Midnight Bayou (16 page)

“Early.”

“I might do that, too. You don’t need to see me to the door,
cher
.” She sent him a wicked grin. “Walking’s got to be a little bit of a problem for you, shape you’re in just now. You come on into the bar if you change your mind.”

She laid a fingertip on her lips, kissed it, then pointed it at him like a gun before she walked away.

It was an apt gesture, Declan thought. There were times a look from her was as lethal as a bullet.

All he had to do was hold out until Wednesday, then he could get shot again.

R
ain moved in Saturday night and camped out like a squatter through the rest of the weekend. It kept Declan inside, and kept him alone. With Blind Lemon Jackson playing on his stereo, he started preliminary work on the library.

He built a fire as much for cheer as warmth, then found himself sitting on the hearth, running a finger over the chipped tile. Maybe he’d leave it as it was. Not everything should be perfect. Accidents should be accepted, and the character of them absorbed.

He wanted to bring the house to life again, but did he want to put it back exactly the way it had been? He’d already changed things, and the changes made it his.

If he had the tile replaced, was he honoring the history of the Hall, or re-creating it?

It hadn’t been a happy home.

The thought ran through him like a chill, though his back was to the snapping fire.

A cold, cold house, full of secrets and anger and envy.

Death.

She wanted a book. Reading was a delight to her—a slow and brilliant delight. The sight of the library, with row after row after row of books, made her think of the room as reverently as she did church.

Now, with Lucian closeted with his father in the study going over the business of land and crops, and the rain drumming against the windows, she could indulge herself in a quiet afternoon of reading.

She wasn’t quite accustomed to the time to do as she pleased and so slipped into the room as if it were a guilty pleasure. She no longer had linens to fold, tables to dust, dishes to carry.

She was no longer a servant in this place, but a wife.

Wife.
She hugged the word to her. It was still so new, so shiny. As the life growing inside her was new. So new, she had yet to tell Lucian.

Her curse was late, and it was never late. She’d awakened ill three days running. But she would wait, another week. To speak of it too soon might make it untrue.

And oh, she wanted a child. How she wanted to give Lucian a child. She laid a hand on her belly as she wandered along the shelves and imagined the beautiful son or daughter she would bring into the world.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a child would soften Lucian’s mother. Perhaps a child would bring joy into the house as the hope for one brought joy to her heart.

She selected Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice.
The title, she thought, spoke to her. Manet Hall had so much of both. She bit her lip as she flipped through the pages. She was a slow, painstaking reader, but Lucian said that only meant she savored the words.

Stumbled over them, she thought, but she was getting better. Pleased with herself, she turned and saw Julian slouched in one of the wine-colored chairs, a snifter in his hand, a bottle by his elbow.

Watching her.

He frightened her. Repulsed her. But she reminded herself she was no longer a servant. She was his brother’s wife, and should try to be friends.

“Hello, Julian. I didn’t see you.”

He lifted the bottle, poured more brandy into his glass. “That book,” he said, then drank deep, “has words of more than one syllable.”

“I can read.” Her spine went arrow-straight. “I like to read.”

“What else do you like,
chère
?”

Her fingers tightened on the book when he rose, then relaxed again when he strolled to the fireplace, rested a boot on the hearth, an elbow on the mantel.

“I’m learning to ride. Lucian’s teaching me. I’m not very good yet, but I like it.” Oh, she wanted to be friends with him. The house deserved warmth and laughter, and love.

He laughed, and she heard the brandy in it. “I bet you ride. I bet you ride a man into a sweat. You may work those innocent eyes on my brother—he’s always been a fool. But I know what you are, and what you’re after.”

“I’m your brother’s wife.” There had to be a way to take the first step beyond this hate. For Lucian, for the child growing inside her, she took it, and walked toward Julian. “I only want him to be happy. I make him happy. You’re his blood, Julian. His twin. It isn’t right that we should be at odds this way. I want to try to be your sister. Your friend.”

He knocked back the rest of the brandy. “Want to be my friend, do you?”

“Yes, for Lucian’s sake, we should—”

“How friendly are you?” He lunged toward her, grabbed her breasts painfully.

The shock of it froze her. The insult flashed through the shock with a burning heat. Her hand cracked across his
cheek with enough force to send him staggering back.

“Bastard! Animal! Put your hands on me again, I’ll kill you. I’m Lucian’s. I’m your brother’s wife.”

“My brother’s whore!” he shouted as she ran for the door. “Cajun slut, I’ll see you dead before you take what’s mine by rights.”

Raging, he shoved away from the mantel. The heavy silver candlestick tumbled off, smashed against the edge of the tile, snapped off the corner.

Declan hadn’t moved. When he came back to himself he was still sitting on the hearth, his back to the snapping fire. The rain was still beating on the ground, streaming down the windows.

As it had been, he thought, during the . . . vision? Fugue? Hallucination?

He pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes, where the headache speared like a spike into his skull.

Maybe he didn’t have ghosts, he thought. Maybe he had a goddamn fucking brain tumor. It would make more sense. Anything would make more sense.

Slamming doors, cold spots, even sleepwalking were by-products of the house he could live with. But he’d
seen
those people, inside his head. Heard them there—the words, the tone. More, much more disturbing, he’d felt them.

His legs were weak, nearly gave way under him as he got to his feet. He had to grip the mantel, his fingers vising on so that he wondered the marble didn’t snap.

If something was wrong with him, physically, mentally, he had to deal with it. Fitzgeralds didn’t bury their heads in the sand when things got tough.

Figuring he was as steady as he was going to get, he went into the kitchen to hunt up aspirin. Which, he decided as he shook out four, was going to be like trying to piss out a forest fire. But he gulped them down, then ran the cold glass over his forehead.

He’d fly up to Boston and see his uncle. His mother’s baby brother was a cardiologist, but he’d know the right neurosurgeon. A couple of days, some tests, and he’d know if he was crazy, haunted or dying.

He started to reach for his phone, then stopped and shook his head. Crazy, he thought, just got one more point. If he went to Uncle Mick, word of his potential medical problems would run through the family like an airborne virus.

Besides, what was he running back to Boston for? New Orleans had doctors. He’d get the name of Remy’s. He could tell his friend he just wanted to get a doctor, a dentist and so on in the area. That was logical.

He’d get himself a physical, then ask the doctor to recommend a specialist. Simple, straightforward and efficient.

If ghosts couldn’t drive him out of Manet Hall, damn if a brain tumor would.

As he set the glass down, a door slammed on the second floor. He simply glanced up at the ceiling and smiled grimly.

“Yeah, well, I’m in a pretty crappy mood myself.”

B
y Wednesday, he had a handle on things again. Maybe it was the anticipation of seeing Lena that lifted his spirits—in combination with the work he’d managed to get done on those last days before Lent. He had an appointment with Remy’s doctor the following week and, having taken that step, was able to put most of the concern about the state of his brain aside.

There had been no more fugues. At least, he thought, none he was aware of.

The rain had finally moved on to plague Florida, and had left him with the first tender trumpets of daffodils scattered along one of his garden paths.

The morning weather report had detailed a ten-inch snowfall in Boston.

He immediately called his mother to rub it in.

Sunshine and the tease of spring had him switching gears earlier than he’d intended. He postponed work on the library and set up outdoors to reinforce the second-floor gallery, to replace damaged boards.

He listened to Ray Charles, and felt healthy as a horse. He was going to have the Franks do most of the early planting, he decided. He just didn’t have time. But next year, he’d do his own. Or as much as he could manage.

Next spring, he’d sit out here on the gallery on Sunday mornings, eating beignets, drinking café au lait—with Lena. Long, lazy Sundays, looking out over the lawns, the gardens. And a few years down the road, looking out at the kids in the yards, in the gardens.

He wanted a family of his own, and it was good to know it. He’d never had that need inside him before, the need to hold onto the now and look to tomorrow at the same time.

So he knew it was right, what he felt for her. What he planned for them. He’d help her in the bar if she needed it, but he’d have his own work.

He turned his hands over, studied the palms, the calluses he’d built. The little nicks and scars he looked on as personal medals of valor.

He’d use them, his back and his imagination, to transform other houses. People in the parish would think of Declan Fitzgerald when they needed a contractor.

You should’ve seen that old house before he got ahold of it, they’d say. You need the job done, you just call Dec. He’ll fix you up.

The idea made him grin as he ripped out the next rotten board.

By four, he’d finished the long front sweep of the gallery floor and stretched out on it, belly down, to take a
break. He fell asleep with B. B. King pleading with Lucille.

And was sleeping still when he rose and walked down the shaky, sagging curve of stairs to the front lawn.

The grass was thick under his feet, and the heat of the sun poured over his face, beat down on his head despite the hat he wore as protection.

The others were inside, but he’d wanted to look at the pond, at the lilies. He’d wanted to sit in the shade of the willow that danced over the water, and read.

He liked the music of the birds, and didn’t mind the heat so much. The heat was honest. The air inside the Hall was cold and false.

It was heartbreaking to watch the house he loved rotting away from bitterness.

He stopped at the edge of the pond, looking down at the green plates of the pads, the creamy white lilies that graced them. He watched a dragonfly whiz by, the sun glinting off the wings so it was an iridescent blur. He heard the plop of a frog and the call of a cardinal.

When he heard his name, he turned. And smiled as his beloved crossed the velvet lawn toward him. As long as they were together, he thought, as long as they loved, the Hall would stand.

“Declan. Declan.”

Alarmed, Lena gripped his arms and shook. She’d seen him coming down those treacherous stairs as she’d driven down his lane, and how he’d walked toward the pond in an awkward, hesitant gait so unlike his usual easy stride.

His eyes were open but glazed in a way that made her think he was looking through her and seeing something—someone—else.

“Declan.” She kept her voice firm, and her hands, as she took his face in them. “Look at me now. Hear me? It’s Lena.”

“Let’s sit under the willow where no one can see us.”

There was no willow, only the rotted stump of one. Fear tickled the back of her throat, but she swallowed it. Going with instinct, she rose up on her toes and laid her lips warmly on his.

His response was slow, dreamy, a kind of sliding to her. Against her. Into her. So she knew the instant he snapped back by the way his body stiffened. He started to sway, but she held on.

“Steady now,
cher.
You just hang onto me till you get your legs under you.”

“Sorry. Need to sit.” He dropped straight down on the grass, laid his brow on his knees. “Whoa.”

“You’re okay now. You’re fine now.” She knelt beside him, brushing at his hair and murmuring in Cajun—her language of comfort. “Just get your breath back.”

“What the hell’s wrong with me? I was on the gallery. I was working on the gallery.”

“Is that the last thing you remember?”

He looked up now, over the pond. “I don’t know how I got out here.”

“You walked down the stairs, the ones on the right of the house. I thought you were going to go straight through them.” Her heart still hitched when she thought of how unsteady they were. “They don’t look safe, Declan. You ought to block them off.”

“Yeah.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Lock myself in a padded room while I’m at it.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“I’m sleepwalking—in the daylight now. I’m hallucinating. I’m hearing voices. That doesn’t sound sane to me.”

“That’s just the Yankee talking. Down here that doesn’t even come up to eccentric. Why, my great-aunt Sissy has whole conversations with her husband, Joe, and he’s been dead for twelve years come September. Nobody thinks she’s crazy.”

“What do they talk about?”

“Oh, family business, current events, the weather. Politics. Great-Uncle Joe dearly loved complaining about the government. Feeling better now,
cher
?”

“I don’t know. What did I do? What did you see me do?”

“You just came down the stairs and walked across the grass toward the pond. You weren’t walking like you, so I knew something was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a smooth, lanky kind of gait, and you weren’t moving like that. Then you stopped at the pond.”

She didn’t tell him she’d had one shocked moment when she’d been sure he meant to walk straight into the water.

“I kept calling you. And finally you turned around and smiled at me.” Her stomach muscles tightened as she remembered. “But not
at
me. I don’t think you were seeing me. And you said you wanted to sit under the willow, where no one could see us.”

“There’s no willow here.”

“Well.” She pointed toward the stump. “There was, once. Seems like you’re having dreams where maybe you can see things that happened before. That’s a kind of gift, Declan.”