by Rhodi Hawk
Madeleine allowed Sam to steer her to the main ballroom. “You’re going to be glad you came. You might just take an interest in preservation.”
Madeleine rolled her eyes.
Samantha accepted a champagne flute from a passing tray and jumped right into the business of sipping and mingling with her friends. She withdrew a pack of Capris and turned to Madeleine. “Going out to the courtyard for a puff. Wanna come?”
Madeleine waved her off. “No thanks, I want to take a look around. Let me know if you hear anything about you-know-who.”
Sam nodded, and then said, “I know you’re here on a mission, but try to relax a little, OK? This is supposed to be fun.”
She strode away, disappearing into the laughter beyond the French doors. The crowd stuttered along, flowing from reception to the ballroom with the rhythm of blood through an artery. No sign of Daddy. Madeleine felt a prickling at the back of her neck. That sense of being watched. She turned, and blinked in surprise.
“Hello, Madeleine.”
“Oh. Hello, Zenon.”
HE WAS STANDING ONLY a few feet away, one shoulder dropped and a hand in his pocket, the other hand holding a mixed drink—what looked like a scotch and soda.
“You looking fine tonight Maddy.” Zenon’s manner of speech assumed a kind of intimacy that caused the hair to rise on her skin, his stare traveling the length of her as if taking liberties. “Mighty fine, yeah.”
She didn’t reply. She felt an odd vibration in her blood. A rise in temperature that triggered a sheen at her neck. She looked away.
But he took a step forward, and the sensation intensified. His gaze invaded her with a long, thin trail of heat along her skin, blazing a wake of sweat over each curve.
“Zenon, I . . .”
She thought of the conversation at the flower shop, and how Anita had spoken of him. Madeleine had never thought of Zenon in that way before, but now . . . No, it wasn’t attraction. It seemed more like a strange kind of intrusion. She’d felt this way once before when her home was burglarized. And as Zenon stood opposite her now she sensed the nearness of his abdomen, his lean build, a teenage memory of his plate armor muscles that tensed as he’d once labored in his yard in Bayou Black. She’d seen him that way, skin glistening in the sun as he’d bent his back to overgrown shrubs, or leaned over the open hood of a throwaway car he’d salvaged.
She tried to shake away the sensation. “Zenon . . .”
His gray eyes held steady.
She scraped her teeth together. “I didn’t . . . I . . . I didn’t know you . . . you cared anything about historic preservation.”
He said nothing at first, but the affront in his eyes hinted that he knew she was trying to escape the moment.
Mercifully, he played along. His words came slow and deep. “People nowadays, they wanna do everything lackadaisical. It’s only in the older buildings that you find a true sense of craftsmanship. Besides.” He turned to the side, and Madeleine followed his gaze to the ballroom, where a wheelchair held the glowering form of Chloe LeBlanc. “Miss Chloe convinced me to come here tonight.”
“Chloe?” Madeleine gave a start.
He returned her gaze. “I’ve been helping her out in a few matters.”
Madeleine was puzzled. But the longer she stood in silence, the deeper she slid back into the quicksand of his gaze, and she wrestled to free herself from it. He had her on a thread and he knew it. And he seemed to want to keep her there.
Her senses burned. A strangely familiar cobweb settled over her mind, a betrayal, and her hands lifted almost of their own volition. They settled over her belly and felt the sleek satin fabric, a delicate overlay that heated when layered between the skin of her torso and that of her hands. And those hands wanted to move higher, up above her ribs.
Her heart raced. She felt exposed, unclean. It was as if she couldn’t control her own movements. She turned away from him abruptly, hands shaking. Her eyes focused beyond the corridor, to the cool white marble of the entrance hall.
She blurted, “Have you seen my father?”
She heard blood throbbing at her ears and was unwilling to meet his gaze. But Zenon did not reply. He fell silent, and remained that way until she dared to look upon him again. And when she did she saw that his eyes had changed. The intensity had dimmed to frustration. He looked away, seeming to cast his thoughts elsewhere.
“Daddy Blank. I don’t know.” He snorted and looked down, and then up at her again. “Look, I’m sorry about Marc. Been meaning to tell you.”
She swallowed.
“We were real close when we were kids, remember?” he said. “You and me and Marc? Things changed over the years and that’s a damn shame. Marc was one of the good ones, yeah. I think he might’ve done something that he weren’t proud of.”
This left a bad taste in her mouth. Marc’s sense of guilt over the electrocution had been plain to everyone. And the usual arguments reared in her head: an accident; in the electrical field this was a common tragedy.
Zenon watched her face as he spoke. “Wish I could have talked to Marc before he shot hisself.”
Madeleine wavered. Tears emerged and she shook her head. “It’s all right Zenon. We all have regrets.”
He stepped toward her. “Do we?”
She straightened her back.
The intensity returned to his stare. “Is that how it goes then, Madeleine? We just keep fighting our instincts and leave it at having regrets?”
And at once the tide of heat washed over her again. Fierce and ringing, saturating every cell. So sudden it stole the breath from her lungs. And somehow she knew that he was doing something to her. The scientist disconnected from her body and observed that these compulsions were not her own. And yet that didn’t make any sense. She took a step backward. He caught her wrist.
“How long you gonna fight it?” His eyes, stark and blue, forced their unsanctioned gaze into her.
She shook her head. “Stop. Zenon, don’t.”
And she yanked away, but he held her firm. His stare gripped her with the same intensity that he gripped her wrist.
“Don’t what? Stir up some primitive urge? I think you’d like that, yeah. I think you’d like that a whole lot. Don’t struggle with me, chère, you might just stir it up in me.”
And she felt him sweep her in. A whirlpool devoid of oxygen or emotion or anything but the most basic, instinctual causations. And her mind did struggle.
“Stop it!” She wrenched herself from him.
His eyes lit, and his lips parted to a gleam of teeth. A look that sent fear charging through her.
But someone stepped between them, the height of his shoulders forming a barrier between Madeleine and Zenon.
“Excuse me. I’m a friend of Miss Madeleine. Have we met?”
She saw the clean, strong neck stretching below cropped brown hair, and realized it was Ethan Manderleigh. His words conveyed spotless polite, but the posture was that of a rooster ready to sharpen his talons.
Beyond his shoulder, she saw that Zenon’s jaw was set. He gave Madeleine one last hard stare and then cut his eyes to Ethan. Zenon’s face showed abject fury, and he clenched his fist. For a moment Madeleine thought a full-blown fight might erupt.
Instead, Zenon turned without a word and walked away, his houndlike gait threading the crowd.
Madeleine exhaled.
ETHAN TURNED TO LOOK at Madeleine. The parallel lines of his brow, eyes, and jaw formed clean planes. And, Madeleine noted, those parallels seemed vastly serene in comparison to the pointed angles of Zenon’s face.
“You all right, Madeleine?”
Her breathing slowed. “Yes, thank you Ethan.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt, but when I saw you across the room it looked like he was being disrespectful. You want me to go after him?”
She laughed, embarrassed. “No, that’s not necessary. Zenon’s an old acquaintance from way back when.”
Ethan shook his head, gaze narrowing
toward the foyer where Zenon was now leaving the gala. “As you say, ma’am. We’ll let him off this time.”
Madeleine felt so relieved to see Zenon go that she had to fight a new impulse: to clutch Ethan’s arm and take counted breaths until her pulse returned to normal. She noticed he was holding a shiny black cane with a ball handle. It seemed an eccentric way to round out his black tie ensemble.
He looked at her. “You sure you’re all right? I was so sorry to hear about your brother.”
Madeleine nodded, and felt the ache return to her chest. “Daddy and I received the flowers you sent. Thank you. Ethan, I don’t suppose you’ve seen my father lately?”
He considered this. “Haven’t seen Daddy Blank since the day he introduced me to you. Is he here tonight?”
“I don’t know. We had a . . . mishap. I came here hoping I’d find him.”
Ethan nodded. “Well I’m sure he’ll show. I remember him talking about this thing. Says it’s liable to raise all kinda funding.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Ethan gave her a wink. “Don’t worry. We’ll wring out this here tuxedo rag and see if Daddy Blank don’t shake out.”
She smiled, and he offered his arm to her. “Shall we hit it together?”
And though her hands wanted to close around that proffered arm, wanted so much to absorb his warm invincibility, she felt a gate slam shut.
“Let’s divide and conquer.” The words came out sharp, sharper than she’d intended. She swallowed, trying to soften her tone, and added, “We’re more likely to find him that way.”
He blinked in surprise. Then he nodded and looked away, his gaze traveling to the foyer where Zenon had exited a few moments ago.
“You know, Dr. LeBlanc,” he said, and the return of formality seemed not so much distancing as disarming. “Old acquaintances can be replaced by new ones.”
Despite herself, she smiled at him. “An interesting notion, Dr. Manderleigh.”
And then his expression became impish. “But first dance says I find Daddy Blank before you do.”
And then he was gone.
She watched him shoulder into the crowd. To her surprise, he leaned on the cane as he walked. So the cane wasn’t a prop after all. She hadn’t noticed his limp when he’d come to her house with Daddy, but then again she hadn’t been looking.
His flirtation was charming, though he was a very dubious match for her.
Quintessential old money New Orleans. That man lives in a different world.
An idiotic thought because technically Madeleine herself was old money New Orleans. But she grew up in poverty; hadn’t been to charm school or gone sailing with the krewes. She had known nothing of her inheritance until college and had always found it hard to relate among the secretive inner circles.
Who was she kidding? She found it hard to relate in any circles.
ACROSS THE ROOM, MADELEINE saw Chloe’s houseboy moving toward her. His albinism made him look fragile, almost small and slender despite the truth of his average build. His coarse hair was yellow in contradiction to his African roots, and his broad nose and lips were also pale. But his eyes were not the trademark red or blue of an albino; they were brown.
He gave a nod. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”
“Hello.”
“S’il vous plaît, Miss Chloe would like to see you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.” And then Madeleine realized that like his mistress, he’d never offered it.
“Oran,” he said, and then turned, leading her through the crowd.
Madeleine shrugged and followed Oran to where Chloe sat in her wheelchair. “Hello Miss Chloe. I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight.”
“You see Zenon?” Chloe said.
Never much for chit-chat, that one.
The old woman coughed, a contraction of shoulders, then fixed her gaze on Madeleine again. “He told me about Marc Gilbert.”
“Oh?” Madeleine said.
“That Marc Gilbert had a young lady. You did not tell me this.”
“What? Marc had a girlfriend?”
Chloe nodded.
“Well if Zenon told you that he’s wrong. Marc wasn’t dating anyone when he passed away.”
The old woman stared at Madeleine for a long moment. “He is good for you to know, yanh?”
“Who, Zenon?”
Chloe nodded, lifting her clawlike hand toward the crowd. “These people, they are rabbits. You should talk to that boy Zenon. He is strong.”
A flash in her mind of the strange interlude only moments ago, and Madeleine shivered. “Yeah, I know him. We grew up together. He still has a fishing cabin on Bayou Black. Look, since you seem to know so much, perhaps you can tell me where my father is.”
Chloe shook her head.
Madeleine said, “Then if you’ll excuse me.”
Chloe grunted.
As Madeleine meandered back through the crowd, it seemed folks were indeed talking about her father. Little snippets of conversation trickled through—whispers that ceased when people realized Madeleine was standing nearby—and it sounded like all of New Orleans had heard about what happened in D.C. She tried not to seethe.
But Daddy Blank was not the only name on people’s lips. Madeleine also overheard buzz about Joe Whitney, a prominent criminal defense attorney and member of the Historic Preservation Society. He was also a longtime family acquaintance, though not always a welcome one.
The gossip centered around a sprawling mega-mart slated for construction in one of New Orleans’s historic districts. Apparently Whitney had helped the mega-mart get the municipal zoning it needed to start construction, and people were furious.
Madeleine spotted Ethan standing near the buffet surrounded by a group of sparkling young ladies. They all smiled and laughed, and Madeleine thought he seemed to belong there among them. A polished pendant in a string of pearls. Ethan Manderleigh was suited to them, she thought. Not to her and her crazy world.
But as if in defiance to her thoughts, Ethan looked up and caught her eye. He smiled and shook his head. No sign of Daddy.
One of the ladies followed his gaze, a green-eyed beauty who looked inquisitively toward Madeleine. Maddy nodded and smiled, and then she found Sam and strode for the safety of her company.
Samantha was standing among a small group of preservationists who were elegantly coiffed and gilded in their finest. They were ranting about Joe Whitney as if he were the Antichrist, a tirade all-too-familiar to Madeleine’s ears. (Joe Goddamn Whitney! Daddy would say. Can you believe he calls himself a preservationist?) Madeleine had never thought much of Joe either, but when his wife died about a year ago she’d felt sorry for him.
“Joe Whitney’s got some nerve helping that monster get built,” Sam railed.
“Tchoupitoulas is overrun with strip centers as it is,” a woman in blue chiffon said. “They can put that thing outside the historic areas, not here. We’ll lose all the little Mom-and-Pops on Magazine.”
Madeleine stepped into the circle.
“Hey there, Maddy,” Sam said.
She took Madeleine’s elbow and looked as though she was about to introduce her around, but there came the sound of silverware tapping on crystal, and the conversation halted. Madeleine looked over to where someone was beginning to make a toast.
Beside her, Samantha gasped.
At the center of the ballroom, raising his glass to engage the crowd, stood Daddy Blank.
ten
NEW ORLEANS, 2009
ACROSS THE STREET, THE house stood quiet, orange light glowing at the windows. Madeleine’s friend Samantha lived there. The little dog, Jasmine, was there now. Zenon took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. Dr. Madeleine LeBlanc. All puffed up but still just some little black girl with Creole blue eyes. A little discipline would straighten her right out.
He’d been watching even before the gala, so he knew Madeleine had dropped Jasmine off here to play with Samantha’s dogs, an Ai
redale mix and an Akita. That little terrier was the smallest of the bunch but she seemed to rule the pack.
Now, as he watched, Samantha’s house suddenly rang with the sound of barking.
He craned his neck to see what had caused the fuss and saw a raccoon lumbering across the driveway. It hesitated when it heard the commotion.
Zenon grinned, focusing his mind to encourage the coon forward. It waddled up the steps and began rummaging for food among the potted plants.
The tiny shotgun-style house reverberated with the dogs’ protests, and they raged at the window. Even from his hiding place across the street Zenon could see the mammoth one, Moose, hurl himself at the miniblinds. This made a terrific crash, and the coon darted off the porch. The dogs howled in victory.
The Akita leapt forward and slammed the blinds again, filling the air with another screech of metal on metal. Jasmine and the Airedale then took their own turns, and the Airedale caught some in his teeth as he sailed through the air, wrenching long sheaths free from the network of blinds.
Zenon smiled. The dogs were clearly having fun. Time to have a little fun of his own.
A glance at his watch confirmed Madeleine and Samantha wouldn’t return for a good while. He stubbed out his cigarette and emerged from his hiding place. He was still wearing fancy party clothes, but what the hell.
DADDY BLANK ADDRESSED THE forest of gowns and tuxedos, calling focus upon himself as he rang his spoon against his glass. His tux shone sleek like the plumage of a blackbird, the chain of his pocket watch gleaming in a dip of gold from his cummerbund to his pocket. Madeleine moved through the crowd with Sam in tow.
“My friends,” he said. “The good folks on the board of advisors have done a tremendous job organizing our efforts in rebuilding New Orleans, this beautiful city, I dare say the pride of the South. Not to mention they know how to throw one hell of a party.”
