Midnight Bayou

by Нора Робертс

  "Speak for yourself. Find cabs. We must find cabs.”

  "Cab to Effie. Where's my blushin' bride?”

  "Home in bed, like every other good woman is at …" He lifted Remy's wrist, tried to focus on the watch. "Whatever o'clock in the morning. Lena, she's in bed. She thinks I'm a woman.”

  "You must not be fucking her right then.”

  "No, you ass. And remind me to punch you for that later. She thinks I'm Abigail.”

  "You haven't been trying on her underwear or anything weird like that, have you, son?”

  "I like the little black lace panties with the roses best. They slim down my hips.”

  "Pretty sure you're joking. Wait." He stopped, leaned over the curb, hands braced on his knees. Then slowly straightened again. "False alarm. Not gonna puke.”

  "There's good news. Cab!" Declan waved desperately when he saw one cruising. "In the name of God. You first," he said and all but shoved Remy inside before diving in after.

  "Where do I live?" Remy demanded. "I used to know, but I forgot. Can I call Effie and ask her?”

  Fortunately Declan remembered, and as Remy snoozed on his shoulder, he concentrated on remaining conscious until he fulfilled the last of his duties and got his friend home alive.

  At the curb, he elbowed Remy and brought him up like an arrow from a bow. "What? Where? Sum bitch, I'm home. How 'bout that?”

  "Can you make it from here?" Declan asked him.

  "I can hold my liquor. All six gallons of it." Shifting, Remy caught Declan's face in his hand and kissed him hard on the mouth. "I love you, cher. But if you'd been Abigail, I'd've slipped you some tongue.”

  "Ugh," was the best Declan could manage as Remy climbed out.

  "You're the goddamnedest best friend I ever had, and that was the goddamnedest best bachelor's party in the history of bachelor's parties. I'm gonna go up, puke, and pass out now.”

  "You do that. Wait till he gets in the door," Declan told the driver, and watched Remy waver, split in two. Both of them stumbled inside the building.

  "Okay, the rest is his business. You know where the old Manet Hall is?”

  The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror. "I guess I do.”

  "I live there. Take me home, okay?”

  "That's a long way out." The driver shifted, turned, eyed Declan up and down. "You got enough for the fare?”

  "I got money. I got lotsa money." Declan pawed through his pockets, came up with bills, littered the cab with them. "I'm loaded.”

  "You're telling me." With a shake of his head, the driver pulled away from the curb. "M/'ve been some party, buddy.”

  "Tell me," Declan muttered, then slid face first on the backseat.

  The next thing he knew, clearly, a Dixieland band was blasting in his head. He was still facedown, but the beach of Waikiki had ended up in his mouth and his tongue had grown a fine fur coat.

  Some sadist was hammering spikes into his shoulder.

  "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.”

  "No point falling back on that now. Just roll over nice and slow, cher. Don't open your eyes yet.”

  "I'm dying here. Call a priest.”

  "Here now, Lena's got you." Gently and with great amusement, she eased him over, supported his head. "Just swallow this.”

  He glugged, choked, felt something vile wash over the fur, through the sand and down his throat. In defense, he tried to push the glass away from his lips, and opened his eyes.

  He'd go to his grave denying the sound that had come out of his mouth had in any way resembled a girlish scream.

  Lena clucked her tongue. "I told you not to open your eyes.”

  "What eyes? What eyes? They've been burned to cinders.”

  "Drink the rest.”

  "Go away, go very far away, and take your poison with you.”

  "That's no way to talk to someone who's come to tend you on your deathbed.”

  He slid back down, dragged a pillow over his face. "How'd you know I was dying?”

  "Effie called.”

  "When's Remy's funeral?”

  "Fortunately, he's marrying a woman with a great deal of tolerance, understanding and humor. How many titty bars did y'all hit last night?”

  "All of them. All the titty bars in all the land.”

  "I suppose that explains why you have a pasty on your cheek.”

  "I do not." But when he groped under the pillow, he felt the tassel. "Oh God. Have some mercy and just kill me.”

  "Well, all right, honey." She applied just enough pressure to the pillow to have him flapping his hands and shoving up.

  His face was flushed, his bloodshot eyes just a little wild. "That wasn't funny.”

  "You had to see it from this side." And she laughed. He still wore his clothes, the wrinkled, liquor-spotted shirt half in, half out of his jeans. Another pasty peeked out of the shirt pocket. This one was pink and silver. His eyes were narrowed to a pained squint.

  "You're going to feel better in a bit-not good but better. You get a shower and some food, on top of that potion I poured into you, you'll get the feeling back in your extremities in two, maybe three hours.”

  Someone had shaved the fur off his tongue, he discovered. He wasn't sure it was an improvement. "What was in that stuff you gave me?”

  "You don't want to know, but I laced it with four aspirin, so don't take any more for a while. I'm going to fix you a nice light omelette and some toast.”

  "Why?”

  "Because you look so pitiful." She started to kiss him, then jerked back, waving a hand between them. "Christ Jesus, do something about that breath, cher, before you kill someone with it.”

  "Who asked you?”

  "And make that a long shower. You smell like the barroom floor." She pushed to her feet. "How come nobody's around here today?”

  "In anticipation of a hangover, I let it be known that anyone who came around this house before three in the afternoon would be executed without trial.”

  She checked her watch. "Looks like you got a few hours yet.”

  "If I have to get out of this bed, I'm getting a gun. I'll feel bad about killing you, but I'll do it.”

  "I'll be in the kitchen." She cocked a brow. "Bring your gun, cher, and we'll see if you remember how to use it.”

  "Is that a euphemism?" he called after her, then immediately regretted raising his voice. Holding his head to keep it in place, he eased creakily out of bed.

  She chuckled all the way downstairs. Laughed harder when she heard a door slam. Bet he's sorry he did that, she thought, then stopped, looked back when she heard another two slams.

  Ah well … she supposed he couldn't threaten ghosts with a gun.

  "Make all the racket you want," she said as she headed back toward the kitchen. "You don't worry me any.”

  The library doors shook as she passed them. She ignored them. If a surly, smelly man didn't chase her off, a mean-tempered ghost wouldn't.

  He'd looked so damn cute, she thought as she hunted up the coffee beans. All pale and male and cross. And with that silly pasty plastered on his cheek.

  Men just lost half their IQ when they had a look at a naked woman. Put a pack of them together with women willing to strip to music, and they had the common sense of a clump of broccoli.

  She ground the beans, set coffee to brew. She was mixing eggs in a bowl when it occurred to her that it was the first time in her life she'd made breakfast for a man she hadn't slept with the night before.

  Wasn't that an odd thing?

  Odder still that she was humming in the kitchen of an annoyed, smelly, hungover man who'd snapped at her. Out of character, Lena. Just what's going on here?

  She'd been so intrigued by Effie's cheerful amusement over Remy's condition. And here she was, feeling the same thing over Declan's.

  She peered out the window at the garden that had been wild and abandoned only months before. It bloomed now, beautifully, with new sprigs, fresh green spearing out.

 
She'd gone and done it after all. Gone and let him sneak into her, right through the locks and bolts.

  She was in love with him. And oh God, she didn't want to be-as much for his sake as for her own.

  He'd blown the dust off those young dreams she'd so rigidly put away. The ones colored with love and hope and trust. They were so shiny now that they were staring her in the face. So shiny they blinded her.

  And terrified her.

  Marriage. The man wanted marriage, and she didn't believe in making promises unless you'd shed blood to keep them.

  Would she? Could she?

  "I think I'd want to," she said quietly. "I think I'd want to, for him.”

  As she spoke, a cupboard door flew open. A thick blue mug shot out and smashed at her feet.

  She leaped back, heart hammering as shards rained over her ankles. Grimly, she stared down at the blood seeping out of tiny nicks.

  "Seems I already have. You don't want that, do you?" Bowl still clutched in her hand, she spun a circle. "You want anything but our being together. We'll see who wins in the end, won't we? We'll just see.”

  Deliberately she reached down for one of the shards, then ran it over her thumb. As the blood welled, she held her hand up, let it drip. "I'm not weak, as he was. If I take love, if I promise love, I'll keep it.”

  The sound of chimes had her bolting straight up. It was Declan's tune. The first ringing notes of it. Fear and wonder closed her throat, had her bobbling the bowl.

  "Goddamn it, answer the door, will you?" His voice blasted downstairs, full of bitter annoyance. "Then murder whoever rang that idiot doorbell.”

  Doorbell? She pushed her free hand through her hair. He'd installed a doorbell that played "After the Ball." Wasn't that just like him?

  "You keep shouting at me," she called as she marched down the hall, "you're going to have worse than a hangover to deal with.”

  "If you'd go away and let me die in peace, I wouldn't have to shout.”

  "In about two shakes, I'm coming up there and wringing your neck. And after I wring your neck, I'm going to kick your ass.”

  She wrenched open the door on the final threat, and found herself glaring at a very handsome couple. It took only one blink to clear the temper for her to see Declan's eyes looking curiously back at her out of the woman's face.

  "I'm Colleen Fitzgerald." The woman, tidy, blond and lovely, held out an elegant hand. "And who are you? If that's my son's ass you're intending to kick, I'd like to know your name.”

  "Mom?" Dripping from the shower, wearing nothing but ripped sweatpants, Declan rushed to the top of the stairs. "Hey! Mom, Dad." Despite the ravages of the hangover, he bolted down, threw one arm around each of them and squeezed. "I thought you were flying down tomorrow.”

  "Change of plans. Are you just getting up?" Colleen demanded. "It's after one in the afternoon.”

  "Bachelor party last night. Hard liquor, loose women.”

  "Really?" Colleen said and eyed Lena.

  "Oh, not this one. She came over to play Florence Nightingale. Colleen and Patrick Fitzgerald, Angelina Simone.”

  "Good to meet you." Patrick, long, lanky, with his dark hair gorgeously silvered at the temples, sent Lena a generous smile. His blue eyes were bright and bold as he held out a hand.

  Then they narrowed in concern as he saw her thumb. "You've hurt yourself.”

  "It's nothing.”

  "What'd you do? You're bleeding. Jesus, Lena." Panicked, Declan grabbed her wrist, all but plucked her off her feet and rushed her toward the kitchen.

  "It's just a scratch. Stop it, Declan. Your parents. You're embarrassing me," she hissed.

  "Shut up. Let me see how deep it is.”

  Still in the doorway, Patrick turned to his wife. "She's the one?”

  "He certainly thinks so." Colleen pursed her lips, stepped into the house. "Let's just see about all this.”

  "Hell of a looker.”

  "I've got eyes, Patrick." And she used them to take in the house as they followed Declan's hurried path.

  It was more, a great deal more than she'd expected. Not that she doubted her son's taste. But she'd been led to believe the house was in serious, perhaps fatal, disrepair. And what she saw now were gracious rooms, charming details, glinting glass and wood.

  And in the kitchen she saw her son, hovering over the hand of a very annoyed, very beautiful woman who looked perfectly capable of carrying out her earlier threat.

  "I beg your pardon." Lena elbowed Declan aside and smiled coolly at his parents. "I dropped a cup, that's all. It's nice to meet both of you.”

  Declan turned to root through cupboards. "You need some antiseptic and a bandage.”

  "Oh, stop fussing. You'd think I cut my hand off. And if you don't watch yourself you'll step on the shards and be worse off than I am. I'm sorry your welcome's so disrupted," she said to his parents. "I'm just going to sweep up this mess, then I'll be on my way.”

  "Where are you going?" Declan demanded. "You promised food.”

  She wondered if he could hear her teeth grinding together. "Pour what's in that bowl into a skillet, turn on the burner and you'll have food." She yanked open the broom closet. "Why aren't you getting your parents coffee or a cold drink after their long trip? They raised you better than that.”

  "We certainly did," Colleen agreed.

  "Sorry. Seeing the woman I love bleeding all over the floor distracted me.”

  "Declan." Though her voice was low, Lena's warning was loud and clear.

  "Coffee sounds great," Patrick said cheerfully. "We came here straight from the airport. Wanted to see this place-and you, too, Dec," he added with a wink.

  "Where's your luggage?”

  "Had it sent to the hotel. Son, this place is enormous. A lot of space for one man.”

  "Lena and I want four kids.”

  She heaved the broken shards into the trash and rounded on him.

  "Okay, three," he amended without a hitch in his stride. "But that's my final offer.”

  "I've had enough of this." She shoved the broom and dustpan into his hands. "You clean up your own messes. I hope you enjoy your stay," she said stiffly to Colleen and Patrick. "I'm late for work.”

  She strode out the back because it was closer, and fought off the towering urge to slam the door until the windows cracked.

  "Isn't she beautiful?" Declan said with a huge grin. "Isn't she perfect?”

  "You annoyed and embarrassed her," Colleen told him.

  "Good. I tend to make more progress that way. Let me get the coffee, then I'll show you around.”

  An hour later, Declan sat with his mother on the rear gallery while Patrick– who'd lost the debate-made sandwiches.

  The worst of the hangover had receded. Declan imagined he had whatever mysterious potion Lena had given him to thank for it-and the pleasure of seeing her in the same room as his parents.

  Jeez, he'd missed them, he thought. He'd had no idea how much he'd missed them until he'd seen them.

  "So," he said at length, "are you going to tell me what you think?”

  "Yes." But she continued to sit and look out over his gardens. "Warm, isn't it? Early in the year to be so warm, I'd think.”

  "Actually, it's cooler today. You should've been here a couple days ago. You could've poached eggs out here.”

  She heard the way he said it, with a kind of pride. "You were never a big fan of the cold. Even when we went skiing, you'd prefer rattling around the lodge to charging down the slopes.”

  "Skiing's something people invented so they can pretend snow's fun."

  "See if we invite you to Vermont this season." But her hand moved over, touched his. "The house is beautiful, Declan. Even what you haven't gotten to yet is beautiful, in its way. I liked to think your fiddling with tools and wood and so on was a nice little hobby. I preferred to think that. As long as you were a lawyer, it was probable you'd stay in Boston. You'd stay close. I dreaded seeing you go, so I made it hard on you. I'm not sorry.
You're my baby," she said, and touched him in the deepest chamber of his heart.

  "I don't have to be in Boston to be close.”

  She shook her head. "You won't come swinging in the house unexpectedly. We won't run into you in restaurants or at parties or the theater. That's a wrench in me, one you'll understand when you have those three or four children.”

  "I don't want you to be sad.”

  "Well, of course I'm sad. Don't be a boob. I love you, don't I?”

  "You keep saying so," he said playfully.

  She looked at him, gray eyes steady on gray eyes. "Lucky for both of us, I love you enough to know when to let go. You found your place here. I won't deny I hoped you wouldn't, but since you have, I'm glad for you. Damn it.”

  "Thanks." He leaned over, kissed her.

  "Now, as for this woman …”

  "Lena.”

  "I know her name, Declan," Colleen said dryly. "As a potential mother-in-law, I'm entitled to refer to her as `this woman` until I get to know her a little better. As for this woman, she's nothing like what I'd imagined for you. Not when I imagined you climbing up the ranks in the law firm, buying a house close by and within easy access to the country club. Jessica would have suited my requirements as daughter-in-law quite well in that scenario. A good, challenging tennis partner who plays a decent hand of bridge and has the skill to chair the right committees.”

  "Maybe you should adopt Jessica.”

  "Be quiet, Declan." Colleen's voice was mild-and steel. Lena would have recognized the tone instantly. "I'm not finished. Jessica, however well suited for me, was very obviously not suited for you. You weren't happy, and I'd begun to see, and to worry about that just before you broke it off. I tried to convince myself it was just pre-wedding jitters, but I knew better.”

  "It wouldn't have hurt for you to clue me in on that one.”

  "Maybe not, but I was annoyed with you.”

  "Tell me.”

  "Don't sass, young man, especially when I'm about to be sentimental. You were always a happy child. Bright, clever, a smart tongue, but I respect that. You had, I'd call it, a bounce in your heart. And you lost it. I see you've gotten that back today. I saw it in your eyes again when you looked at Lena.”

  He took Colleen's hand, rubbed it against his cheek. "You called her Lena.”