Scandal in Copper Lake (25 page)

“That should keep her around another twenty years at least. Maybe she’ll give Chessie a run for the money in the age department.”

Anamaria was thinking about the small pleasure that Robbie remembered the many names and details of the Duquesne family she’d thrown out over the past few days, and about the bigger pleasure when he would get to meet them—the living ones, at least—hopefully soon. They would be so happy to find out that she was in love and pregnant, and they would be shocked to hear that she’d decided curses were for lesser women than Duquesnes. If Robbie was willing to take a chance on her, the least she could do was take the same chance on him. For their baby’s sake. For their sake.

And who knew? Maybe Kent would relent before then and tell them where he’d taken Charlotte. Maybe the sister everyone had thought dead could be at her wedding to the man she would live the rest of her life with.

Then a gunshot rang out.

Robbie and Anamaria sat on the porch steps, Rick on one side, Tommy on the other. The sheriff and his deputies were inside the cabin, along with the medical examiner’s staff. Suicide, they all agreed. No one could have known. No one could have prevented it.

Robbie wasn’t so sure.

As if he’d read his mind, Rick slid his arm around Robbie’s shoulders, mussed his hair, then pulled his head to his own shoulder. “It’s not your fault, bubba. People are gonna do what they’re gonna do. Kent’s never been happy a day in his life, except maybe those months with Glory. He wasn’t making a plea for help. It wasn’t a gesture. He wanted it done.”

A single bullet to the brain had certainly gotten it done. “Still…I shouldn’t have let him go into the cabin alone. I should have known he wouldn’t have come out here without a gun. Granddad taught us better than that.”

“Granddad taught us a lot,” Rick said. “Some of it didn’t take with Kent.”

“He’s right, Rob,” Tommy said. “Kent’s been miserable the last twenty-three years. Maybe now he can find some peace.” He glanced over his shoulder, then stood up and offered his hand to Anamaria. “They’re ready to bring his body out. Why don’t you two go on?”

Robbie didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t want to see into the living room with its leather furniture and Navajo rugs, stained now with blood, didn’t want to see the zippered bag that contained Kent’s body. He hadn’t cared much for Kent, but, God, he hadn’t wanted this.

The four of them walked to the Vette in silence, and he and Anamaria headed back toward town in the same, heavy silence. She kept her hand on his thigh, her touch reassuring.
He could live with that touch for the next sixty years and never grow tired of its comfort, its familiarity.

If she would have him.

As he turned onto the highway, she asked, “Where would he have gone that night, Robbie? He was twenty years old, he had a newborn child in need of food, clothing and attention, and he had a car to move to make sure that no one connected Glory’s last night with his family. Where would he have taken Charlotte? Who could he have trusted with her?”

The answer was simple, sure. “Lydia.” She had loved Kent like a son. She would have accepted whatever story he told her and would have taken his secret to her grave.

Lydia. Glory’s friend. But blood was thicker than water.

He drove through town, then turned east on Carolina. They passed the mall, the turn that led to Marguerite and the nursing home, the elaborate brick-and-iron gates that led to Cyrus’s property and finally reached Twin Oaks. Lydia was sitting in a rocker on the broad porch, her head bowed over a small bundle in her arms.

“She knows,” Anamaria murmured.

“Yeah.” He didn’t have to be a psychic to see.

Robbie parked next to her car, then took Anamaria’s hand as they crossed the drive to the steps. Lydia didn’t look up but continued her slow, steady rocking. “Glory used to say that when we die, the people who loved us are waiting to meet us. I like that idea, seeing all those people who have already passed on. But who do you suppose was there to meet Kent?”

Anamaria pulled free of Robbie and crouched in front of the rocker. “Mr. John was there, and another man—tall, slender, with big hands and big ears.”

Robbie stiffened, but Lydia smiled even though her eyes were damp. “That’s his granddad Jed. Jed’s mama used to say
that God gave him those ears so she’d have something to hold on to when she had to wallop him for misbehaving.”

Anamaria had seen his granddad at the cabin. The news knocked Robbie back on his heels. He hadn’t noticed—she hadn’t said…But in eight words, she’d given a perfect description of a man she’d never seen. And if he believed in spirits and crossing over, Granddad was the one person who would always be there to welcome his grandchildren. Even when they’d exasperated or disappointed him, he’d still loved them. Always loved them.

“Miss Lydia, Kent told us he took the baby. He wrapped her in Mama’s shawl, and he took her someplace safe.” Anamaria’s voice was soft and unsteady, and so was her hand as she touched the bundle Lydia cradled. “He brought her to you, didn’t he?”

It was the shawl she held, Robbie realized. Duquesne family history, taken from Glory as she lay dying, and Lydia had had it all these years.

Before Lydia could answer, the front door slammed open with a bang and Harrison Kennedy strode out. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you you couldn’t talk to her! I forbade you—”

“Harrison,” Lydia interrupted. “For heaven’s sake, it’s Robbie. He’s family. Of course he can talk to me. I was just about to tell them about the baby. About Charlotte.”

Harrison stabbed a finger in her direction. “You don’t tell them anything. We agreed never to discuss it, remember?”

She made a dismissive gesture. “That was years ago, and Kent’s gone now, bless his heart. He doesn’t need our protection anymore.”

Harrison mimicked the same gesture. “It was never about protecting him, Liddy! Maybe if he’d had to face the consequences of his actions, it would have turned him into a man.
But he couldn’t have paid without dragging you into it, and I never would have let that happen. I
won’t
let that happen.” Abruptly, he stabbed his finger at Robbie. “You’re still our damn lawyer. Anything she says to you is privileged. You can’t tell a soul.”

“That was why you insisted I handle this myself, wasn’t it?” Robbie asked. “You didn’t want a private investigator because privilege wouldn’t apply. If he found evidence of a crime, he would have to report it, but I couldn’t.”

Lydia shooed Anamaria back, then got to her feet to face her husband. “Harrison, just what crime do you think I committed?”

“That woman…the baby…” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “She was here that night—came to swindle Liddy out of more money. I left to have dinner at the country club and play a few hands of poker. When I came home, Kent was tearing up the driveway like a bat out of hell, the woman was gone and Liddy was sitting in the parlor holding that damn baby, cooing, going on like it was her own.”

“You thought I—” Lydia blanched, and her mouth worked a moment before she started again. “You thought I—I did something to Glory to get her baby? You thought I
killed
her?”

Harrison’s face turned as red as hers was pale. “She was alive and well and pregnant when I left, and when I come back, there’s no sign of her but the baby? And the next morning she’s found dead by the river on the other side of town? What was I supposed to think?”

“Mr. Kennedy, my mother died where her body was found,” Anamaria said quietly. “She and Kent were arguing. She ran into the woods to get away from him, and she fell. He left her there, but he brought the baby to Miss Lydia.”

Now it was his turn to gape, his jaw working.

“Harrison, how could you think for a second that I would harm Glory?” Lydia asked sorrowfully.

His gaze flickered around the group before settling on her. “You wanted a baby so bad. You were never the same after ours—The way you looked at pregnant women, the way you looked at babies…There was such heartache. And you wouldn’t tell me anything. All you did was stare at that baby like your world was right again.”

“So you didn’t call the police because you were afraid of what Lydia had done,” Robbie said. “And the next morning, when you heard that Glory was dead…”

Harrison took a step back, leaning against the wall as if he badly needed the support. “I called Doc Josephs. He took the baby, and I took Liddy to New York, to see a doctor friend of his there. Josephs arranged through another doctor for some people to take the baby. My lawyer took care of the details.”

“Your lawyer,” Robbie repeated. “Uncle Cyrus. Charlotte’s father.” The coldhearted bastard had helped with the adoption of his own child and, knowing him, collected a large sum of money for it. Had he cared about Glory’s death? Had he considered claiming his daughter for even a moment?

Lucky for Charlotte, apparently not. She’d had a chance to grow up in a normal home, to be happy and well-adjusted and well-loved. Her first hours of life had hopefully been the toughest of her life.

He moved to take Anamaria’s hand, lacing his fingers tightly through hers. He wanted to walk away with her, to take her home and make love to her, hold her, comfort her. He wanted to drive to Savannah with her, to meet Mama Odette and Aunties Charise and Lueena and give them the news about Charlotte in person.

He wanted to tell her he loved her. To ask her to marry him.

He wanted to tell her he believed—in her gifts, in her, in them, in forever.

“What happens now?” Harrison asked, subdued for the first time in all the years Robbie had known him.

Robbie gazed at Anamaria. There was sorrow in her eyes but also hope and peace, and that serenity that made her so damn beautiful. After a moment, he looked back at Harrison and Lydia. “Kent’s already paid for his part. We tell Tommy the rest and let the authorities decide.” Then he winked at Anamaria. “And we find Charlotte. Tommy will be in touch.”

He and Anamaria had reached the bottom of the steps when he let go and went back, pulling the shawl from Lydia’s hands. She was gazing at Harrison, her hold limp, and didn’t notice the fabric slipping away. Back at the steps, he shook out the folds, then, despite the sun’s warmth, wrapped the faded wools and velvets around Anamaria’s slender shoulders.

Knotting his fingers in the fabric on either side, he gazed down at her, so incredibly beautiful, so amazingly important. To think that a week ago, he hadn’t known she existed, that only a few days ago he’d thought the difficulties of a relationship with her too much to overcome. How had everything changed so completely, so quickly?

He’d never been one to question good fortune. Why start now?

“Don’t go back to Savannah, Annie. Stay with me. Live with me. Marry me.”

Her smile was slight, impossible to read.

“I know we haven’t known each other very long—”

She raised her fingers to his mouth. “It’s not how long that matters. It’s how well. Destiny doesn’t count time like we do.”

After kissing her fingers, he brushed them away. “Am I your destiny?”

This time her smile was bright and happy…and reminded him of the photograph of her and Glory in front of their church. Destined to steal a man’s breath, he’d thought when
he’d first seen it. Along with his heart. “Oh, yes, chile, and I’m yours.” She pointed her finger at him, nearly tapping his nose. “And don’t you go trying to forget it. You. Me. Our daughters. Meant to be.”

He let go of the shawl ends, and she raised her arms to enclose him in it, too.
Meant to be.
Damn, but he liked the sound of that. And
daughters.
He liked the sound of that, too. Nuzzling her neck, he murmured, “Let’s go home, Annie, and start working on those daughters.”

With a laugh, she pulled away and twirled in a circle, the shawl flowing around her. “We’ve already done that, darlin’. But I’m happy to practice for the second one.”

He didn’t ask how she could know so soon. She was a Duquesne woman, and Duquesne women knew things. And she was his woman, though he knew only one thing: He loved her. Wanted her. Needed her.

Forever.

It was a cold, rainy January evening, but there was a party going on in Labor and Delivery at Copper Lake Medical Center. Room 312 was filled with people, with soft voices and laughter and the scent of incredible food brought in from the deli. Anamaria sat in bed, the top raised so she could lean against it, and gazed at the baby in her arms. Less than twelve hours old, perfect in every way, with cocoa-hued skin and Calloway blue eyes, seven pounds, seven ounces and nineteen inches long. The baby scent was so sweet, and so were the miniature gown and the tiny little hands that flailed in the air.

She’d never known instant love—she almost had with Robbie. But she’d loved this child from the moment she’d known of its existence, and now, able to stroke the soft baby skin, to smooth the fine hair, to nestle her cheek against her child’s, she
was overwhelmed by love. For the baby. For Robbie. For all the family, Duquesnes and Calloways alike, who had joined them.

Her husband sat beside her, looking as tired as if
he’d
spent fifteen hours in labor. Technically, he had, but she’d done all the work.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” Mama Odette asked from the chair closest to the bed.

Anamaria smiled. She had. She’d decided on Gloriane the moment she’d known she was pregnant. But the baby—and destiny—had thrown a wrench in
that
plan. “We have,” she replied. “Robert William Calloway Jr. And we’ll call him Will.”

“Hey, Will,” his daddy said, letting the tiny fingers clench around his own finger. “Welcome to our world.”

Yes, she, Anamaria Duquesne Calloway, had broken the two-hundred-year-old curse. First she’d gotten married, and now her pretty little baby girl had turned out to be a beautiful little baby boy.

The Duquesne curse had turned into a blessing.

And she’d never been happier.