Mimosa Grove

by Sharon Sala

And while he was racing through the bayou, Laurel suddenly jerked, then sat straight up. She was staring past Harper’s shoulder so intently that he turned to look, half expecting to see a ghost of some kind awaiting him at the foot of the stairs. But when she stood abruptly and started waving her hands, Harper knew their prayers had been answered.

  “I see the light! I see the light!” Laurel cried.

  “Where is it?” Harper asked.

  “There,” Laurel said, pointing over Harper’s right shoulder toward the front door of Mimosa Grove.

  “You’re on her right, Justin! She sees you! She sees you!”

  Justin swerved immediately, just missing a large growth of cypress knees jutting up from the bayou.

  “God help me,” he whispered as he peered through the intense downpour, seeing nothing silhouetted in the light but swamp and rain.

  “Help me… help me!” Laurel cried, and started waving and jumping up and down.

  Within seconds, the spotlight on the bow of Justin’s fishing boat swept past her, but he’d seen the motion. He corrected his direction, and then he saw her—looking even tinier in the dark, but alive and moving just the same.

  “I see her! I see her!” Justin yelled, then stuffed the radio into a waterproof bag in the floor of the boat and gunned the motor.

  As he drew closer, it appeared as if Rachelle was standing on water. The image made him think of the story in the Bible where Jesus had walked on water; then he remembered hearing her say that she was standing on a stump.

  He idled the boat as close to the little girl as he could get, but each time he tried to reach for her, the rapid flow of the water would pull his boat away. If she’d been a little older, or if he had not been alone, retrieving her from the submerged stump would have been easier. Each time he came toward her, she was too blinded by the searchlight to see what he was trying to do.

  Then, after several futile tries, he realized she was trying to walk to him. If she stepped off that stump and into the swiftly moving flood waters, she would be gone and there would be nothing he could do to save her.

  “Hang on, bébé. Stay there! Don’t move!” he yelled. “Uncle Justin will come to you.”

  ***

  All the time that Laurel had been clutching the jacket, she’d been so locked into Rachelle Moutan’s fear that she’d been unable to voice her own thoughts. And even though she’d been aware of the other voice on Harper Fonteneau’s radio, she’d been unable to connect to him in any way.

  Through Rachelle’s eyes, she’d seen the first glimmer of the searchlight as the boat had come through the storm. She’d felt the acceleration of the little girl’s heartbeat. The sound of her sobs had torn through Laurel’s heart as surely as if they’d been her own. Then she’d heard the man shouting, telling the little girl to stay there. She’d felt the child’s urge to move, and she’d added her own silent plea to make her stay still.

  The light on the boat was in her eyes now. She could hear the sound of the engine blending with the wind and the rain. The smell of gasoline scorched the insides of her nostrils as the man turned the boat sideways, trying to get close enough to snatch the child from the stump.

  She felt Rachelle’s hesitation again, and again she silently told her to wait for help to come to her. Once she felt the child touching her own face, as if in disbelief that she was hearing voices from within, but Laurel couldn’t lessen her connection to the child for fear she would come to harm. So she waited, watching through Rachelle’s eyes as the light centered on the stump, watching as a shadowy figure suddenly went over the side of the boat and started swimming through the swiftly moving waters toward her.

  He was close now. She could hear the sound of his labored breathing as he fought the current to get to her. Suddenly he loomed, a large and imposing silhouette, separated from the storm by the searchlight at his back. Laurel watched him reach for the child, heard him shouting—pleading with Rachelle to jump.

  “Come to me, bébé. Jump to Uncle Justin. You can do it.”

  The sound of his voice sent a shiver of recognition sliding through Laurel’s consciousness, nearly shattering her concentration. But she made herself focus on the child. She felt her fear, sensed her hesitation, then urged her forward.

  You can do it, Rachelle. Jump, as if you were playing in your own backyard and it was your own little wading pool. He will catch you, and then you can go home to your mommy and daddy.

  Rachelle heard her uncle’s voice, but it was the voice in her head that gave her the courage she needed. Without further hesitation, she jumped off the stump, falling directly into Justin Bouvier’s outstretched arms.

  At the moment of impact, Justin wrapped his arms around her and struggled with the urge to weep. They’d been looking for her for so long, and he’d been so afraid that the end to this day would be one of tragedy. Instead, their precious little girl was alive and well.

  “That’s my good girl,” Justin said softly, clutching her close against his chest as he headed back toward the anchored boat.

  And as he turned, the searchlight momentarily wiped the shadows from his face. In that moment, Laurel saw him through Rachelle’s eyes and heard herself moan in disbelief.

  The chin was just the least little bit square. The nose was strong, and once upon a time, might have been broken, because there was a tiny bump just below the bridge. His hair was seal black and slicked down upon his head from the rain, and she knew, although she could not see, that his eyes were as black as the night. Through Rachelle’s tiny hands, she could feel the muscles in his back as they stretched and flexed while getting her safely to the boat.

  But she’d seen him before and knew well the power in his body as he’d thrust repeatedly into the valley between her legs. She knew the cut of his cheek, the taste of his lips, the softness of his breath as his mouth moved upon her skin. And she knew the gut-wrenching sound of his groan when he came.

  It seemed impossible, but it was the man from her dreams.

  Unaware of the drama being played out back at Mimosa Grove, Justin lifted Rachelle into the boat and then climbed in with her.

  At the same moment, Laurel Scanlon dropped to the stairs in a faint. That scared Harper in a way nothing else could have done. Unaware of the rescue Laurel had witnessed, he read the unconsciousness as death.

  “Justin! Justin! This is Harper! Can you hear me? What’s happening? Over.”

  There were a few moments of silence; then he heard a brief bout of static as Justin keyed his own radio.

  “This is Justin. I found her. She’s alive. You find Cheryl Ann and tell her that I’m bringing her baby home. Over and out.”

  Harper leaned back against the stairwell, then dropped his head.

  “Praise God,” he said softly, then reached down and lifted the little pink jacket from Laurel’s clenched fist.

  He looked down at Marie, then at the woman she was cradling.

  “Is she all right?”

  Marie nodded. “She will be.”

  Harper stared for a moment, then lifted his hat and combed a hand through his hair.

  “I don’t know how she does it, and I wouldn’t admit to many that I’d ever seen it happen, you understand. But tonight I thank God for the blood that runs in this woman’s veins.”

  “Yes,” Marie said. “I will tell her so. Later.”

  Harper hesitated, then pointed down at Laurel.

  “Want me to help you get her up to her bed or something?”

  Marie sighed. “It would be better for her if you would. I am no longer as strong as I once was.”

  Harper pointed at Marie’s flashlight.

  “With the power still out, I’m gonna need some light to negotiate these steps.”

  Marie aimed the flashlight as he lifted Laurel out of her arms. Together, they started up the stairs. A few moments later he laid Laurel in her bed, gave her shoulder a brief pat. Slightly embarrassed by the tender gesture, he faked a cough, then readjusted his rain-soaked hat
into a different position before looking away.

  “You gonna be all right here?” he asked.

  Marie glanced toward the bed, then sighed, unaware that her shoulders slumped wearily with the sound.

  “Yes. We will be fine.”

  Suddenly anxious to leave this place where magic happened, Harper nodded.

  “I’ll let myself out and lock the door as I go. No need you goin’ back down those dark stairs just to see me out.”

  Marie nodded her thanks. She could hear Harper’s receding footsteps as she pulled a rocking chair up beside Laurel’s bed, then sat herself down. She heard the police car start up, then heard it drive away, and still she sat, rocking slowly as she kept watch.

  ***

  It was nearing dawn by the time Justin pulled up in front of his home and got out. The storm had finally passed, leaving the air with a fresh, rain-washed scent and the ground soft beneath his feet. The aftermath of the search was finally starting to sink in as he started toward the house, his feet dragging with every step.

  He kept picturing the joy on his little sister’s face and his brother-in-law’s tear-filled eyes, both of them too moved to speak as they tore Rachelle from his arms, then held her close in a desperate embrace.

  They’d tried to thank him, but he hadn’t been able to listen. Not now, not when all their emotions were too raw. He wanted to fall on his knees and thank God for the woman at Mimosa Grove, but he knew that if he went down, he would be too weak to get up. And there was the fact that he didn’t even know her name. So he’d gotten back in his truck and taken himself home with the promise that before the sun went down on this day, he would know the name and the face of the woman who’d saved his family from tragedy.

  ***

  Back in D.C. that same night, Peter McNamara was going through his own brand of drama—one just as deadly, but one he was determined to survive. Even though he’d grown accustomed to the luxuries afforded U.S. citizens, he wasn’t a fool. He’d forgotten none of his Spartan upbringing, or what he’d been trained to do under the old Soviet regime. Despite the government’s outrage toward him, which was being displayed through the media, he knew there was no paper trail linking him to dirty money. Everything had been done through telephone instructions, then later through the Internet, and bounced off so many other stations that it was impossible to tell where it had originated or ended. The monies were always paid directly to a numbered Swiss bank account. No one he’d done business with had ever seen him, so there were no witnesses to testify against him—except Trigger, the general’s son. Trigger didn’t know it, but even though Peter had believed himself untouchable, he’d still left a back door through which to exit, while implicating Trigger as the man to arrest—and the only man who’d betrayed his country.

  Unless the prosecution knew something he didn’t or Trigger had panicked and talked, most of their case was being based on the fact that the military had discovered their files had been hacked into, and somehow they’d learned he was a Russian spy who’d been living under an alias in the United States of America. He figured they’d put two and two together and were trying to make it add up to five to fit the scenario.

  He figured his best bet was to persuade his lawyer to set up a meeting with the federal prosecutor. He didn’t have a genius IQ for nothing. He figured he could explain and negotiate, and make a far better case for himself than anyone he could hire.

  After a phone call to his lawyer, he went to bed with an easier spirit. Tomorrow he would talk to the prosecution and be out of prison in time for dinner.

  It said something for Peter’s state of mind that he believed his situation could be solved so easily.

  And so he slept without dreaming, certain that his plan would not fail, while Justin Bouvier sat on his front porch, waiting for daylight to meet the woman who’d saved his niece.

  5

  Laurel woke up the next morning feeling restless. She’d dreamed of the rescue over and over in the night—seeing the face of Rachelle’s rescuer had been startling, then confusing. It was most certainly the man from her dreams, and she’d seen him through the little girl’s eyes, so she hadn’t been imagining him there. The police chief had called him Justin. Now she had a name to go with the face. But she didn’t know what to do next. Should she force the issue and go in search of him, or wait and let the fates that had brought them together in sleep finish the job in their own time? When nothing brilliant occurred to her that would make sense of the latest chaos in her life, she dragged herself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  After showering and getting dressed, she did something very out of character. When she went downstairs, instead of going to breakfast, she went to the library to call her father.

  ***

  Robert Scanlon had overslept. It was so unlike him that even as he was finishing his first cup of coffee, he was still rattled by the fact.

  Estelle was bringing a plate of toasted English muffins and a small crystal dish filled with strawberry preserves into the breakfast room as he was getting up from the table.

  He glanced at the short, stocky woman without really noticing she’d recently colored her salt-and-pepper hair a light brown, applied both mascara and lipstick, and was wearing nice shoes with short, but sensible heels instead of her normal flat-soled Hush Puppies.

  Robert eyed the pools of melting butter on the toasted muffin halves and manfully ignored the pangs of hunger.

  “Estelle, I don’t have time for that,” he said, and began stuffing the files he’d been reading back into his briefcase.

  Estelle took a freshly ironed napkin from a sideboard and laid it beside his plate.

  “Now, Mr. Robert, you know you won’t take care of yourself at work. You eat something or it will be dinnertime before you stop long enough to eat again.”

  Before Robert could argue, the phone rang. Estelle jumped, then bolted toward the phone. Robert Scanlon had no idea that she had a new admirer, nor was she going to tell him. She’d worked for him for more than fifteen years, and not once had he inquired as to her personal life or health.

  “You’re probably right about eating,” he said, then waved her away from the phone. “And I’ll get that. It’s bound to be someone from the office wondering where I’m at.”

  Disappointed, Estelle left the room, praying it wasn’t her friend, Charlie. She didn’t want to have to explain to her boss about the personal calls she got when none of the family was at home.

  Luckily for Estelle, it wasn’t Charlie. As for Robert, he’d guessed wrong about the caller, too. It wasn’t his secretary. It was Laurel.

  “Good morning, Dad. I called your office, but they said you weren’t there yet. Are you ill?”

  Robert was surprisingly touched by her concern. He didn’t know it, but his voice softened as he answered.

  “No, dear, I’m fine. I just overslept.”

  Laurel frowned. “Are you sure? You never oversleep.”

  Still off kilter from her call, he popped off before he thought and unintentionally resurrected their antipathy.

  “Yes, Laurel, I’m sure,” he said. “How is Mimosa Grove? As dilapidated as ever, I assume.”

  Laurel resisted the urge to snap back. Just once, she wished he could be positive about something.

  “It’s very beautiful down here, Dad, although we had quite an event during the storm last night. A little girl was lost, but the searchers finally found her.”

  “That’s good,” Robert said. “I’m sure her parents are very grateful.”

  Laurel thought about telling him her part in the recovery, then changed her mind. There was no reason to assume he’d changed his opinion of having a daughter with psychic abilities.

  “Yes, I’m sure they are,” she said. “Is everything okay there? I miss seeing Estelle’s monthly make-overs.”

  “What makeovers?”

  Laurel laughed. “Her hair? Her makeup? Dad… for such a brilliant lawyer, you are horribly unobservant. Estell
e is a fervent Oprah watcher. She saw a program six months ago that was about getting out of a life rut and trying new things.”

  Robert grunted. He didn’t like to be accused of missing the point on anything.

  “I’m sure I would have noticed if anything was that out of the ordinary,” he muttered.

  Laurel laughed. “So what color is her hair this week? Is she wearing makeup?”

  Robert frowned. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m not in the habit of staring at the help.”

  Laurel sighed. “She’s not help. She’s Estelle.” She didn’t bother to add that, until Marie, Estelle was the only mother figure Laurel had grown up with.

  Uncomfortable with the personal turn the conversation had taken, Robert glanced at his watch.

  “Laurel, it was good to talk to you, but I’m late for work. I’ve got a big case coming up. You probably heard about it on television.”

  “No. I haven’t been watching any television since I’ve been here,” Laurel said. “What’s up?”

  “Remember Peter McNamara of McNamara Galleries?”

  “Yes, of course.” Then she gasped. “Are you saying he’s involved in the case you’ll be trying?”

  “No. I’m saying, he is the case.”

  “Oh, my… whatever is he supposed to have done?”

  “He was arrested for selling military secrets, but that’s not the kicker. And this is a fact that’s already made the news, so I’m not divulging any confidential info. He’s not really Peter McNamara. His real name is Dimitri Chorkin. He’s a Soviet plant, left over from the Cold War.”

  Laurel was hearing his voice, but she’d lost the train of thought to a growing unease. The more he talked, the more convinced she became that her father was in some sort of peril.

  “Dad.”

  He kept talking, talking, talking.

  “Dad.”

  “…so they’ve confiscated everything in the downtown gallery and…”

  “Daddy!”

  Robert flinched. “What?”

  Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick to her stomach.

  “Do you have to take that case?”