by Anne Rice
“They look like the original plans,” he said. “They may have been drawn by Darcy himself. Come on. I left them up there. They’re so fragile.”
She went with him up the stairs. How fresh it all looked with the new paint; even Deirdre’s room was lovely now, the way it should have always been.
“Nothing’s the matter, is it?” he asked.
Wouldn’t he know? she thought. Wouldn’t he have to sense it? And to think she had to wear the damned thing at the wedding. Her great dream of the Mayfair Medical Center, and everything else would go right out the window if she didn’t. He’d go crazy when she told him. And she couldn’t bear to see the scared look in his eyes again. She couldn’t bear to see him agitated and weak, that was the truth of it.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I was just downtown all morning with the lawyers again, and I missed you.” She threw her arms around him, nuzzling her head under his chin. “I really really missed you.”
Thirty-eight
NO ONE SEEMED the least surprised at the news. Aaron drank a toast with them over breakfast, and then went back to work in the library at First Street, where at Rowan’s invitation he was cataloging the rare books.
Smooth-talking Ryan of the cold blue eyes came by Tuesday afternoon, to shake Michael’s hand. In a few words of pleasant conversation, he made it clear that he was impressed with Michael’s accomplishments, which could only mean of course that Michael had been investigated, through the regular financial channels, just as if he were bidding on a job.
“It’s all sort of annoying, I’m sure,” Ryan admitted finally, “investigating the fiancée of the designee of the Mayfair legacy, but you see, I don’t have much choice in the matter … ”
“I don’t mind,” Michael said with a little laugh. “Anything you couldn’t find out and you wanna know, just ask.”
“Well, for starters, how did you ever do so well without committing a crime?”
Michael laughed off the flattery. “When you see this house in a couple of months,” he said, “you’ll understand.” But he wasn’t fool enough to think his modest fortune had impressed this man. What were a couple of million in blue chip securities compared to the Mayfair legacy? No, this was a little talk about the geography of New Orleans-that he had come from the other side of Magazine Street, and that he still had the Irish Channel in his voice. But Michael had been too long out west to worry about something like that.
They walked together over the newly clipped grass. The new boxwood-small and trim-was now in place throughout the garden. It was possible to see the flower beds as they had been laid out a century before-to see the little Greek statues placed at the four corners of the yard.
Indeed, the entire classical plan was reemerging. The long octagonal shape of the lawn was the same as the long octagonal shape of the pool. The perfectly square flagstones were set in a diamond pattern against the limestone balustrades which broke the patio into distinct rectangles and marked off paths which met at right angles, framing both garden and house. Old trellises had been righted so that they once again defined the gateways. And as the black paint went up on the cast-iron lace railings, it brought to life their ornate and repetitive design of curlicues and rosettes.
Yes, patterns-everywhere he looked he discerned patterns-struggling against the sprawling crepe myrtle and the glossy-leafed camellias, and the antique rose as it fought its way up the trellis, and against the sweet little four o’clocks which fought for light in the brightest patches of unhindered sun.
Beatrice, very dramatic in a great pink hat and large square silver-rimmed glasses, met with Rowan at two o’clock to discuss the wedding. Rowan had set the date for Saturday a week. “Less than a fortnight!” Beatrice declared with alarm. No, everything had to be done right. Didn’t Rowan understand what the marriage would mean to the family? People would want to come from Atlanta and New York.
It couldn’t be done before the last of October. And surely Rowan would want the renovations of the house to be complete. It meant so much to everyone to see the house.
All right, said Rowan, she guessed she and Michael could wait that long, especially if it meant they could spend their wedding night in the house, and the reception could be held here.
Definitely, said Michael; that would give him almost eight solid weeks to get things in shape. Certainly the main floor could be finished and the front bedroom upstairs.
“It would be a double celebration, then, wouldn’t it?” said Bea. “Your wedding, and the reopening of the house. Darlings, you will make everyone so very happy.”
And yes, every Mayfair in creation must be invited. Now Beatrice went to her list of caterers. The house could hold a thousand if tents were arranged over the pool and over the lawn. No, not to worry. And the children could swim, couldn’t they?
Yes, it would be like old times, it would be like the days of Mary Beth. Would Rowan like to have some old photographs of the last parties given before Stella died?
“We’ll gather all the photographs for the reception,” said Rowan. “It can be a reunion. We’ll put out the photographs for everyone to enjoy.”
“It’s going to be marvelous.”
Suddenly Beatrice reached out and took Michael’s hand.
“May I ask you a question, darling? Now that you’re one of the family? Why in the world do you wear these horrible gloves?”
“I see things when I touch people,” he said before he could stop himself.
Her large gray eyes brightened. “Oh, that’s most intriguing. Did you know Julien had that power? That’s what they always told me. And Mary Beth too. Oh, darling, please let me.” She began to roll the leather back, her long pink almond-shaped fingernails lightly scraping his skin as she did it. “Please? May I? You don’t mind?” She ripped the glove off and held it up with a triumphant yet innocent smile.
He did nothing. He remained passive, his hand open, fingers slightly curled. He watched as she laid her hand on his, and then squeezed his hand firmly. In a flash the random images crowded into his head. The miscellany came and went so fast he caught none of it-merely the atmosphere, the wholesomeness, the equivalent of sunshine and fresh air, and the very distinct register of Innocent. Not one of them.
“What did you see?” she asked.
He saw her lips stop moving before the words came clear.
“Nothing,” he said as he drew back. “It’s considered to be the absolute confirmation of goodness, and good fortune. Nothing. No misery, no sadness, no illness, nothing at all.” And in a way, that had been perfectly true.
“Oh, you are a darling,” she said, blank-faced and sincere, and then swooped in to kiss him. “Where did you ever find such a person?” she asked Rowan. And without waiting for an answer, she said, “I like you both! And that’s better than loving you, for that’s expected, you know. But liking you, what a curious surprise. You really are the most adorable couple, you with your blue eyes, Michael, and Rowan with that scrumptious butterscotch voice! I could kiss you on your eyes every time you smile at me-and don’t do it now, how dare you? – and I could kiss her on her throat every time she utters a word! A single solitary word!”
“May I kiss you on the cheek, Beatrice?” he asked tenderly.
“Cousin Beatrice to you, you gorgeous hunk of man,” she said with a little theatrical pat of her heaving bosom. “Do it!” She shut her eyes tight, and then opened them with another dramatic and radiant smile.
Rowan was merely smiling at them both in a vague, bemused fashion. And now it was time for Beatrice to take her downtown to Ryan’s office. Interminable legal matters. How horrible. Off they went.
He realized the black leather glove had fallen to the grass. He picked it up, and put it on.
Not one of them …
But who had been speaking? Who had been digesting and relaying that information? Maybe he was simply getting better at it, learning to ask the questions, as Aaron had tried to teach him to do.
Truth
was, he hadn’t paid much attention to that aspect of the lessons. He mainly wanted to shut the power off. Whatever the case, there had, for the first time since the debacle of the jars, been a clear and distinct message. In fact, it was infinitely more concise and authoritative than the majority of the awful signals he’d received that day. It had been as clear as Lasher’s prophecy in its own way.
He looked up slowly. Surely there was someone on the side porch, in the deep shade, watching him. But he saw nothing. Only the painters at work on the cast iron. The porch looked splendid now that the old screen had been stripped away and the makeshift wooden railings removed. It was a bridge between the long double parlor and the beautiful lawn.
And here we will be married, he thought dreamily. And as if to answer the great crepe myrtles caught the breeze, dancing, their light pink blossoms moving gracefully against the blue sky.
When he got back to the hotel that afternoon, there was an envelope waiting for him from Aaron. He tore it open even before he reached the suite. Once the door was soundly shut on the world, he pulled out the thick glossy color photograph and held it to the light.
A lovely dark-haired woman gazed out at him from the divine gloom spun by Rembrandt-alive, smiling the very same smile he had only just seen on Rowan’s lips. The Mayfair emerald gleamed in this masterly twilight. So painfully real the illusion, that he had the feeling the cardboard on which it was printed might melt and leave the face floating, gossamer as a ghost, in the air.
But was this his Deborah, the woman he had seen in the visions? He didn’t know. No shock of recognition came to him no matter how long he studied it.
Taking off the gloves and handling it yielded nothing, only the maddeningly meaningless images of intermediaries and incidental persons he had come by now to expect. And as he sat on the couch holding the photograph, he knew it would have been the same had he touched the old oil painting itself.
“What do you want of me?” he whispered.
Out of innocence and out of time, the dark-haired girl smiled back at him. A stranger. Caught forever in her brief and desperate girlhood. Fledgling witch and nothing more.
But somebody had told him something this afternoon when Beatrice’s hand had touched his! Somebody had used the power for some purpose. Or was it simply his own inner voice?
He put aside his gloves, as he was accustomed to do now when alone here, and picked up his pen and his notebook, and began to write.
“Yes, it was a small constructive use of the power, I think. Because the images were subordinate to the message. I’m not sure that ever happened before, not even the day I touched the jars. The messages were mingled with the images, and Lasher was speaking to me directly, but it was mixed together. This was quite something else.”
And what if he were to touch Ryan’s hand tonight at dinner, when they all gathered around the candlelighted table in the Caribbean Room downstairs? What would the inner voice tell him? For the first time, he found himself eager to use the power. Perhaps because this little experiment with Beatrice had turned out so well.
He had liked Beatrice. He had seen perhaps what he wanted to see. An ordinary human being, a part of the great wave of the real which meant so much to him and to Rowan.
“Married by November 1. God, I have to call Aunt Viv. She’ll be so disappointed if I don’t call.”
He put the photograph on Rowan’s bedside table for her to see.
There was a lovely flower there, a white flower that looked like a familiar lily, yet somehow different. He picked it up, examining it, trying to figure why it looked so strange, and then he realized it was much longer than any lily he’d ever seen, and its petals seemed unusually fragile.
Pretty. Rowan must have picked it when she was walking back from the house. He went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and put the lily in it, and brought it back to the table.
He didn’t remember about touching Ryan’s hand until the dinner was long over and he was alone upstairs again, with his books. He was glad he hadn’t done it. The dinner had been too much fun, what with young Pierce regaling them with old legends of New Orleans-all the lore he remembered but which Rowan had never heard-and entertaining little anecdotes about the various cousins, all of it loosely strung together in a natural and beguiling way. But Pierce’s mother, Gifford, a trim, beautifully groomed brunette, and also a Mayfair by birth, had stared at him and Rowan fearfully and silently throughout the meal, and talked almost not at all.
And of course the whole dinner was, for him, another one of those secretly satisfying moments-comparing this night to the event of his boyhood when Aunt Viv had come from San Francisco to visit his mother, and he had dined in a real restaurant-the Caribbean Room-for the very first time.
And to think, Aunt Viv would be here before the end of next week. She was confused, but she was coming. What a load off his mind.
He’d sock her away in some nice comfortable condominium on St. Charles Avenue-one of the new brick town houses with the pretty mansard roofs and the French windows. Something right on the Mardi Gras parade route so she could watch from her balcony. In fact, he ought to be scanning the want ads now. She could take cabs anywhere she had to go. And then he’d break it to her very gently that he wanted her to stay down here, that he didn’t want to go back to California, that the house on Liberty Street wasn’t home to him anymore.
About midnight, he left his architecture books and went into the bedroom. Rowan was just switching off the light.
“Rowan,” he said, “if you saw that thing you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“What are you talking about, Michael?”
“If you saw Lasher, you’d tell me. Right away.”
“Of course I would,” she said. “Why would you even ask me that? Why don’t you put away the picture books and come to bed?”
He saw that the picture of Deborah had been propped up behind the lamp. And the pretty white lily in the water glass was standing in front of the picture.
“Lovely, wasn’t she?” Rowan said. “I don’t suppose there is a way in the world to get the Talamasca to part with the original painting.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not likely. But you know that flower is really remarkable. This afternoon, when I put it in the glass, I could swear it had only a single bloom, and now there are three large blooms, look at it. I must not have noticed the buds.”
She looked puzzled. She reached out, took the flower carefully from the water and studied it. “What kind of lily is it?” she asked.
“Well, it’s kind of like what we used to call an Easter lily, but they don’t bloom at this time of year. I don’t know what it is. Where did you get it?”
“Me? I’ve never seen it before.”
“I assumed you’d picked it somewhere.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Their eyes met. She was the first to look away, raising her eyebrows slowly, and then giving a little tilt to her head. She put the lily back in the glass. “Maybe a little gift from someone.”
“Why don’t I throw it away?” he said.
“Don’t get upset, Michael. It’s just a flower. He’s full of little tricks, remember?”
“I’m not upset, Rowan. It’s just that it’s already withering. Look at it, it’s turning brown, and it looks weird. I don’t like it.”
“All right,” she said, very calmly. “Throw it away.” She smiled. “But don’t worry about anything!”
“Of course not. What is there to worry about? Just a three-hundred-year-old demon with a mind of his own, who can make flowers fly through the air. Why shouldn’t I be overjoyed about a strange lily popping up out of nowhere? Hell, maybe he did it for Deborah. What a nice thing to do.”
He turned and stared at the photograph again. Like a hundred Rembrandt subjects, his dark-haired Deborah appeared to be looking right back at him.
He was startled by Rowan’s soft little laugh. “You know, you are cute when you’re angry,” sh
e said. “But there’s probably a perfectly good explanation for how the flower got here.”
“Yeah, that’s what they always say in the movies,” he said. “And the audience knows they’re crazy.”
He took the lily into the bathroom and dropped it into the trash. It really was withering. No waste, wherever the hell it came from, he figured.
She was waiting for him when he came out, her arms folded, looking very serene and inviting. He forgot all about his books in the living room.
The next evening he walked over alone to First Street. Rowan was out with Cecilia and Clancy Mayfair, making the rounds of the city’s fashionable malls.
The house was hushed and empty when he got there. Even Eugenia was out tonight, with her two boys and their children. He had it all to himself.
Though the work was progressing wonderfully, there were still ladders and drop cloths virtually everywhere. The windows were still bare, and it was too soon to clean them. The long shutters, removed for sanding and painting, lay side by side like great long planks on the grass.
He went into the parlor, stared for a long time at his own shadowy reflection in the mirror over the first fireplace, the tiny red light of his cigarette like a firefly in the dark.
A house like this is never quiet, he thought. Even now he could hear a low singing of creaks and snaps in the rafters and the old floors. You could have sworn someone was walking upstairs, if you didn’t know better. Or that far back in the kitchen, someone had just closed a door. And that funny noise, it was like a baby crying, far far away.
But nobody else was here. This wasn’t the first night he’d slipped away to test the house and test himself. And he knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Slowly he walked back through the dining room, through the shadowy kitchen and out the French doors. A flood of soft light bathed the night around him, pouring from the lanterns on the freshly restored cabana, and from the underwater lights of the pool. It shone on the neatly trimmed hedges and trees, and on the cast-iron furniture, all sanded and newly painted, and arranged in little groups on the clean-swept flagstones.
