Midnight Bayou (18 page)

T
he best way, in Declan’s opinion, to break through the obstacles and opposition to any goal, was not to ram headfirst against them and risk a skull fracture, but to chip away at them. Gradually, reasonably. Relentlessly. Whether it was a lawsuit, a sporting event or a love affair, it was imperative to keep the end in sight in order to select the correct means.

He found out which Mass Lena and her grandmother attended, and at which church. Research was essential in any strategy.

When he slipped into the pew beside them on Sunday morning, he got a long speculative look from Lena, and a conspirator’s wink from Odette.

He figured God would understand and appreciate the ploy, and not hold it against him for using Sunday Mass as a means to his end.

But he wouldn’t mention the brainstorm to his mother. She was, in Declan’s experience, a lot less flexible than the Almighty.

Aiming the leading edge of his charm toward Odette, he talked them into brunch afterward, and got another cool stare from Lena when he gave his name to the hostess. He’d already made reservations for three.

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you,
cher
?”

His eyes were the innocent gray of a former altar boy. “Just prepared.”

“You ain’t no Boy Scout, sugar,” she told him.

“Your granddaughter’s very cynical,” Declan responded as he offered his arm to Odette.

“What she is, is smart.” Odette patted a hand on his and had her bracelets jangling. “A woman’s got to be about smooth-talking, handsome men. Man who comes into church so he can spend a Sunday morning with a woman, he’s pretty smart, too.”

“I thought I’d come in and pray for a while.”

“What’d you pray for?”

“That you’d run away with me to Borneo.”

With a laugh, Odette slipped into the chair Declan held out for her. “Aren’t you the one.”

“Yeah.” He looked directly at Lena. “I’m going to be the one.”

They settled in with mimosas and the first round from the expansive buffet. While a jazz quartet played Dixieland, Declan told them about the progress on the house.

“I’m going to stick with the outside work as long as the weather holds. Tibald’s still dealing with the plastering, and I’m trying to line up a painter for the exterior. I don’t want to do that myself. The guy I had paint the parlor came in to take a look at the library, but he left sort of abruptly.”

Declan’s expression was rueful as he sipped his mimosa. “I don’t think he’s coming back. Tile man, either. He got one bath half done when he packed it in.”

“I can do some asking around for you,” Odette offered.

“I’d appreciate it. But I think I’m going to have to start
looking outside the parish or try my hand at some of this stuff myself. Things are getting a little lively at the Hall.”

“Grown men running off because a couple of doors slam.” Lena curled her lips into a sneer. “Ought to have more spine.”

“It’s a little more than that now. Clocks bonging where there aren’t any clocks to bong, music playing in empty rooms. When the painter was there, the pocket doors in the library kept opening and closing. Then there was the screaming.”

“What screaming?”

“Tile guy.” Declan smiled wanly. “Said he heard somebody come in the bedroom door, thought it was me. He’s talking away, setting the tiles, listening to what he assumed was me moving around in there. Since I wasn’t answering whatever questions he had, he got up, walked in. Nobody there. From what I could get out of him when he was semi-coherent, the bathroom door slammed behind him, the logs caught fire in the fireplace. Then he claims he felt somebody put a hand on his shoulder. I had to peel him off the ceiling when I got up there.”

“What do you think about it?” Odette asked.

“A couple of things. Seems to me the more the work progresses on the house, the more overt and volatile the . . . paranormal activity, we’ll call it. Especially, well, when I veer off from the original scheme.”

Lena scooped up a forkful of grits—a particular southern culinary custom Declan had yet to get his tastebuds around. “What do you mean?”

“For example, the plasterwork. The areas where that is going on, things are pretty settled. I’m restoring them, replicating. But in places where I’ve made changes—bathroom setup, tiles—things get really interesting. It’s like whatever’s in the house gets royally ticked that we’re not sticking with the original plan.”

“Something to think about,” Odette commented.

“I have been. I figure Josephine Manet.” Even here, with Dixieland bright in the air and champagne fizzing, the name coated his belly with dread. “Mistress of the Hall. You only have to look at her photographs to see that was a woman who didn’t like to be crossed. Now, I come along and put my fingerprints all over what’s hers.”

“You resolved to living with her?” Odette asked, and watched his jaw firm.

“I’m resolved to living in the Hall, and doing it my way. She wants to kick up a fuss about it, that’s her problem.”

Lena sat back. “What do you figure, Grandmama? Brave or stubborn?”

“Oh, he’s some of both. It’s a good mix.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know how brave it is. It’s my house now, and that’s that. Still, I think you can’t blame a man who doesn’t have any more than his time and labor invested for taking a hike. Anyway, Miss Odette, what do you think? Am I tangling with Josephine?”

“I think you’ve got two opposing forces in that house. The one that brought you there, the one that wants you to go away. It’s going to come down to who’s strongest.”

She opened her Sunday purse, took out a small muslin bag. “I made this up for you.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, a little kitchen magic. You just keep that in your pocket. May not help, but it can’t hurt.” She picked up her glass again, smiled at it. “Imagine, drinking champagne for breakfast.”

“Come with me to Borneo, you can bathe in it.”

“
Cher
, I drink enough of this, I may take you up on it.”

“I’ll get us another round.”

H
e was so sweet with her, Lena thought. Flirting with her grandmother until there was a flush of pleasure on
Odette’s cheeks throughout the long, lazy meal. He troubled himself for people, she mused. Took the time, made the effort to find out what they might enjoy, then saw to it.

He was attentive, clever, sexy, rich, tough-minded and kind.

And he said he was in love with her.

She believed she understood him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t have said it unless he meant it. That’s what unnerved her.

For added to those other qualities was a wide streak of honesty. And sheer stubborn grit.

He could make her fall in love with him. She was already halfway there and sliding fast. Every time she tried to dig her heels in, she lost her balance again. The tumble was as worrisome as it was thrilling.

But what would happen when she hit? Once she dropped all the way, there’d be no climbing back out. That was something she understood about herself. Relationships were easy when they didn’t matter, or mattered only for the moment.

When they mattered forever, they changed everything.

Things had changed already, she admitted. It had started with that yearning for him inside her. And now with the comfort and challenge she felt when she was with him. With being able to imagine feeling it day after day, year after year.

He’d want promises she was afraid to give.

Not afraid, she corrected, irritated with herself. Reluctant to give. Unwilling to give.

Then she watched him lean over and kiss her grandmother’s cheek and was afraid—there was no point in pretending otherwise—that she’d end up giving him anything he asked for.

H
e courted her. It seemed a particularly appealing southern word to Declan, bringing images of moonlight and porch swings, tart lemonade and country dances.

Throughout March, two things occupied his mind, his time and his plans. Lena and the house.

He celebrated the clear results of his neurological tests by taking the day off to antique. Spring had jump-started the flowers and had pedestrians strolling in shirtsleeves. The carriage horses the tourists loved prancing with bright clip-clops of hooves on pavement.

Summer would drop her heavy hand soon enough, and turn the air to molasses. The thought of it reminded him he had to have the air-conditioning upgraded, and maybe reconsider installing paddle fans in some of the rooms.

He bought with his usual surrender to impulse, brightening the day of several shopkeepers before he stopped in a place called, simply, Yesterday.

It was a hodgepodge of statuary, lamps, vintage accessories and jewelry, with three curtained booths on the side where patrons could buy a tarot card reading.

It was the ring that caught his eye first. The blood-red ruby and ice-white diamond formed two halves of an interlocking heart on a platinum band.

The minute he held it in his hand, he knew he wanted it for Lena. Maybe it was foolish to buy an engagement ring at this point in their relationship. And it was reckless to snatch at something before he’d looked at other options.

But this was the one he wanted to put on her finger. And he decided if a man could buy a house on a whim, he could sure as hell buy a ring.

“I’ll take it.”

“It’s beautiful,” said the shopkeeper. “She’s a lucky woman.”

“I’m working on convincing her of that.”

“I have some lovely earrings that would complement
this. Is ruby her birthstone?” the clerk asked as she showed him a pair of earrings with a dangle of ruby hearts and diamonds.

“I don’t know.” But he’d gotten her birthday from Odette to make sure he didn’t miss it. “July?”

“Then it is. Lucky guess.”

“No kidding.” It gave him a little tingle as he looked back at the ring. Some things were meant, he told himself. He lifted one of the earrings. He could already see them on her—just as he imagined the clerk could see
Impulse Buyer
stamped on his forehead.

He leaned on the counter and began to pit Yankee bargaining skills against southern horse-trading.

He figured they’d come to fair terms when her smile was still in place but much less brilliant.

“Will that be all for you today?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get going. I’m already—” He broke off when he glanced at his watch and saw it had stopped at twelve again. “You know, I could use a watch—a pocket watch. Mine’s been acting up, and I’m doing a lot of carpentry right now. Probably smashed this one a few times on the job.”

“I’ve got some wonderful old pocket watches and chains. They’re so much more imaginative than the new ones.”

She led him over to another display cabinet, pulled out a drawer and set it on the counter.

“Watches like this tell more than time,” she began. “They tell a story. This one—”

“No.” The edges of his vision dimmed like smoke. The chatter of voices from other customers faded into a hum. Part of him remained aware enough to know he was sliding away from himself. Even as he tried to stop it, to pull back, he watched his own hand reach out, pick up a gold watch and its loop of chain.

The voice of the shopkeeper hovered around the rim of
his consciousness. It was another voice that stabbed through, clear as a bell. Female, young, excited.

For my husband, for his birthday. He broke his. I want to give him something special. This one is so handsome. Can you engrave it?

And he already knew what he would find, exactly what he would find, before he turned the watch over to read the back.

To Lucian from his Abby.
To mark our time together.
April 4, 1899

“Mr. Fitzgerald? Mr. Fitzgerald, are you all right? Would you like some water? You’re awfully pale.”

“What?”

“Can I get you some water? Would you like to sit down?”

“No.” He closed his hand tightly over the watch, but the sensation was already fading. “No, thanks. I’m okay. I’ll take this, too.”

M
ore than a little shaken, he headed to Remy’s office. He thought some time in the sensible business district, in the rational atmosphere of law, might help settle him down.

More, he wanted a few minutes with a friend who might think he was crazy, but would love him anyway.

“If you’d told me you were coming by,” Remy began as he closed his office door, “I’d’ve scooted some stuff around so we could maybe have lunch.”

“I didn’t expect to head over this way today.”

“Been shopping again.” Remy nodded at the bag Declan carried. “Boy, aren’t you having anything sent down from Boston?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve got some stuff coming down next week. Books mostly,” Declan said as he wandered the office. His gaze skimmed over the law books, the fat files, the memos. All of it, the debris of the lawyer, seemed very distant to him now.

“A few pieces I had in my study up there that should work in the library.”

He picked up a brass paperweight, set it down. Slipped a hand into his pocket, jiggled change.

“You going to tell me what’s on your mind, or just pace until you dig a trench in my carpet?” With his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, Remy kicked back in his chair and began to swish a bright green Slinky from palm to palm. “You’re wearing me out.”

“I’ve told you some of the things that’ve been happening.”

“Got a firsthand account of them myself when I dropped in on Saturday. I’d still feel better if you told me that piano music we heard was from some radio you forgot to turn off.”

“I guess I’ll have to get a piano for the ladies’ parlor, since that seems to be the spot. I like to play anyway, when I remember to sit down at one.”

Remy shifted the Slinky to vertical, let the colorful spiral drip into itself. “So, you came by to tell me you’re in the market for a piano?”

“I bought a watch today.”

“And you want to show it off? Want me to call in my assistant, some of the law clerks?”

“It was Lucian Manet’s watch.”

“No shit?” The Slinky, sloshed into a whole, was tossed aside. “How do you know? Where’d you get ahold of it?”