Dumped the car in Baton Rouge. I was three before she came back around.”
“Your father?”
She shrugged. “Depends on her mood. Once she told me it was a boy she loved and who loved her, but his parents tore them apart and sent him far away. Another time, she told me she was raped on the way home from school. Still another it was a rich, older man who was going to come back for both of us one day and set us up in a fine house.”
She turned back so she could face him. “I was about eighteen when I figured she told me the truth. She was high enough, careless enough, mean enough for it to be the truth. How the hell should she know, she said. There were plenty of them. What the hell did she care who planted me in her? One was the same as the other.
“She was whoring when she got pregnant with me. I heard talk when I was old enough to understand what the talk meant. When she got in trouble, she ran back to my grandparents. She was afraid of an abortion—afraid she’d die of it, then go to hell or some such thing. So she had me, and she left me. Those are the only two things in this world I owe her.”
She drew a breath, made herself sit again. “Anyway, she came back when I was three, made what would become her usual promises that she’d learned her lesson, she was sorry, she’d changed. She stayed around a few days, then took off again. That’s a pattern that’s repeated since. Sometimes she’d come back beat up from whatever bastard she’d taken up with most recently. Sometimes she’d come back sick, or just high. But Lilibeth, she always comes back.”
She fell silent, brooding over that single, unavoidable fact.
“It hurts when she does,” Declan said quietly. “Hurts you, hurts Miss Odette.”
“She hurts everyone. It’s her only talent. She was high when she showed up on my thirteenth birthday. We were having a fais do-do at the house, all the friends and family, and she stoned, with some lowlife. It got ugly pretty quick, and three of my uncles turned them off. I need a smoke,” she said, and left the room.
She came back a moment later with a cigarette. “I had a boy I was seeing, crazy about that boy. I was sixteen, and she came back. She got him liquor and drugs and had sex with him. He was hardly older than I was, so it’s hard to blame him for being an idiot. She thought it was funny when I stumbled over them out in the bayou. She laughed and laughed. Still, when I got this apartment, and she came back, I took her in. Better me than Grandmama, I thought. And maybe this time . . . Just maybe.
“But she turned tricks in my bed and brought her drugs into my home. She stole from me, and she left me again. From then I’ve been done with her. I’m done with her. And I’ll never be done with her, Declan. Nothing I can do changes her being my mother.”
“And nothing she does can change who you are. You’re a testament to your own grit, Lena, and a credit to the people who raised you. She hates you for what you are.”
She stared at him. “She hates me,” she whispered. “I’ve never been able to say that to anyone before. Why should saying such a thing, such an awful thing, help so much?”
“I won’t say she can’t hurt you anymore, because she can. But maybe now she won’t be able to hurt you as much, or for as long.”
Thoughtfully, she tapped out her cigarette. “I keep underestimating you.”
“That’s okay. That way I can keep surprising you. How’s this one? She’s connected to Manet Hall.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, exactly, and can’t explain it. I just know she is. And I think maybe she was meant to come back now, to say what she said to me. One more link in the chain. And I think she’s pretty well done around here, this time out. Call your grandmother, Lena. Don’t let this woman put a wedge between you.”
“I’ve been thinking of it. I guess I will. Declan.” She picked up her glass, set it down again. The useless gesture made him raise his eyebrows. “I was going to end things between us.”
“You could’ve tried.”
“I mean it. We’d both be better off if we stepped back a ways, tried to be friends of some sort.”
“We can be friends. I want our children to have parents who like each other.”
She threw up her hands. “I have to get back to work.”
“Okay. But listen, speaking of weddings, slight change of plans in Remy and Effie’s. We’re having the whole deal at my place.”
She rubbed her temple, tried to switch gears and moods as smoothly as he did. “In . . . with half-finished rooms and tools and lumber, and—”
“That’s a very negative attitude, and not at all helpful, especially since I was going to ask you for a hand. How are you with a paintbrush?”
She let out a sigh. “Do you save everyone?”
“Just the ones who matter.”
Somewhere between Declan’s leaving the Hall, and Effie’s arrival, Lilibeth paid another call. She was riding on coke and insult. The lousy son of a bitch couldn’t spare a few bucks for the mother of the woman he was screwing, she’d just help herself.
She’d cased the first floor when he’d led her back to the kitchen, and going in through the back, she arrowed straight to the library and the big rolltop desk she’d spotted.
People with money kept cash handy, in her experience. Moving quickly, she yanked open drawers, riffled through, then let out a shout when she found a neat pile of fifties. Those she stuffed into her pocket.
She figured the books he’d shelved and the ones yet in boxes were probably worth something. But they’d be heavy, and hard to sell. He’d likely have more cash, a few pieces of jewelry up in his bedroom.
She raced up the main stairs. The fact that he could come back at any time only added to the thrill of stealing.
A door slammed, had her falling straight to her knees. Just a draft, she told herself as she caught her breath, as the pulse in her throat began to pop. Big, drafty old house. In fact, she felt cold air whisk over her as she jumped to her feet again.
She touched a doorknob, yanked her hand away again. The knob was so cold it all but burned.
Didn’t matter. What the fuck? His room was down the hall. She wasn’t as stupid as people thought she was. Hadn’t she watched the house over the last few days? Hadn’t she seen him come out on the gallery from the room at the far corner?
Laughing out loud, the sound rolling back over her, she dashed down, streaked through the open door. She yanked open the top drawer of a dresser and hit pay dirt with the old carved box inside.
Gold cuff links—at least she assumed they were real gold. Silver ones, too, with some sort of fancy blue stone. Diamond studs, a gold watch. And in a box inside the box, a woman’s ring of . . . ruby maybe, diamond and ruby, fashioned in interlocking hearts.
She set the box on the dresser, hunted through a couple more drawers until she found another wad of cash.
Paid anyway, didn’t you, you bastard. Paid just fine.
She tossed the bills into the jewelry box, tucked the box under her arm.
Standing there, her breath whistling out in excitement, cocaine dancing in her blood, she debated the satisfaction of trashing the place. It would be satisfying—more payment. But it wasn’t smart. And she was smart.
She needed time to turn the jewelry into cash, time to
turn some of the cash into drugs. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. Best to leave things as they were.
She’d go out the other side, just in case her long-nosed mama was looking this way.
But when she stepped back into the hall, she found herself staring at the third-floor stairs.
What was up there? she wondered. Maybe something good. Maybe something she could come back for later. Something that would make her rich.
Her breath wasn’t just whistling now, but wheezing. Her skin was ice cold. But she couldn’t resist the urge to climb those stairs. She was alone in the house, wasn’t she? All alone, and that made it her house.
It was her house.
Swallowing continually to wet her dry throat, she started up. Shivering.
Voices? How could she hear voices when there was no one there? But they stopped her, urged her to turn back.
Something wrong here, something bad here. Time to go.
But it seemed hands pressed to her back, pushed her on until, with trembling fingers, she reached for the door.
She meant to ease it open, slowly—just take a peek. But at the touch of her hand, it swung violently open.
She saw the man and woman on the floor, heard the baby screaming in the crib. Saw the woman’s eyes—staring and blind. And dead.
And the man, his hair gold in the dim light, turned to look at her.
Lilibeth tried to scream, but couldn’t grab the air. As she opened her mouth, something pushed into her. For one horrifying moment it became her. Then it swept through her. Cold, vicious, furious.
Another figure formed in the room. Female, sturdy, in a long night robe.
Julian.
And in speechless terror, Lilibeth turned and ran.
17
Within twenty-four hours, Declan discovered he had more help on the house than he knew what to do with. Apparently everyone in Louisiana was invited to the wedding, and they were all willing to lend a hand.
He had painters, plumbers, carpenters and gofers. And though it occurred to him in the middle of the melee that if half that amount had pitched in to repair the original venue, the job would have been done in about twenty minutes, he decided to keep the thought to himself.
It seemed rude to voice it.
And he appreciated the labor, sincerely. Reminded himself of it whenever he felt certain pieces of the house slipping away from him into someone else’s charge.
He’d been looking forward to screening in the lower rear gallery himself, but comforted himself that one good hurricane would demand rescreening.
He’d intended to sand and varnish the ballroom floors, but bucked up when he thought of all the other floors waiting for him throughout the house.
And he sure as hell didn’t mind turning over the exterior painting to others. It was a hot, exacting and laborious job, and crossing it off his list left him free to tackle the downstairs powder room, and to hang the blown-glass chandelier he’d bought for the foyer, and to finish plans for the mud room. And . . .
Well, there was plenty to go around, he reflected.
Then there was the pure pleasure of watching Effie zip in and out on her lunch hour or after work. Even when she brought her mother in tow. Mrs. Renault was a spit-and-polished older version of her daughter with an eye like an eagle and a voice like a drill sergeant.
Remy was right, she was pretty scary. Declan hid from her, whenever possible and without shame.
On the second day of the full-out campaign, Declan strode toward the rear gallery to check progress. He was feeling pretty peppy from the tile he’d just set, was covered with ceramic dust from cutting it.
The noise level was amazing. Voices, radios, power tools. As much as he enjoyed people, he’d have given a thousand dollars for five minutes alone in his house.
“Jim Ready? I want those windows sparkling, you hear? How’s it going to look in the wedding pictures if those windows are dull? Put your back into it, boy!”
The sound of Mrs. Renault’s voice had Declan turning sharply on his heel and changing direction. He all but bowled over Odette.
“Hey, sorry. You all right? I didn’t see you. I was running away.”
“You got a houseful.”
“You’re right about that. If this place isn’t fixed up enough to suit General Renault by D Day, we’re all going to be shot.” He took her arm as he spoke and, thinking only of self-preservation, hustled her into the library. Shut the doors.
“Can I come live at your house?”
She smiled—a curve of lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re such a good boy, Declan, doing all this for your friend.”
“I’m not doing much more right now than staying the hell out of the way.”
“And you’d rather all these people go back where they came from, and leave you be so you can play with your house.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, pushed his dusty hand through his dusty hair. “There’ll still be plenty to do once they go. We’re not touching the third floor or the servants’ area, and only doing one other room on the second. Tell me what’s wrong, Miss Odette.”
“I gotta work up to it.” She set down the shopping bag she carried, then walked over to look at some of his books. There were still boxes of them to be shelved, but she saw what it would be. Towers of words, some old and worn, some fresh and new. Small treasures, deep colors.
“You got vision,” she said at length. “You picture what you want, then you make it happen. That’s a fine skill, cher.”
“Some people call it single-minded.”
“You’re anything but. You’ve got a lot of channels in that head of yours. Working on one at a time till it’s done shows character to me. I’m awful fond of you, Declan.”
“I’m awful fond of you, too. I wish you’d sit down, Miss Odette. You look tired.” And troubled. “Why don’t I get us a cold drink?”
“No, don’t you trouble and risk getting shanghaied by Sarah Jane Renault. Now that’s a single-minded individual, and I don’t fault her for it.”
“She told me to get a haircut by the end of the week so I don’t look shaggy or freshly shorn for the wedding.” Sulking over it a little, Declan ran a testing hand through his hair. “And that she’ll be putting fancy soaps, towels and so on in all the bathrooms the day before the wedding. I’m not to use them under penalty of death. And I’m to get more green plants inside the house. A house can’t breathe without green plants.”
“She’s just nervous, honey. Effie’s her baby. Her youngest daughter.” Odette pressed her lips together. “Declan, I’m shamed to say what I have to say to you, and I won’t blame you if, after I’m done, you ask me not to come back in your home again.”
The words alarmed him, nearly as much as the pain in her eyes. “There’s nothing you can say that would make you unwelcome in my home, Miss Odette. Who hurt you?”
“Oh, mon Dieu, if this spoils what I see between you and my Lena, I’ll never forgive myself. My daughter stole from you,” she blurted out. “She came in your house and took what was yours.”
With a heavy heart she reached into her bag, took out his carved box. “This was in her room. I knew it was yours even before I looked in and saw a set of cuff links with your initials. I don’t know if it’s all here, but that’s all there was. If anything’s missing—”
“Let’s just see. I want you to sit down now. I mean it.”
She nodded, sank into a chair.
He chained down his rage as he set the box on a table, opened it. He saw the ring box first, opened it, and felt the worst of the anger fade when the stones glittered up at him.
“Okay.” He breathed out. “The most important thing’s still here.” As was, as far as he could see, everything else but the couple thousand in twenties he kept secured with the money clip that had been his great-grandfather’s.
“It’s all here.”
“You’re not telling me the truth,” Odette said dully.
“A little cash, that’s all
.”
“I need to know how much so I can pay it back.”
“Do you think I’d take money from you?” Some of the anger lashed out, made her wince. “Look at my face. Do you think I’d take money from you for this, for anything?”
Her lips wanted to quiver, so she pressed them into a firm line. “She’s my responsibility.”
“The hell she is. Don’t insult me again by talking about restitution.”
Despite her promise not to shed one in front of him, a tear spilled over. “I know what she is. And I know she’ll never be what I hoped for, worked for, wished for from the moment I knew she was inside me. But she gave me Lena.”
She dug out a tissue, patted her cheeks. There would be no more tears. “I expected she’d steal from me before she took off again, but I didn’t think she’d take from you. I never thought of it, and I’m sorry for that.”
“You want to look at my face again and see if I blame you?”
“No, you don’t blame me. Oh, I want you for my Lena. I’m sitting here knowing my child stole from you, and all I can think is I want you for my baby.”
“Good thing, because I want me for her, too.” He picked up the ring box, crossed over to her chair. “I bought this for her. Maybe you could put in a good word for me so when I give it to her, she takes it.”
Odette looked at the ring and sighed. “Suits her. Sure does suit her. She’s got a good heart, Declan, but it’s got scars on it. She’s so strong. Sometimes I worry she’s too strong, and she’ll forget how to give. I’ll have to tell her about this.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll have to figure out how to keep her from pulling away from you when she knows. That’s what she’ll want to do.”
“Don’t worry. Where’s Lilibeth?”
“Gone. I found this in her room this morning. She’s barely come out of there since the day before. When I went in and found it, I put it away where she wouldn’t find it. Then we had words about it. She packed up and left. She’ll come back,” she said in the same hollow tone he’d heard from Lena. “In a year or two. And we’ll go through it once more.”
