Marisa Carroll - Hotel Marchand 09 (6 page)

“A
FTERNOON
, S
OPHIE
,”
he said as she used both hands to open the big front door. Maude Picard had been a no-nonsense, down-to-earth woman, but when it came to Past Perfect she’d given her inner belle free rein. Alain moved gingerly into the minefield of trailing scarves, little crystal bowls of sneeze-inducing potpourri and spindly-legged furniture that threatened to trip him up whenever he set foot inside the place.

Sophie didn’t close the door right away and he caught her glancing surreptitiously out over the square. Damn it, was she still gun-shy about the time Casey Jo had caught them in the back room? Hell, they hadn’t done anything wrong, but Casey Jo had jumped to her usual wrong-headed conclusion and come at them like some kind of fury.

He’d had every intention of filing for divorce before that day his wife had boomeranged back into his life six months pregnant, but he’d never gotten a chance to tell Sophie that. As a matter of fact, he’d never been alone with her since, that he could recall.

“Afternoon, Alain.”
Ah-lane
. He liked the way she said his name, still giving it the lilting French pronunciation that had more to do with a high-class private school education than the time she’d spent in Indigo as a kid.

“Saw you walking across the square so I thought I’d drop by and ask if you needed help with anything.” It wasn’t much of an excuse but it was the only one he had.

She didn’t let go of the door handle. “I’m just looking the place over.” He saw her throat muscles work as she swallowed. “This is harder than I thought it would be…going through Maude’s things. I thought maybe it would be easier starting with the shop rather than the house, but I was mistaken.” She looked around and he caught the liquid sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. “It will have to be inventoried, won’t it, for taxes and probate, that kind of thing?”

“I imagine it will. Were you her only heir?” Maybe if he kept the conversation solidly rooted in practicalities she’d stop looking like she was going to cry. Or worse yet, cut and run the first chance she got.

“I’m the executor, too. She made a lot of bequests. The library, the historical society, the church. I want to do my best to carry them out.”

He knew Maude had left Sophie the house and its contents. The old woman had told his grandmother that much about her will and Yvonne had passed the tidbit of information along to him. “If you decide not to run the place yourself, you’ll probably have to have an auction to get rid of all this stuff.”

“I know.” She relaxed enough to shut the door but she wrapped her arms around her waist, maybe to ward off the chill of the unheated room, more likely as an unspoken warning to him not to violate her personal space. “I haven’t even gone into the storage area yet.” Her tone of voice told him she had no intention of doing so while he was around. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to reopen the shop until I talk to Nana’s lawyer. And even then I’m not familiar with anyone in Indigo that I could hire to run the place.”

“I could probably help you there. Maybe Hugh Prejean would fill in for a few weeks? He’s mostly retired from the library now. He knows as much about antiques as anyone around. There are one or two others I could suggest.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep Mr. Prejean in mind.” She waved her hand in a graceful feminine gesture that made his gut tighten a little as he remembered the softness of her fingers on his skin on a long-ago summer day. “I expect she’d want me to try and find a buyer for the business, not just sell off her assets. And then there are the terms of the lease for the opera house. I haven’t a clue what they are.”

He made himself stop thinking of what had once been and start concentrating on the here and now. “You don’t have to settle everything today. Like you said, after you meet with Maude’s lawyer will be soon enough to start making plans.” He laid his hat on the glass-topped counter that held an array of costume jewelry and tucked his thumbs in his utility belt just to have something to do with them.

“I suppose so. The first decision I have to make is to rethink how long I’m going to stay in Indigo.”

Alain felt his heart rate accelerate. “You have work waiting back in Houston?” What he wanted to ask wasn’t whether she had work waiting, but if she had
someone
waiting.

“Nothing pressing at the moment. We just wrapped up a big fund-raising campaign for Northeastern College near Beaumont.”

“Never heard of it,” he said, figuring honesty was the best policy with her. “Must not have much of a football team.” He tried a little self-deprecating humor and almost got a smile out of her.

“No, you probably haven’t heard of it. It’s a small church-affiliated liberal arts school. I spearheaded the campaign that brought in two million dollars in new endowments over the past eighteen months,” she said proudly.

He didn’t know much about fund-raising beyond the high-school kids selling magazine subscriptions and frozen pizzas to pay for their class trip, but for a small college with no winning football team, two mil in endowments seemed impressive. “Congratulations.”

“I am kind of proud of it myself. Takes a lot of persuasion to come up with that kind of donations when they don’t have any sports program to speak of.” She smiled then, letting him know she’d gotten his joke, and it seemed to him when she did, the bright winter sunshine beyond the windows dimmed in comparison. She wandered over to a claw-foot drum table and picked up a china teacup painted with tiny pink and yellow roses. The pink of the flowers matched her nail polish.

“I never had the chance to tell Nana Maude about it.” Her hair was still a riot of curls but the color had darkened a little over the years from pale moonlight to sun-ripened wheat. She’d pushed the heavy mass behind her ears and held it back with a pair of tortoise-shell clips. His fingers itched to see if it was still as soft and silky as it had been a dozen or more years ago. From the looks of it, it was. “I was so caught up in the campaign that I missed coming to see her over the holidays. I…” Her voice wavered a moment, then steadied. “I thought my grandmother and I could come together for a long visit in a month or so. Now it’s too late.”

“Maude went quickly,” he said. “Doc Landry told me there was almost no pain. She just sat down in her chair and went to sleep.”

“I know.” Her voice was very soft and he had to strain to hear. “He told me that, too, at Savoy’s, when he stopped by to pay his respects. But it doesn’t change the fact I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

He picked up his Stetson from the counter and twisted the brim in his hands. The powerful urge to comfort her took him by surprise. He’d thought of Sophie Clarkson a lot over the past five years since his divorce, but he’d never let it get out of control. Until Maude died. Since then she’d been on his mind almost constantly. Not a good sign.

He settled his hat on his head. He could handle it though. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, so full of hormones and first love that he couldn’t think straight. Or even twenty-eight for that matter, daring to hope for a few days that summer before Dana was born that he might be able to sort out his life and get a second chance with her.

What did they say? Third time’s the charm?

Not for this country boy.

She was a damned desirable woman, but he’d sworn off women, desirable or otherwise, until his kids were raised and on their own. He wasn’t being noble. He didn’t have much choice with an unpredictable, unstable ex-wife like Casey Jo in the picture.

“I think I have customers,” Sophie said, putting the teacup back on its saucer. She inclined her head toward the door, and sure enough, there were his kids, just off the school bus, Guy carrying his sister’s shiny new Bratz book bag along with his own. At fifteen, his son was tall and awkward, all gangly arms and legs that he didn’t seem to know what to do with when he wasn’t on the football field or the basketball court. He reminded Alain of himself at that age.

Dana was small and slender with jet-black hair and emerald eyes, just turned seven and the spitting image of her mother. Except that even at seven, Casey Jo wouldn’t have worn her hair stuffed up under a backwards baseball cap with a Saints sweatshirt and scuffed runners. Casey Jo was all girl, and at the moment, his daughter wanted to be anything but.

“I’ll tell them to wait in the truck,” he said, heading for the door, but Sophie beat him to it.

“No, let them come in. I’d like to meet them.”

“Hi, Daddy.” Dana bounced into the store and wrapped her arms around his arm, avoiding the holstered .45 Sig, billy club and mace container at his waist.

“Hello,
petite,
” he said cradling her head with his free hand. “How was school today?” He spoke in Cajun French, but she answered in English, too shy to practice the French words in front of a stranger.

“Good. I was the first one done with my writing paper. I can do a whole paragraph.”

“Bon.”

She kept hold of his arm and peeked at Sophie from the corner of her eye. “Who’s she?” Dana asked shyly. This time she spoke in French and Alain saw Sophie tighten her lips to keep from smiling.

“Dana, this is Sophie Clarkson. Miss Maude’s goddaughter.”

“Hello, Dana.”

“Hi.”

“And this is my son.”

“Hello, Guy.” The French pronunciation of the single syllable slid like warm butter over his skin. He wasn’t the only one affected by Sophie’s charm. She turned her stunning smile on his son and the boy’s mouth dropped open and hung there for a moment or two before he pulled himself together and shook her proffered hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he finally managed to get out.

“We did meet before, when you were a little boy,” Sophie said.

Guy cocked his head, then shrugged. “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

“It was a long time ago,” she said softly, and Alain wondered if he only imagined a hint of regret in her words.

“What are you two doing here?” Alain asked to change the subject so his own memories of that second time around with Sophie wouldn’t stir enough to keep him awake in the middle of the night.

“She saw the Explorer parked out front and insisted on coming inside,” Guy explained, motioning to his little sister. “Grandma must have worked late today and wasn’t there to pick us up at the bus stop. Good thing it wasn’t raining or she’d have been soaked. She forgot her umbrella.”

“I didn’t forget it. I didn’t take it with me. The sun was shining when I woke up. It’s still shining.” Dana swung on Alain’s hand as she dismissed her brother’s lecture. “He doesn’t care if I get rained on. All he really wants is for you to buy him a car so he can drive it to school.”

“I do, too, care,” Guy insisted, but he turned slightly pink and looked down at his shoes.

Dana snorted. “Yeah, sure.” She might be only seven but she had her big brother’s number when it came to getting himself a set of wheels.

“Dad—”

“Knock it off, you two. Thanks for looking out for your sister’s welfare, son. But you won’t be sixteen for another three months. Time enough to talk about getting a car in the spring.”

Guy opened his mouth, then thought better of what he was going to say and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got conditioning. Can you drop me off at home so I can get my gym bag?”

“I suppose.” He’d been headed that direction for an end-of-shift patrol of the neighborhood, anyway.

“I’ll wait in the truck.” Guy hunched his shoulder and gave Sophie an apologetic smile. “It was nice meeting you, but I need to get out of here. I feel like I’m going to break something every time I move in this place.”

Sophie laughed out loud. She couldn’t help herself. He really did look afraid to move an inch from where he was standing. Suddenly she remembered how it felt to be not-quite-sixteen and suddenly at odds with your body. “I agree there are a lot of booby traps in this place. I should probably do some rearranging—make it easier for the customers to move around. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a good idea.” He cast a wary eye around the overcrowded space. “A real good idea.”

“I’ll consider it. If I can find some help.”

Guy glanced at his father. “I help out at the B&B sometimes. Mr. Carter could vouch for me. And I…I know a couple of guys who are good at moving furniture. We work pretty cheap.”

“I’ll remember that.” She held out her hand once more. “Goodbye, Guy. It was nice meeting you, too.”

He shook her hand, gave his father a half wave, half salute and loped out the door. While Sophie and Guy were talking, Dana had let go of her father’s hand and wandered farther into the store. “I don’t feel like I’m going to break anything,” she said, running her fingers over a ratty-looking fox stole draped over the back of cane-bottomed chair. “I like this place just the way it is.”

“Guys are different than girls, I keep telling you that,” Alain said. Amusement mingled with a hint of exasperation laced his words.

“Maybe.” Dana shrugged. It was obvious to Sophie that she wasn’t ready to admit the fact. “I like old things.”

“I do, too,” Sophie replied. The little girl studied her closely.

“You do?”

“But I don’t know as much about them as Nana Maude did,” Sophie confessed. She resisted the urge to move closer to Alain’s—and Casey Jo’s—daughter. It was probably better if she kept her distance from the child.

“She used to tell me stories about the opera house and how it was a hospital during the Civil War when I came here with
Mamère
Yvonne.” The corners of Dana’s mouth turned down and her eyes darkened to the color of the slow-moving bayou when it passed beneath a live oak tree. “
Mamère
is sad that Miss Maude died.”

“They were very good friends. I miss her, too. She was my Nana.” Sophie dropped to her knees on the dusty floor, forgetting, almost as quickly as she’d made it, her promise to herself to keep her distance from Alain’s daughter.

Dana nodded solemnly. “
Nana
means godmother. I’m learning Cajun from my dad.” She reached out and patted Sophie’s hand as softly as she’d patted the ratty fox stole. “
Mamère
is sad but she said that Miss Maude has gone to Heaven to be with Jesus and the saints and martyrs and her mama and papa. She will be happy there.”