Mimosa Grove

by Sharon Sala

  “Massuh… please.”

  Jean Charles realized Joshua was asking permission to go to the quarters.

  He hesitated, wondering how it would appear to his guests if he gave in to a Nigra’s request, then stifled the thought. This was his home. He was master here. He could do and say what he chose.

  “I’m sure all is well, but you may go. However, I expect you back here in five minutes…. Hear?”

  “Yes, Massuh, thank you, Massuh,” Joshua said, and bolted out of the room, while Old Mary put her apron over her face and refused to look at Chantelle.

  Jean Charles cursed beneath his breath.

  “Mary… attend to your mistress this moment, do you hear me?”

  “Massuh… no, please don’t make me.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he snapped. “Don’t think I won’t have you whipped just because you’re old. Tend to your mistress.”

  Old Mary fell to her knees and pulled her apron over her head.

  “I can’t, Massuh, I can’t. She’s got the voodoo sight. Don’t let her witch me.”

  Jean Charles heard the soft gasp of his guests as they stared in disbelief. In the midst of his embarrassment, he felt as if he’d been slapped. He leaned over the old woman and grabbed her by the arm.

  “What on earth are you saying?”

  Old Mary looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, then pointed at Chantelle.

  “She a witch, Massuh. She a witch woman.”

  He was on the verge of slapping the woman for her insolence, but a sound from outside the house stopped him. Loud shouts and cries of dismay echoed from the slave quarters. Always fearful of an uprising, the women cried aloud while clinging to their husbands, certain they were about to be murdered where they stood.

  Within seconds, Joshua came running back into the room. He, too, was crying, but tears of joy. His arrival was much less startling than that which he was carrying. A huge, steel-gray snake of great circumference and length was dangling from his fist. Even from this distance, the people recognized the snake as a cottonmouth—a water moccasin whose deadly venom often claimed the lives of those who lived in the bayous.

  “Massuh… Massuh… she was right! It was in my baby’s bed. Praise God, Massuh, she saved her life.”

  Old Mary wailed even louder, then scrambled to her feet and dashed from the room.

  All Jean Charles could think was that this had to be a nightmare from which he would soon wake. This couldn’t be happening. Not in his house. Not on his estate. But Joshua was still there, holding the dead snake. His guests were aghast, staring from the snake to Chantelle and back again. And Chantelle… she was still there on the chaise, looking for all the world as if she’d just fallen asleep.

  “Goddamn it!” Jean Charles suddenly shouted. “Joshua! Get that thing out of here at once.” Then he turned to his guests. “My friends… I know you will understand when I ask you to excuse me. I must attend to my wife’s health. She has simply fainted from the stress of planning our fete. However, I am sure all will be well in the morning. Please enjoy yourselves. I will have more champagne sent up from the cellar.”

  Without looking at their faces, he scooped Chantelle from the chaise and carried her up the stairs, shouting for Mary to follow as he went.

  ***

  Laurel shuddered, then came to with a gasp. With tears in her eyes, she picked up the diary, laid it back in its leather wrapping and put it on the table near her bed.

  “Poor Chantelle,” she said softly. “Poor, poor Chantelle. Mimosa Grove was not your Eden after all.”

  8

  Justin had been working on the computer most of the morning, catching up on e-mail as well as posting some new info to his client lists. Normally he could go through such a task in only a couple of hours, but this morning he’d been unable to concentrate, and he knew why.

  His thoughts were on Laurel.

  It was unbelievable to think of how well he knew her passion but not her tastes. He didn’t know if she liked mustard or mayonnaise, but he knew the sound of her sigh as he moved inside her body. He wanted to know her favorite color, her favorite food, what made her laugh, what made her sad. And most of all, he missed sleeping with her, yet they’d never actually shared a night together. From what he could tell, their nighttime connection had been broken about the time she’d arrived in Bayou Jean, which didn’t make sense. They were geographically closer now than they’d been before, but she no longer came to him in his sleep. Even though they had truly made love only once, and in the bright light of day with no one but the ghosts of Mimosa Grove as their witnesses, it wasn’t enough.

  He groaned, then shut off the computer and walked out of his office. No need trying to work anymore. Not when a tall, leggy redhead was so deep in his head that he couldn’t think.

  As he walked down the hall, his grandmother’s old clock began chiming the hour. Surprised that it was already two o’clock and he had yet to eat lunch, he dug through the refrigerator without success, then opted for an apple and some iced tea, saving his appetite for the party that night.

  The apple was sweet and crisp as he took the first bite. A tiny droplet of juice escaped from the corner of his mouth and slipped down his chin. He caught it with the back of his hand and then took another bite. The sweetness reminded him of Laurel’s kisses.

  Lord. Three more hours before he would see her.

  He finished his apple as he walked through his home, struck by the solitude and silence of his existence in a way he’d never been before. As he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. He looked the same. But he wasn’t. Laurel had changed him in ways he could only feel. He tossed the apple core outside, grinning to himself when his old hound jumped on it as if it was a big juicy bone.

  “Come on, Big Red… leave it for the chickens.”

  But the old dog had gulped it down too fast to taste it. Justin was laughing as he went back inside. His hand was on the doorknob when Laurel’s face popped into his mind. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he was certain that something had happened that had made her sad. Without thinking, he reached for the phone, dialing the number to Mimosa Grove from memory.

  It rang once, twice, then Marie answered on the third ring.

  “Marie, it’s me, Justin. May I speak to Laurel?”

  “You better not be callin’ to break your date with my baby,” Marie said.

  Justin laughed. “You know better than that.”

  “Well… okay then. Hang on a minute. I think she’s still upstairs.”

  “Marie! Wait! Don’t walk all that way upstairs just to tell her about the call. It wasn’t anything important… just tell her I called.”

  “If you want to talk to my girl, then it’s important,” Marie said. “You just wait.”

  He heard her lay down the phone, then heard her footsteps as she left the room. Still regretting his impulse, he could do nothing but wait. Then he heard Marie shout Laurel’s name and knew that she must be standing at the foot of the stairs. A few seconds later, he heard someone pick up on an extension.

  “Hello?”

  “Laurel… it’s me, Justin.”

  “Justin? Is something wrong?”

  “You tell me,” he said softly as he heard Marie hang up downstairs.

  Laurel’s breath caught; then she sighed. The lingering sadness of reading Chantelle’s diary was still with her.

  “I was doing some reading.”

  “Have you been crying?”

  Goose bumps broke out on Laurel’s skin.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be psychic. How did you know that?”

  “Don’t ask me. I was minding my own business, eating an apple and having a glass of iced tea, when your face popped into my mind. Then I felt sad… really sad. Only it wasn’t my emotions, it was yours.”

  “Weird,” Laurel said.

  He laughed softly. “Coming from you, that’s priceless.” Then he added, “I’ve been missing you.”


  Laurel smiled to herself. “I’ve been missing you, too.”

  “Do you still dream about me?”

  “No… do you dream about me?”

  “No.”

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I want that back,” he said.

  Laurel’s throat tightened. “So do I.”

  “Laurel…”

  “What?”

  “I want so much from you, maybe too much.”

  “I know,” Laurel said. “A love affair in my sleep is one thing. Making love to a stranger is another.”

  “Please… don’t call me that.”

  “Call you what?”

  “A stranger. Too much has passed between us for that.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Justin sighed. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re right. We don’t know each other, at least not well enough. But tonight can be a new beginning for us. I want that. I want that very much.”

  His voice was in her head; his promises were stealing her composure. If not for Marie and the workers downstairs, she would be begging him to come over now. Remembering the tenderness of his lovemaking made her weak with longing.

  “I want it, too… that, and more.”

  Justin closed his eyes, remembering the softness of her breasts pressing against his chest as he slid deep inside her.

  “Have mercy, chère, you’re making me crazy.”

  “Then I guess we’re even, because according to most, I’m already there.”

  He groaned beneath his breath. “Are you sure you’re okay? I could come over earlier. We could take the long way to my sister’s house. Maybe you’d feel better.”

  His offer was unexpected and so sweet.

  “I’d love to spend more time with you, but it’s not necessary to come earlier just for me. Thanks to you, I feel better already.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay… but tonight…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not making any promises about keeping my hands to myself.”

  “Good,” Laurel said. “I’d hate to be responsible for broken promises.”

  His laughter was soft against her ear as he disconnected. Laurel hung up the phone, then pulled her knees up beneath her chin and hugged herself. It was obvious that whatever was going on with her and Justin was out of her control. She didn’t know what had connected them, but she didn’t want it to stop. For the first time in her life, she was beginning to believe she’d found a place in which she belonged—and maybe a man to belong to. It was more than she’d hoped for when she’d left D.C.

  Once she thought of D.C., she thought of her father. After he’d mentioned the high-profile case he was working on, she’d taken to watching the national news broadcasts, as well as CNN Headline News. Only now and then was mention made of McNamara’s arrest, and when it was, it seemed that the focus was on his past in Russia—of his genius intellect and of being planted in the U.S. for espionage rather than the charges for which he’d been arrested. The only specifics mentioned were for selling “military secrets,” which could mean anything.

  Again the notion came to her that her father was going to be in danger, but she couldn’t tell how. All she knew was that she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach when she heard McNamara’s name.

  ***

  Trigger DeLane cut a line of cocaine on the marble surface of the bathroom vanity and sucked it up his nose. The hit was immediate and strong, and the feeling of euphoria eased the anxiety he’d been living with since McNamara’s arrest. He knew the addiction he’d been hiding for almost fifteen years was completely responsible for the mess he found himself in now, but he lacked the intestinal fortitude to kick it.

  As the oldest child and only son of four-star general John Franklin DeLane, it had become apparent at an early age that Trigger was expected to follow his father’s path into military service. The pressure had been too much and the desire to do so completely absent. Instead of standing up to his father and announcing his intent to become a chef, he’d lied to everyone, including himself, quit high school at the age of sixteen and reluctantly attained a GED at twenty-four, thereby bypassing college altogether and eliminating himself from the possibility of ever attending West Point. The fact that his father considered him a failure in every way was almost a relief. At least now nothing was expected of him. But it was what he’d expected of himself that was eating him alive. He’d never planned to be a traitor to his country. He’d never meant to sell himself out. But he’d done it because it was easier than standing up to the man who was his father.

  He glanced down at the other line of coke still on the counter, bent over and inhaled, running the line up his nose with a straw just as he’d done with the first.

  “Whoa, mama!” he yelled, then laughed out loud when the drug hit his brain. This was what he’d needed. Now he was untouchable. McNamara wanted Robert Scanlon rendered useless as surely as if he’d been castrated, and Trigger DeLane was the man to do it.

  ***

  Robert Scanlon handed a stack of folders to his secretary and then shut his briefcase. His confrontation with the attorney general was over. The fact that he still had a job was nothing short of a miracle, but his refusal to make a deal with McNamara had been looked upon as mutiny. Had he been a military man, he would be facing a court martial. As it was, he’d been given specific orders to make himself scarce, with an unpaid leave of absence. He considered it a bargain. He headed for the parking garage, intent on stopping by the travel agent before going home to pack. He hadn’t taken a vacation in years, and considering the atmosphere under which he was leaving, it was high time he did.

  A short while later, he had tickets to Belize in his pocket, with a short side trip to Louisiana. Despite the fact that he could not condone Laurel’s lifestyle, she was his only child, and he was uncomfortable with the circumstances under which they’d parted. The least he could do was go to Mimosa Grove and make peace with her before leaving the country.

  Satisfied with his decisions, he started toward home, wondering what Cook was making for dinner and hoping that Estelle had remembered to have the cleaners deliver his laundry. There were a couple of items that he wanted to take with him.

  ***

  Trigger DeLane pulled up in front of the Scanlon residence and parked on the wide, tree-lined street, taking advantage of the large swatch of shade that the giant oaks in front of the Scanlon home were providing. He glanced at his wristwatch, then at his reflection in the rearview mirror. It was twenty minutes after two in the afternoon. The perfect time to pay a call on Miss Laurel Scanlon. They’d met each other briefly at a New Year’s Eve party at his father’s house over two years ago. He didn’t know if she would remember him, but all he had to do was throw his father’s name into the conversation and he would be in the door.

  He’d come to talk a woman into taking a ride with him. The fact that she would not be coming home from that ride was moot. Thanks to his predilection for “blow” and McNamara’s fuck-up, he was being forced to kidnap a woman with whom he’d shared nothing but a brief New Year’s Eve kiss on the cheek.

  He smoothed his hair with both hands, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses. He was reaching for the car keys when he caught a glimpse of a car coming slowly down the street. Deciding it might be prudent to wait until it passed, he sat, watching the car. To his dismay, the car did not pass but instead turned into the Scanlon driveway and then drove around behind the house toward the garage.

  Trigger had seen just enough of the driver’s face to recognize Robert Scanlon. Cursing his luck and the fact that McNamara had ever been born, he decided to wait. It was too early for Scanlon to be home from work, which meant there was the possibility he would be leaving as abruptly as he’d arrived. As he sat, he decided to give Laurel a call. That would make his mission even easier. It never even occurred to him that she might not be interested
in going out with him. All the unmarried women wanted a piece of John Franklin DeLane’s son.

  Satisfied that he’d solved his immediate problem, he picked up his cell phone and dialed information. A couple of minutes later, the phone in the Scanlon residence began to ring.

  Estelle was near the phone and answered on the second ring, fluffing her new hairdo and admiring her blond highlights in the gleaming tabletop as she answered the call.

  “Scanlon residence.”

  “Laurel Scanlon, please. Trigger DeLane calling.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. DeLane, but Miss Scanlon is no longer at this residence.”

  Stunned by the news, he sat up with a jerk, almost dropping the phone in the process. The blow he’d snorted was losing its buzz, and the news he’d just received didn’t help his disposition.

  “Uh… is she on vacation? Where did she go? It’s imperative that I talk to her.”

  “No, sir, she moved. Would you care to speak to her father?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” he said quickly, and disconnected.

  “Who was that?” Robert asked as Estelle was hanging up the receiver.

  “A gentleman for Miss Laurel.”

  “Really?” Robert muttered. To his knowledge, men did not call the house to speak to his daughter. Her reputation had preceded her, scaring off any would-be suitors. “Who was it?”

  “I think he said his name was Trigger DeLane. It’s an odd name, but I’m pretty certain that’s what he said.”

  Robert frowned. Everyone in the city knew Franklin DeLane’s son was a loser. Definitely not the kind of man he would want his daughter seeing. Then he sighed. What he wanted for Laurel was moot. She’d removed herself from his influence.

  “Mr. Scanlon, are you ill? Is there something I can get for you?” Estelle asked.

  Robert grinned wryly. “No. I’m not ill. I’m officially on a leave of absence. In fact, I’m going to Belize in a couple of days.”