How happy she was Rupert had taken things that far… “Technically, my virtue is still intact.”
She heard his chuckle. “Technically, I guess so.” Then changing the subject completely, he added. “I hope you’ll have a wonderful holiday with your family. I know how much you’ve missed them while in Oxford.”
“Have a good break too. Merry Christmas.”
“We’ll be in touch before then. Bye, Mad Hatter. And… I’ll break up with Harriet as soon as she’s back to the UK.”
Letting out a sigh of relief, she had disconnected, lightheaded and restraining herself from jumping around in a happy dance. The airline staff would have called security, and she really wanted to go home to her family.
He hadn’t dumped her butt.
Full of hope, she’d left England behind.
If only she could talk to Pippa right now. But, in addition to the time-zone issue, the Irish girl counted among Rupert’s old flames. Shame overwhelmed Madison. She’d have to face the music, when she’d return to England.
A road sign reading “Welcome to Pierre Part” made her sit up straight in her seat. She was home.
PETER LOOMED OVER her, his bare head free of the hat he had worn in the painting and in all her visions. He extended his hands toward her throat, about to circle it and strangle her. Distorting his severe face, a smirk betrayed the pleasure he would have in killing her.
Madison jumped out of bed, shaking her limbs that were slippery with sweat. Grabbing the cold iron headboard of her childhood bed, she took in the sparse furnishings she had lived with. She was home, she was safe, and the freak couldn’t have followed her.
Although, deep down, she knew that ghosts didn’t have to bother with commercial flights and airport connections.
Outside her window she saw the moon, telling her she hadn’t been asleep for long. But after the Cajun sampling of boudin, cracklin’ and hogshead cheese she had feasted on for dinner, troubled sleep was on the menu.
Nothing a cup of cocoa couldn’t sort out.
She headed for the kitchen, and the cypress floors creaked as she stepped on them. In the kitchen, she observed the milk trembling on the verge of boiling and bit into one of her Mamie’s biscuits.
Cup in hand, she pushed open the door that led onto the front-screened porch. She found her Mamie also drinking a cup of cocoa made from the old family recipe.
Félicité LeBon, draped in an oversized nightgown, sat on her battered rocking chair, her wrinkled toffee skin glowing in the moonlight. Rum fortified her so-called “cocoa,” but not just any kind of rum—Mamie’s favorite: Old New Orleans Cajun Spice Louisiana Rum.
Madison had grown up reading the label on the bottle hidden on an edge at the top of the living room cupboard. Now that she had tasted it she understood why nothing beat the blend of nutmeg, ginger, and cloves to relax Mamie after entertaining her ghosts. Maybe Madison should have added some tonight.
“No luck finding sleep, ma jolie?”
Tenderness poured into Madison’s heart. Of the three women in her family, her grandmother, Mamie, was the closest to her. Her aunt and mother happened to enjoy life gift free.
Born before the war, mixed-race and illegitimate, her grandmother was an outsider right from the start. The parish had institutionalized Mamie’s mother after her powers had turned her nuts, and at a young age Mamie had learned to fend for herself.
In comparison, Madison had it easy.
Sitting on the cabin steps, she relished the heat of the night, sultry and sweet and confessed, “Bad dreams.”
“What are they about, these dreams?”
Not so long ago, she would have bitten her tongue rather than open the door to paranormal confessions. But The Wounded Cavalier had raised too many questions. Mamie might have some answers, though, steeped as she was in a down-home mix of voodoo and Catholicism.
“They’re about a man, a very bad man. I saw him for the first time in a painting, back in England. Then there’s a girl, a girl who looks like me. She’s also in the painting. She said that the bad man had killed her. She said that she and I, we were the same.”
“I see,” her grandmother answered.
No way Madison was about to tell Mamie that the “bad man” was also after her own granddaughter. Or that she had been throwing balls of fire around Oxford. Or that she could move objects, just with her mind.
Mamie would definitely go nutso.
Weird, she felt so much more comfortable with Jackson. He believed in all that crazy non-sense, but, at the same time, he managed to bring some reason into it, some kind of…rationality.
Madison took a sip of unsweetened cocoa, indulging in her craving for it. Tonight the taste was repulsive, and she wrinkled her nose.
Mamie’s silence was a bad omen. She knew Mamie would go freaky as soon as she digested the info. A swift escape seemed the best choice. She should have clamped down on her revelation.
About to return to her bed to try again to sleep, Madison stopped and placed a peck on her grandmother’s cheek. The older woman grabbed her free hand and pulled her closer.
“My grandmother used to have those dreams. They are more than dreams. Much more.”
Chapter 22
STOP. YOU ALWAYS go crazy with these spooky things.”
Caressing Madison’s hand, her grandmother pleaded, “Sshh, ma petite … Even if you don’t believe in these shenanigans, hear me out. My Mamie, Aimée, she had been born free, and so had her mother. But all her life, she lived like a slave. Her dreams were those of a girl born many centuries before in Africa. A girl who was captured and enslaved before being sent to her new ‘home’ here in America.”
Her words took shape in Madison’s imagination. She wanted to know more about Aimée. She needed to.
“You’re telling me that this poor girl’s spirit possessed Aimée.”
The twisted corner of Mamie’s mouth confirmed she didn’t care about her granddaughter’s disbelief.
“Did the same dreams occur throughout all of Aimée’s life?” Madison surprised herself by asking.
“Yes, although the girl from Africa met her death in childbirth, Aimée kept on dreaming about her, even in her old age.”
“How did she know how the girl died?”
“She lived through the pain of labor, over and over again, and each time she experienced the terrible darkness of the final passing. Your great-grandmother died several times in her dreams.”
Madison sat again, in the chair next to her grandmother.
Mamie nodded.
No surprise Aimée went straight to the nuthouse, just like her daughter did later on.
Quiet reigned while Mamie finished sipping her drink.
Madison broke the silence. “So what you’re saying is that I’m possessed by a girl who lived in England in the seventeenth century. But why? Even if I have a gift, there must be a reason why this girl would choose me.”
Mamie shrugged, as if that specific point didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of paranormal hoo-hahs. “Maybe you’re related to the girl. You could share some of her blood. But you need to understand, souls can be shared, across time, across space. That’s why you can talk to her, see her. Not because she possesses you, but because you are one and only, the two sides of a same coin. She’s no evil spirit, just a wronged one.”
After taking a sip of her cocoa, she continued. “Only souls filled with hatred or vengeance need to take hold of a victim, or an accomplice to experience life again. That’s what you call possession.”
Even though Madison wanted to know more and understand what the hell was going on in her life, Mamie’s answers made her want to cover her ears and scream under the info overload.
When she had seen the painting for the first time, the pain she had experienced, then the emptiness, had it been death? Sarah’s murder?
After the fear, frustration overwhelmed Madison. Her mind couldn’t find any solution or explanation for any of this stuff. She hated that. C
onversations with Mamie always ended this way, with Madison being more confused than before.
“I should go back to bed. I’m jetlagged.”
“Half of Pierre Part is planning to visit you tomorrow. They’ll want to know all about these fancy people in Europe. So you should have a rest. But have a look at my little book of magic. I’ve left it in the drawer of your bedside table.” Mamie gestured her granddaughter off to her room. “You can even take it to England with you.”
Back in her bed, Madison chased sleep without success. Outside the window, a mockingbird sang and brought back memories of a lush and steamy dream.
Even erotic thoughts of Rupert couldn’t distract her from the pitfalls facing her. All these years, she had lied to herself. She’d turned away from those women in her family who had come before. Women like that poor Aimée.
Resigned to a sleepless night, Madison grabbed the “little” book from her bedside table. She caressed the weathered cover of the diary, where Mamie had written down the secrets of a voodoo priestess.
“EMBRASSE MOI TCHEW, Tarquin Vionnet, and get out of here.”
It was past midnight at Le Perroquet, the night before Christmas, and Madison’s mother was getting rid of her last drunk customer, Tarquin Vionnet, by inviting him to kiss her ass.
Charming.
Taking a look at the wooden benches, the jukebox flashing on and off, and the windows wide open at the tables by the waters of the bayou, Madison couldn’t have been further away from Magway Manor.
She had helped with service for almost a week and studied hard for her exams scheduled after the Christmas break. She longed for real holidays, and they started today. Le Perroquet would be closed until New Year’s Eve.
“I don’t know how you manage to keep calm surrounded by all this trash,” she told her mother. “These people would drive me mad.”
A wet object hit her on the back, the sponge her mother had thrown at her.
“Tuat t’en grosse bueche,” Bernadette barked in Cajun. Shut your mouth.
“Mom, stop the whole dialect thing. You only remember the swear words anyway.”
“This ‘trash,’ it’s the likes of him that keeps my business running. So show some respect for our clientele. And don’t forget, not that long ago people treated us like dirt.”
Her mother was a hell of a woman, her charisma matched by mouth-gaping curves. They shared the same coloring, from the caramel skin to the walnut eyes. However, Madison had inherited Aunt Louise’s curves, or rather, lack of them.
And she’s a nun.
“I’m sorry, Mamma. I didn’t mean anything. I wish I could be as tough as you.” She grabbed the sponge from the floor and busied herself cleaning tables.
Her mom burst out laughing while she poured out two glasses of Southern Comfort. “You’re a tough cookie, baby. Look at yourself. Getting into Yale and now Oxford, England. I never left Assumption Parish.”
Her mother’s approval warmed Madison’s heart. “Look at what you’ve done with Le Perroquet. You’re a real businesswoman. A few years back it was still a honkytonk, and now it boasts the best of Louisiana food, great steaks, killer seafood.”
And the yummiest pork ribs.
Her mom had salvaged them from the kitchen and was now laying them on the counter in front of the bar. Rubbed in spice and smoked for hours, the ribs were to die for. Madison loved their crisp coating and falling-off-the-bone texture. She headed straight for a stool, sat and prepared to devour the sweet meat.
“Get that down in one go, girl.” Her mother referred to the wallop of bourbon she had poured for her daughter. Madison executed the order, swallowing the distilled caramel, savoring its mellow, rough texture.
Her mother gulped down her own glass and refilled it. “So tell me more about your life in England. I want to know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
Madison didn’t want to venture onto the slippery subject of her love life with her mother. But she was so totally confused with what happened on her last night in Oxford. She couldn’t call Pippa. The girl had slept with Rupert. And Ollie was … a boy.
She angled away from her mother. “I’ve told you everything by now. I spend most of my time studying.” She knew her mother would go after more details.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sure there are some juicier details. And my nun of a sister is spending Christmas caring for the homeless in Baton Rouge. So tell me everything.” Her mom leaned over the bar and squinted at her. “This Boston guy, Jackson, he’s hot, isn’t he?”
“Doctor McCain is my boss.” Madison brought her hand to her forehead to show how delusional that idea was. “He’s much older anyway.”
“How much older? Twenty-nine? That’s ancient,” her mother mocked, rolling her eyes.
“You should be lecturing me about focusing on my studies or at least finding a boyfriend my own age.”
“Please, baby, tell me there’s a special someone. The thought of that would make me feel better.” She reflected and added, “Okay, maybe not your teacher. But you should act like other girls your age. The years you spent with my saintly sis in the convent haven’t helped. It’s all my fault.” Tears fuzzed her mother’s Coca-Cola eyes, in contrast to the banjo music playing on the sound system.
Madison shrugged. “You have no reason to feel guilty.”
“Come on, baby.” Her mother waved toward the walls around them and sniffed. “I ain’t a role model. A single mother, a bar owner, working night shifts throughout all your childhood. You had to grow up pretty fast. And Mamie, with all her voodoo madness.”
Madison disagreed with a look and a shake of her head. She went behind the bar for another sponge. “I wouldn’t change anything about my childhood. You’re an amazing mamma.”
She used the word to sweeten her mother’s mood. Then, knowing how to make her parent happy, and because she needed to talk about Rupert, she said, “There’s another guy. He’s English.”
Bernadette slapped her hand on the counter. “I knew it. What’s his name?”
“Rupert. It’s the beginning and he has a girlfriend.” Madison avoided eye contact with her mom.
“Well done, girl. Next time, you’ll fall for a married man. You know what Mamie and I told you about married men.”
“‘What goes around, comes around.’ Mother he is not married, and I’m not in love with him.” Yet.
“That’s what you think. Soon, you’ll be pregnant by a guy who’ll say au revoir as soon as he hears the news.”
Bernadette reverted to cleaning the table and silence fell. Madison didn’t dare move a muscle.
“Mom, please. Don’t be angry. I’ll be very careful. History doesn’t always repeat itself. I won’t let him hurt me.”
Her mother ignored Madison’s reassurances and concentrated on getting the place ready for closing. Once she had brushed and scrubbed every surface in the joint, even those Madison thought she herself had cleaned, she strutted back toward the bar and drank one last shot of Southern Comfort. After playing with the liquid in her mouth, she swallowed it and opened up.
“I’d like you to meet a great guy, fall in love and so on. But I can’t help being protective of you. I swear I’ll kill anyone who hurts my baby.”
Reaching for her mother’s hand, Madison fought the constricting feeling in her throat.
Her mother continued in a broken voice. “You’re so far away, and I can’t do anything to make sure you’re fine. It was already hard enough when you moved to Connecticut, but now Europe …”
“I can fend for myself these days. And if I get hurt, there’ll always be Pierre Part and the crazy LeBon women.” She smiled and winked.
“You’re stuck with us, for better and for worse.” Her mother smiled too, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Madison walked around the bar and hugged her mamma.
The hug brought comfort.
A clock chimed, and a disturbing thought knocked at Madison’s mental door. R
upert hadn’t called.
“TEN, NINE …”
The crowd around Rupert counted down the last few seconds of the year. Tonight’s party in Monty’s Chelsea townhouse was the mother of all parties. Live music, cocktails, pretty girls. Alcohol had taken the edge off everyone, except for Rupert. His New Year’s resolutions had started early. After the bottle shared with Madison at the Turf, he’d remained sober.
He’d tried to stop thinking about her, but had failed. Harriet’s skiing in the Swiss Alps hadn’t caused him any grief. Madison back in Louisiana had dug a pit the size of the Atlantic.
“… eight, seven …”
He wanted to return to the status quo of his life, to the safe lie he had lived since his mum died. He would lose Madison. She’d see through him, and leave him, heartbroken and hungry for more, for more of her.
“ … six, five …”
An Italian student had glued herself to him for most of the night. She stood next to him now, waiting with two glasses of champagne in her hands.
“ … four, three …”
Her eyes had a familiar walnut tone, so did her toffee-colored skin. He accepted the champagne but didn’t drink. She stepped closer to him, brushed his cheek with her fingers. Her touch on his skin disgusted him.
“… two, one …”
A round of applause resonated through the room. Rupert turned his back on the crowd, on the Italian girl, and grabbed his mobile to call Madison. She was the only one he wanted to welcome the New Year with.
Chapter 23
VAN MORRISON ECHOED in the New Year’s night. His ‘Bayou Girl’ had been Bernadette’s all-time favorite. Madison’s mother would play it tonight, again and again, ad nauseam.
Madison longed for some peace and quiet, so she snuck out of the party at Le Perroquet and ventured onto the banks of the swamp. She followed the narrow path leading to the Indian burial mound and the Cajun cemetery next to it.
The whitewashed headstones glinted in the moonlight. As a child, she used to escape here all the time. In those days, she hadn’t been scared of the dead. She even enjoyed talking to them: the young Confederate soldier, Pierre Lachamplain, and his fiancée, who’d died of fever and a broken heart.
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