Masquerade (16 page)

Remy frowned. "But you made it sound so serious—"

"Aaah, Remy." Her uncle sighed a laugh and curved an arm around her shoulder, giving her an affectionate squeeze. "Business is always
very
serious," he declared in an exaggeratedly sober tone, then looked at her father. "Frazier, do you remember when we decided it was time to change the company logo for the Crescent Line? We agonized and worried over that for more than a month."

"Gracious, yes," Sibylle Jardin inserted as she crossed the room to give Gabe the cup of coffee with cream. "The way they carried on and argued, you would have thought the fate of the world hung on their decision."

"See what I mean?" her uncle said, then gave her shoulder a pat and released her. "I've got to be going." Lending action to his words, he walked to the doorway and paused in the opening to look back. "I'll call you as soon as I know something, Frazier."
 

"Right."

Remy watched him leave, wondering whether the situation with the insurance company was as forthright as he'd made it sound, or if this was the trouble she had sensed. But how could it be? She took no active part in the operations of the shipping company; both Cole and Gabe had made that very clear. Therefore, she wouldn't be needed—not in the vital sense she felt—even if the shipping line were truly experiencing a crisis. It must be something else.

"Would you like some coffee, Remy?"

Remy turned from the now empty doorway. "Please," she said in acceptance, then observed the way her mother lightly pressed a hand on her husband's shoulder as she passed his chair—and the way he reached up and absently patted it— an exchange that spoke of affection given and returned, of a bond apparently strengthened by thirty-five years of marriage.

It made her wonder if she'd observed such exchanges before—or if she'd taken them for granted.

She watched her mother pour coffee from the silver pot into a china cup, noticing the delicate look to her hands, the medium length of her clear-polished nails, and the half-moons at the base of them. The blue veins standing out along the backs of her hands were the only indication of age, their presence betraying an otherwise youthful appearance.

Lifting her glance, Remy saw that it was the same with her mother's face—the initial impression was one of youth, and only a closer look revealed the faintly crepey quality of the skin around the eyes and mouth. Yet none of it detracted from the quiet elegance, the aura of studied grace about her. Or from the inner strength Remy sensed she had—not the "steel magnolia" kind, but something gentler, warmer. She wondered what her relationship with this woman had been like. Had Sibylle Jardin been a role model for her? Had they been close? Somehow Remy couldn't imagine confiding her deepest secrets to the woman, but—she couldn't imagine quarreling with her, either.

As for her father, her relationship with Frazier Jardin was an even bigger mystery, since she remembered absolutely nothing about him. She glanced his way again, seeking some feature, some characteristic, some mannerism that might spark a memory, no matter how small. But there was nothing, nothing but the sight of his face, drawn in sober, thought-filled lines, the darkness of his eyes all shadowed with concern—or was it fear?

"Your coffee, Remy."

Distracted by the prompting statement, she looked away and took the cup and saucer Sibylle Jardin handed her. When she glanced back at her father, he had tipped his head down, and she was even less certain whether what she had detected in his eyes was fear or merely deep worry.

"Do you mind if we all adjourn to the dining room?" Gabe asked, pushing away from the window frame with a shove of his shoulder. "If we stay in here, I don't think I'll be able to resist the temptation to stretch out on that sofa and catch up on some of the sleep I lost flying halfway around the world and back."

"Tired, are you?" Remy smiled at him in sympathy, seeing the shadows, the puffiness around his eyes.

"Tired?" He raised an eyebrow, questioning her choice of words. "I feel like I need toothpicks to prop my eyelids open."

"Don't do it," she advised in mock seriousness. "It would definitely hurt."

"What's a little pain when you're numb with fatigue anyway?" he countered, walking over to her and draping an arm around her shoulders, leaning his weight on her. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to carry me to the dining room, could I?"

"As heavy as you are, I'd collapse before we made it to the door."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He straightened slightly but kept his arm around her, drawing her along with him as he set off for the dining room, followed by their parents. "Tell me, where did you get the energy to go for a walk so early this morning?"

"Easy. I was already halfway around the world; therefore all I had to do was fly back." It was a nonsensical exchange, yet Remy was conscious of how naturally she slipped into it with him. And that ease suggested a closeness between them that had transcended childhood.

"I wish I'd thought of that. Which shows you how tired I am," he said with a mock grimace of dismay. "So—exactly where did you go on this walk of yours?"

"I caught the streetcar and rode to Canal, then strolled through the Quarter. You'd be surprised how peaceful and quiet it is at that hour," she continued. "After that I stopped by the Café du Monde for coffee, then wandered along the riverfront for a while and suddenly found myself at the company wharf."

"The wharf." Beneath the shock in her father's voice, there was censure. "That area is no place for a decent young woman to be walking alone in.

"That was Cole's reaction when he found me there," Remy admitted as she turned in to the dining room, a study in orchid and soft, cool blues. The long walnut table held place settings for four, the richness of the wood gleaming beneath the light from the bronze doré chandelier overhead, a twin to the one in the main salon. On the marble top of the French Empire serving table sat a tall crystal pitcher full of freshly squeezed orange juice, along with four glasses. Remy slipped free of Gabe's draping arm and crossed to the serving table with its mirrored base—a "petticoat" table. "Actually Cole put it a bit more bluntly—something like, 'What the hell are you doing here?'"

"I wondered how you came to be with Buchanan this morning." Her father sat down at the head of the table.

"That's how." Setting her cup and saucer down on the marble top, she picked up the juice pitcher and filled two glasses, one for herself and one for her waiting brother. "Afterward he insisted that I ride to the office with him and take a taxi home from there." She gave Gabe his glass, then picked up her cup and went over to sit down. "But when we—"

"No, not there, Remy," her mother admonished when she started to pull out a chair. "That's where Gabe always sits."

She let go of the carved chair back as if the wood had become hot to the touch. She was stunned to discover how awkward and uncomfortable she suddenly felt. Another scene from another time sprang into her mind, a scene when she was seven or eight years old, a scene where her mother had informed her that she couldn't sit there—"That is Gabe's place"—a scene where she had childishly stomped her foot and protested, "But he always gets to sit next to Daddy."

Remy stared at the chair she'd almost sat in— the chair next to her father—and murmured, "I didn't remember."

"You can sit there, Remy." Gabe motioned her back to the chair. "I don't mind."

"No, I don't think so." She knew she'd be uncomfortable sitting there now. Instead she pulled out another chair, down the table from his. "I'd rather sit here."

"If you say so." He shrugged and sat down in his customary place.

Her father picked up the conversation as if the interlude over the chairs had never occurred. "It's curious that you weren't able to find a taxi at the Trade Mart. Usually there are several around in the morning."

"There were this morning, too," Remy admitted. "But I wanted to see the company offices."

"Why?" He gave her a startled look, his hand halting in the midst of reaching for the glass of orange juice Sibylle had set in front of him.

Rather than attempt to explain the vague feelings that had prompted her visit to the offices of the family's shipping line, Remy said instead, "Curiosity, mainly. I wanted to see if I would remember it."

"And did you?" Gabe asked.

"As a matter of fact, I remembered the portrait of Grand-père that always hung on that one wall," she replied, just as the connecting door between the dining room and kitchen swung open and Nattie walked through, a tray balanced on her upraised palm. Frazier Jardin set his juice glass down again and leaned back in his chair, a smile lifting his somber features.

"Ahh, breakfast at last," he declared lightly. "It smells wonderful, Nattie."

"Of course it does," she retorted, and put a plate in front of him, laden with the morning's fare of eggs Benedict topped by lemony bright hollandaise sauce and garnished with fresh strawberries, raspberries, pineapple, and colorful kiwi. "Whatever I make always smells good and tastes better. You know that, Mr. Frazier."

"My waistline reminds me when I forget," he replied drolly.

Nattie chuckled and continued on to serve his wife.

"By the way," Remy said as she unfolded her napkin onto her lap, "would someone mind telling me who Brodie Donovan is? Cole claimed he started the Crescent Line. Is that true?"

Her father stiffened instantly, resentment and anger in every line of his face. "In the strictest definition, I suppose he did." He sliced off a portion of his eggs Benedict. "The man was a war profiteer who made a fortune running the blockade during the War Between the States. He smuggled in satins and silks, whiskey and wines, and endless other luxuries, selling them for high dollar at a time when the South was begging for medical supplies and drugs, food for the table, and blankets to keep its people warm. The ships, the company name, may have been his in the beginning, but it was a Jardin who made the Crescent Line a respected shipping company," he concluded forcefully, and Nattie made a scornful, disbelieving sound in her throat. Frazier immediately fired a look at her. "Is something wrong, Nattie?"

"Not with me." She set Remy's plate in front of her, then calmly met his gaze. "Is something wrong with you?"

He glared at her for an instant, then Gabe spoke up. "Wasn't it Balzac who said that all great fortunes have been founded on a crime?"

Frazier Jardin turned his sharp look on Gabe as Nattie returned to the kitchen with her empty tray. "That is not amusing, Gabe."

"Sorry." He immediately lowered his head in a show of contrition, secretly directing a quick, smiling glance at Remy.

"All that's in the past, and better left there— regardless of how Buchanan chooses to look at it," Frazier stated curtly.

"Yes, but—" Remy began, wanting to ask him why Cole had said her surname should be Donovan instead of Jardin.

"It's the present we need to discuss," her father interrupted. "Specifically your amnesia, Remy, and what we need to do about it."

"Do about it," she repeated in startled confusion. "What do you mean?"

"When I learned about your condition, I called Dr. John—"

"Who's Dr. John?" The name meant nothing to her.

"Dr. John Lucius Sebastian has been the physician for the Jardin family for years. He took care of your grand-père in his final years and delivered you into this world," he explained patiently. "Even if you can't remember, I'm sure you can appreciate that he's developed a personal interest in you—a fondness for you—over these many years. Naturally he was disturbed to learn about your amnesia. Your mother and I talked with him at length about what could be done. He recommended a clinic located outside of Houston. Their staff has had considerable experience treating cases such as yours."

"Dr. John said it was very beautiful there," Sibylle Jardin inserted. "It's one of those secluded, sylvan settings, peaceful and quiet. Every
. . .guest.
. . has a private cottage on the grounds, complete with maid service and your own private chef if you wish. It's almost like a resort, really."

"Are you suggesting I should go there?" Remy looked from one to the other, not wanting to believe what she was hearing.

"Dr. John assured us that its facilities and its staff are the best to be found anywhere. He knows we wouldn't want anything less for you." Her father calmly carved off another bite of the rich egg dish. "I thought we could fly you over tomorrow. They have their own landing strip—"

"No." Her quick and angry denunciation of his plans sounded unnecessarily loud even to her own ears.

"'No'? What do you mean?" He seemed stunned by her objection.

"I mean—I'm not going," she replied in a more controlled but no less firm voice.

"But why?" he protested. "You can get the kind of care and treatment you need there. The whole purpose is for you to regain your memory. Surely you want that as much as we do."
 

"Of course I do."

"Well, they can help you accomplish that, Remy."

"They can't," she argued. "The kind of amnesia I have can't be treated with drugs or psychiatric therapy or hypnosis. Believe me, I inquired about every possibility while I was in that hospital in Nice, trying desperately to find out who I was. Unfortunately my amnesia is caused by brain trauma—the kind that requires time to heal. The specialist was very definite on that point."

"I'm not prepared to accept that," Frazier said. "I think we should have a second opinion. After all, who was this specialist you saw? What were his credentials? How can you be certain he's kept up with all the latest medical advances?"

"I checked." She stabbed at a bite of Canadian bacon drenched in the congealing hollandaise sauce, feeling inexplicably angry and unsure—but at what? At her parents? Why? Weren't they merely acting out of concern for her? Or were they attempting to control her life? Had they done that in the past? Was that what she was subconsciously reacting to?

"If your amnesia is something that requires time to heal, then surely the clinic would provide an ideal setting," her mother suggested. "There you can rest and relax, have an opportunity to recuperate free of any stress."