And now the damaged generator.
He should feel like celebrating, but he couldn’t help thinking of Anne Marchand’s warm smile and Daisy Rose’s impish grin.
The only one in the family who could make him remember his initial vow was his grandmother. Celeste Robichaux was every bit as hard a woman as his father had told him she was. She rarely came to the hotel, but when she did, she swept through like Catherine the Great, treating everyone around her as if they were serfs. Most of the time, Celeste looked right past him as if he didn’t exist.
With a mother like that, Luc thought, no wonder his father had left New Orleans.
Luc could hear music and happy voices coming from the courtyard. He repositioned the pile of flashlights in his arm and headed for the lobby. Maybe he’d underestimated the magic of New Orleans. Even in total darkness, the party went on.
THE MOMENT THEY WERE OUTSIDE the gallery, Sylvie realized that what they were experiencing was more than just a minor inconvenience. There were no lights at all in the street.
Thoughts of disasters immediately sprang to mind.
Without thinking, Sylvie grasped Jefferson’s hand, holding on tightly, the unconscious fear she was struggling to hold at bay radiating through her fingers.
She’d been in New York City when the Twin Towers fell. Although she was all the way across town at the time, the memory of that day was still vividly imprinted in her mind. Over time, she’d managed to bury it beneath so many others, but it was quick to surface at the slightest provocation.
Fear strummed across her nerves, refusing to dissipate. She turned toward Jefferson. “Do you think this could be—?”
She didn’t have to finish. He could hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes. “Probably not” was the best he could offer her. He wouldn’t just glibly assure her that this blackout was not part of something bigger. But the odds, he liked to believe, were against that. “Why don’t you call home?” Jefferson advised. “It might make you feel better.”
She didn’t ordinarily need reassurance. She usually had no trouble keeping a positive outlook, but for some reason, the darkness had taken away her confidence. She didn’t like feeling this way.
Sylvie had her cell phone out and was pressing buttons before Jefferson had completed his suggestion.
It took three rings before anyone answered. The seconds seemed to stretch out forever. Sylvie could feel impatience mounting within her.
As soon as the ringing stopped, she said, “Hello, Mama?”
“You sound breathless, Sylvie. Is your date chasing after you, or are you chasing him?”
Not her mother, she thought. Anne Marchand’s tongue was not nearly as tart. “Grand-mère, is everything all right over there?”
“Other than the fact that your mother is boring me to death with her poor skills at the chessboard, I would say that everything is all right.” A hint of curiosity slipped into the older woman’s voice. “Why do you ask?”
“Sylvie, what’s wrong?” It was her mother on the phone now. Sylvie surmised that Anne must have taken the receiver from her grandmother, who could be heard grumbling in French in the background.
“Nothing’s really wrong, Mama.” She didn’t want her to worry unnecessarily. Ever since Anne’s heart attack, Sylvie had felt very protective of her mother. As she talked, she began to twist a lock of her hair, a habit she’d had since she was a girl. “We’ve just had a power failure here at the gallery where Maddy’s having her performance event and I wanted to make sure you and Grand-mère and Daisy Rose weren’t sitting in the dark, too.”
“The lights flickered here earlier, but everything seems to be fine now,” Anne assured her. Then she drew her breath in sharply.
“What?” Sylvie demanded. “What is it?” Jefferson was looking at her quizzically. “Did the lights go out?”
“No, but I just realized this blackout should have hit the hotel. We have power here, but the hotel is a few miles away. I’d better go down to check and see—”
Sylvie cut her off. “Mama, you stay where you are. Daisy Rose needs you. I’m already out—I’ll go to the hotel. If there is a power failure, I should check to make sure the paintings are all right, especially the ones on loan from the museum—and Grand-mère’s Wyeth,” she reminded her mother. Sylvie had been thrilled when Celeste agreed to allow the gallery to display the priceless Wyeth for a few months.
“Oh my Lord, the paintings.”
Sylvie tugged impatiently on her hair, annoyed with herself. Someday, she was going to have to learn to censor her words before she spoke. “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to the paintings. I’ll sleep with them if I have to. Kiss Daisy Rose for me,” she added, just before she ended the conversation.
Jefferson looked at her. “Daisy Rose?” He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but since Sylvie was less than a foot away, it would have been difficult for him not to hear everything.
“My daughter,” she explained. She saw mild amusement flicker across his lips. “What?”
Slipping his arm around her, he moved her out of the way as several people hurried from the building. He hadn’t seen Blake since he’d left his former roommate and Maddy at the generator. Knowing Blake, he would probably use the blackout to his advantage somehow. “I guess mine wasn’t the only daughter who didn’t make it onto the application.”
That surprised her. Just what were her sisters trying to do?
“It didn’t say that I had a little girl?”
He shook his head. “No. How little?” he asked. He missed Emily being little. When she was younger, she had hung on his every word and hadn’t yet developed her independent streak—the one that seemed to be growing every day.
More people emerged from the gallery, stumbling a bit in the dark. Jefferson guided Sylvie off to one side, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man who looked like he was more at home on a football field than in a gallery.
“She’s three—and two handfuls,” Sylvie added fondly.
It was easy to see that her daughter was the joy of her life.
“I left her with my mother and grandmother.”
He thought of Emily and what a challenge she’d been during the babysitting years. He grinned. “Think they’ll be safe?”
Sylvie laughed. The night air was cool and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Obviously you’ve never met my grandmother. She could send an alligator into therapy.” As she spoke, she was pressing the button on her cell phone keypad to connect her to the hotel’s front desk. When the number of unanswered rings grew, she found herself becoming more uneasy. She tried Charlotte’s cell phone. This time, a message said the user was out of the calling area.
Sylvie frowned. “Someone should be answering.”
“Why don’t we get back there and see what’s going on?” he suggested.
This was her responsibility, not his. “You don’t have to come with me.”
“Yes, I do.” And then he smiled. “I’m staying there, remember?”
“Right. Sorry.” How could she have forgotten that? Was she really that flustered? “I’m not usually this disconnected.”
His eyes swept over her. “From where I’m standing, you seem very connected.” This time, rather that taking her elbow, he offered her his arm. “Let’s see about getting a cab.”
Sylvie nodded as she slipped her arm through his.
Finding a taxi was easier said than done. An army of cabs was on the street tonight, but either they were already occupied or someone beat the two of them to the door.
The minutes were ticking by. Sylvie felt herself growing more edgy. She couldn’t very well call her mother back and tell her to go to the hotel in her place. The woman did not need this kind of stress.
“Maybe we should walk,” Sylvie suggested. She saw him looking down at her shoes. She had on open-toe high heels that made her seem several inches taller than she was. “I know the hotel is a few miles away, but it’s better than standing here
.”
He had his doubts about that, and even greater doubts about Sylvie making the journey in the shoes she was wearing. Searching for an alternative, Jefferson looked around. That was when he saw it. A horse-drawn carriage standing across the street. He’d thought carriage rides were only available within the French Quarter. Apparently not.
Impulsively, he grabbed her hand and dashed across the street.
“What are you doing?” she asked, breaking into a sprint to keep up. Horns blasted around them as they zigzagged between cars. With the lights out, traffic had snarled badly. No one was in a patient mood.
“Seizing the moment,” he cried.
She was about to protest that she had a hotel to get to and didn’t have time for an adventure when she saw what had attracted his attention. Her mouth dropped open.
“How much would you charge to take us to the Hotel Marchand?” Jefferson asked the driver, a wizened old man who practically seemed to disappear into the coat he was wearing.
The driver squinted at him. “I’m on my way to the stables. Time for Apples to rest. Besides, I don’t know where that hotel is.”
Sylvie found that a little odd—the hotel had been around for decades—but she quickly volunteered the address. The driver shook his head so hard, his top hat slipped. He made a grab for it and pushed it back on.
“Sorry. I don’t remember things as well as I used to,” he apologized. “Me and Apples here just go around the area, nothing more. Less competition.”
Jefferson wasn’t about to give up. “Tell you what, why don’t you sit in the back with Miss Marchand and I’ll drive you there.”
Distrust was stamped on the man’s gnarled features. “And steal my carriage?”
“I don’t want your carriage or your horse,” he insisted. “The lady and I just need to get back to the hotel. You keep an eye on the route we take and you can make your way back.” Jefferson gave him an encouraging look. “Sharp man like you should have no trouble, right?”
“Right.” But he didn’t sound sure.
Taking out his wallet, Jefferson extracted five twenties and pressed them into the man’s hand. The driver stared at the money. His scowl faded a little. Finally, he shoved the bills deep into his pocket.
“Okay. But nothing fancy. Apples doesn’t like surprises.”
“Nothing fancy,” Jefferson promised. Turning, he started to help Sylvie into the back, but she shook her head.
“I’m riding up front with you,” she informed him. Drawing closer to him as the driver got into the back, she lowered her voice. “You sure you know how to drive one of these things?”
Jefferson climbed up into the seat reluctantly vacated by the driver. Leaning over, he offered Sylvie his hand. “My grandfather had a horse ranch in Wyoming. I spent a lot of summers there.”
Sylvie wrapped her fingers around his and climbed up into the seat beside him. “So, you’re a cowboy, too, besides being a crowd controller and a lawyer. I must say, I’m impressed, Jefferson.”
He liked the way she said his name. “Nothing to be impressed about,” he demurred.
A lawyer, a cowboy—and modest, too, Sylvie thought. She caught herself smiling as they began to make their way along the crowded street. Not a bad combination.
CHAPTER NINE
THE SOUND OF THE HORSE’S HOOVES hitting the cobblestone street leading up to the Hotel Marchand echoed in the night air. Sylvie had no idea why that seemed romantic to her, especially given the nature of the situation, but it did. Her vulnerability made her uneasy. There was no point in having her emotions stirred up by this man. This was a date, nothing more. By this time next week, they would be separated by several states.
But the funny little glow she was experiencing remained.
They’d had one uncertain moment when the impatient driver of a low-slung sports car leaned on his horn. Apples had seemed about to rear. Sylvie had grabbed on to her seat, envisioning herself spilling out onto the sidewalk. Miraculously, Jefferson seemed to anticipate the horse’s reaction. Leaning forward as far as he could, still holding the reins tight, he talked the animal into a calmer state.
As the carriage approached the hotel, Sylvie looked at Jefferson with unabashed respect. He might resemble Gregory Peck, but she was becoming convinced that the man was hiding a large letter S just beneath his shirt.
“So now you’re a horse whisperer,” Sylvie had said.
He’d merely shrugged. “Just doing what needs to be done, nothing more.”
They didn’t make men like this anymore, Sylvie thought.
And then her attention was redirected to the hotel. Usually well lit, the Hotel Marchand now looked like a candle whose wick had all but been extinguished. Through the windows Sylvie detected the flickering shadows cast by lamps and candles.
Why hadn’t the emergency generator kicked in? she wondered. The old-fashioned hurricane lamps were mostly for decor, but obviously they had been pressed into service. Charlotte was nothing if not innovative.
“Oh, God,” Sylvie murmured, more to herself than to Jefferson, “the guests aren’t going to be very happy about this.”
He glanced at her. “The hotel can’t be held responsible for the blackout,” he said. “And neither can you or your family.”
She doubted that there were many people who’d agree with him. People who’d spent their hard-earned money on vacations, only to find less-than-perfect conditions, were usually eager to point fingers.
Sylvie shifted in her seat, impatient to get inside.
“No, but we’ll pay the price for the bad impression they’re going to take back home.” She pressed her lips together, remembering what Charlotte had told her just the other day. “This is one of our best weeks so far,” she explained. “We still haven’t recovered completely from Katrina.”
Just shy of the hotel’s entrance, Jefferson brought the carriage to a stop. Paul was still on duty. He hurried over, eyeing the horse and carriage skeptically. His eyes shifted toward Sylvie. “That’s kind of a different horse power than I’m used to, Ms. Marchand.”
“Relax, Paul, you won’t be parking him,” Sylvie promised. The valet extended his hands toward her, and she let him help her get down from her perch. Feet safely planted on the ground, she glanced over her shoulder at Jefferson. “Mr. Lambert commandeered the carriage when it looked like all the taxis were spoken for.”
Jefferson could have sworn he’d heard a note of admiration in her voice. He smiled to himself. It felt good being someone’s knight in shining armor. Turning in his seat, he handed the reins he’d been holding to the little man seated in the passenger seat behind him.
The carriage driver eagerly clambered onto his perch. Back in his rightful place, he nodded curtly at Jefferson.
“Not a bad driver,” he muttered. “You ever want to do this professionally, look me up. Maybe we can work something out.”
Jefferson grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind. Never know when I might need a new career.”
The next second the man was off, as if he’d suddenly reconsidered his offer and was afraid that Jefferson might take him up on it.
“Odd little man,” Sylvie commented, watching the carriage make its way through the press of cars trying to negotiate the narrow streets of the French Quarter.
“He probably wasn’t too comfortable having someone handling his horse,” Jefferson said as he took her elbow and guided her toward the revolving door.
There were candles or hurricane lamps on every available flat surface in the lobby. Under different circumstances, Sylvie might have found this incredibly romantic. Right now she had business to attend to, however.
“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” she said to Jefferson. Maybe older men were still into chivalry, which was nice, but she didn’t want him feeling obligated.
Jefferson merely smiled as they made their way through the lobby. “Trying to get rid of me?”
Actually, she was beginning to really enjoy his company
as well as appreciate it. She’d always admired resourceful people. “No, it’s just that this doesn’t exactly come under the heading of a typical date.” More like above and beyond the call of duty, she added silently.
She looked around for Charlotte, but only a few people were milling around the lobby or talking to the desk clerks.
Music floated in from the courtyard, where the revelers at the Twelfth Night party seemed to have regrouped. It made her think of the musicians who played to calm the patrons on the sinking Titanic. Cheerful thought, she admonished herself.
“In my opinion,” Jefferson was saying, “neither did that gathering we just came from.” At least, it wouldn’t have been his choice for a typical date.
She glanced at him, picking up on his disapproving tone. “I take it you don’t like performance art.”
Honesty, he’d already decided, was the right way to go. “I don’t really know what the heck that is,” he confessed.
A small furrow formed just above the spot where his eyebrows were drawn together. It made him look kind of sexy, Sylvie thought, in a scholarly sort of way. “Something else Emily put down?”
He laughed, glad she was being a good sport about this. Glad, too, that Emily had talked him into coming here. “Apparently.”
His cell phone rang just as Sylvie spotted Charlotte. He excused himself while Sylvie tapped her sister on the shoulder. “Sylvie, what are you doing here?”
“Riding to the rescue.” Charlotte had no idea how accurate that statement actually was. If it hadn’t been for the horse and carriage Jefferson had commandeered, the two of them would still be back at Maddy’s gallery. “Seeing if you could use any help.”
Relief washed over Charlotte’s features. She’d been trying to keep all the balls in the air and it felt like they were going to come crashing down on her head at any moment.
“God, could I ever.” She placed her arm around her sister’s shoulder, vaguely aware that there was someone with Sylvie and that he was talking on a cell phone. “The emergency generator’s not working and I’m worried about the paintings in the gallery,” she said bluntly. “I think we’ve got the rest of the hotel covered as best we can.”
The Setup Page 10
