by Anne Stuart
“Don’t let them see him,” she said with quiet urgency.
He glanced into the pool, then turned to look at her. Keeping his distance. “Still protecting them?” he asked in his cool voice, as if they’d never shared a bed, their mouths, their bodies.
“Yes.”
“And who’s going to protect you?”
“No one,” she said. “No one at all.”
23
Brenda buried her head against Ted’s shoulder, shivering. He held her tightly, comforting, until they were left alone at the poolside. Alone with the body still floating facedown in the shallow waters.
“We couldn’t stop him then, honeybunch,” he murmured. “We can’t help him now.”
“Good,” she said, her voice muffled. She didn’t want to look. Too much death in this old house. Too much evil and hatred, when all she’d ever wanted was love.
“Look at me, Brenda,” Ted said, putting a hand under her chin to lift her face to his. “At least it’s over now.”
“Is it? Who’s to say he won’t join us here. Forever? I don’t think I could stand it, Ted, I just couldn’t—”
“Hush, love. The woman he murdered didn’t come back. I don’t think he will, either. If he does, we’ll get rid of him.”
“How? We’re stuck here, helpless….”
“Are we, love?”
The sound of his voice, tender and understanding, broke the last remnants of her formidable will. “No,” she said finally. “You aren’t. You could go.”
“Go where?”
“Toward the light. If you wanted it would come to you. It wasn’t your fault. You were just a victim, and you could move on if you wanted. To heaven, to paradise, whatever it is. You’d just have to go without me.”
“Then I wouldn’t want to go,” he said simply.
Now that it was out in the open she couldn’t stop. “But I lied to you, Ted. I never told you what really happened, and you didn’t remember. You thought we had a suicide pact, and we were trapped on earth as punishment. But that wasn’t what happened.”
“I know.”
“You see, I—You know?” She stared at him in astonishment.
“For all your efforts at trying to distract me, there have been enough people over the years talking about it for me to figure it out, honeybunch. You killed me, and then yourself. I don’t know why you did it, but you must have had a good reason….”
“No,” she said.
“You didn’t have a good reason?” He smiled wryly. “It was a whim?”
“How can you joke about this?” she demanded tearfully. “We’re talking about murder. Death.”
“It was a long time ago, sweetness. But if confessing will make you feel better, go right ahead. I’ll love you no matter what.”
“I didn’t kill you.”
She’d managed to startle him. “You didn’t? Who did?”
“You were sound asleep, and it was a hot night,” she said, remembering that night so long ago. “I went for a swim. To this same, goddamn pool.”
“You used to like midnight swims,” he said gently. “Did you wear a bathing suit?”
She smacked him in the chest. “Of course not. But I had my robe. When I came back to the house my robe was trailing in something, and I thought I’d dipped it into the pool. But it wasn’t water, it was blood. Your blood. On the terrace, on the stairs, in our bedroom.”
He was no longer amused. “Poor angel,” he murmured. “How awful for you.”
“How awful for you! You were dead. I ran the rest of the way, and found you lying in bed. The back of your head…” Her voice broke at the memory.
“The back of my head is very nice right now, sweetheart. Don’t distress yourself. What happened then?”
“I ran to the window. We’d given the servants the night off, and no one was there. I looked out and I saw her, covered in blood as she ran for the car.”
“I can guess,” he said. “Adele. My ex-wife.”
“She didn’t consider herself ex.”
“She never would. And no one ever suspected her. They thought you did it? What happened, love? Did she see you and come back?”
“No. She drove away. She’d left the gun on the bed. I think she probably knew me better than I knew myself. I took the gun, crawled into the bed, and—”
“Oh, love!” he said tenderly.
“So, you see, you can go. You didn’t do anything. But I did. I’ve had fifty years with you, love, and it’s more than I deserve. You need a chance—”
“I don’t need anything but you,” he said calmly. “But what makes you think we can’t go together?”
“Because I killed myself.”
“Your God is a lot more unforgiving than mine,” he said gently. “Are you ready to leave this place?”
She stared up at him in disbelief. “I can’t.”
“You can. Give me your hand, honeybunch.”
He held his out, and without thinking she placed her small, perfectly manicured hand in his big, strong one. His fingers closed around hers, and a moment later they were enveloped in a blinding white light.
“Ted,” she whispered, afraid.
He pulled her into his arms, and the light filled them, buoying them up. “Eternity, honeybunch,” he whispered. “It will be fine.”
And it was.
Rachel-Ann drove blindly through the busy streets. They’d tried to stop her, make her stay, but she pulled away, eerily calm, and in the end they’d let her go before the police got there to fish out the body.
She had no idea where she was going until she ended up there. The Unitarian church was brightly lit, and several smokers congregated on the sidewalk outside the entrance. People she recognized.
She gave them a tentative smile as she walked past them, into the meeting room. It was crowded, and instead of taking her usual seat in a far corner, away from prying eyes, she sat in the front, still, silent, waiting as the seats filled up behind and around her.
“Does anyone here have something they need to talk about tonight?” the leader asked after the opening rituals had been conducted.
It was Rachel-Ann’s cue to avert her gaze, to pull inside herself so that she almost disappeared. But not tonight. She raised her hand, and the leader nodded.
“Hi,” she said. “My name is Rachel-Ann, and I’m—” Her voice cracked, and the room was silent. “And I’m an alcoholic,” she finished in a raw voice.
“Hi, Rachel-Ann,” the voices came back at her, welcoming.
“Hi, Rachel-Ann,” came Rico’s soft voice, directly behind her. She reached out, blindly, and he caught her hand, holding it tightly.
“My father died tonight….” she began.
“Where’s Coltrane?” Dean asked. Jilly was sitting at the table in the kitchen, staring silently into a cup of cold coffee. It was after midnight, the police had left, along with the coroner and the ambulance, and they were alone in the house.
She roused herself to look at her brother. “He’s gone,” she said simply. “I don’t think he wanted to answer questions for the police.”
“No, I imagine not. Our friend Coltrane had a lot of secrets.”
“Don’t most people?” she asked wearily.
“I think he had more than his share. You didn’t make the mistake of falling in love with him, did you?”
She jerked her head up. “You think I’m that stupid?”
“Yes. Or let’s say, I think you’re that vulnerable. You aren’t always the strong one, Jilly.”
“I don’t really have any choice right now, do I?” She stirred the coffee.
“Is he coming back?”
“Coltrane? I doubt it. He got what he wanted. Jackson’s dead.”
“Are you sure that’s all he wanted?”
“Positive,” she said. “What else?”
“You, big sister?”
She shook her head. “In that case he’d still be here. He wouldn’t have taken off without a word. Now would h
e?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Besides, it’s Rachel-Ann I’m worried about. Where do you think she is?”
“Stop it, Jilly! Stop fussing about everyone else and start thinking about yourself. Rachel-Ann will be fine. She’s a lot tougher than we give her credit for.”
“And what about you?”
“You just can’t stop it, can you? I’m fine, too. I haven’t had any illusions about Jackson for years. You’re the one who thought I still needed his approval. I just wanted the old bastard to get the hell out of here and leave me the company. Which he’s done. A little more violently than I expected, but it’s for the best.”
“Dean!” She stared at him, horrified, but he seemed completely unruffled.
“Rachel-Ann and I can take care of ourselves. It’s past time for you to start concentrating on Jilly. You need a life, sweets. Beyond this old house, beyond your foolish siblings. You need a new project to renovate, a new soul to save. I was hoping it was going to be Coltrane, but if it’s not, so be it. Time for all of us to stand on our own two feet, sis.”
“Yes,” she said, not wanting to hear it.
“And time to get rid of this old place. You know it as well as I do.”
She looked up at the cavernous ceiling, the stained sink, the cracked dishes behind the tall, glass-fronted cupboards.
“Yes,” she said. And she started to cry.
24
Eight months later
Jilly Meyer balanced a bag of groceries on her hip as she fiddled with the key to her apartment. It was a tricky lock—the building with its Spanish courtyard dated back to the 1930s, and as far as Jilly could tell the locks had never been changed. She didn’t mind the extra trouble, especially when she looked at the ornate key hanging next to the key to her Saturn. She’d sold the Corvette—it was too powerful, and she’d somehow lost her imperviousness to traffic tickets. After piling up three in a row she decided she needed a more sedate car.
She’d sold La Casa de Sombras. Well, the three of them had, to an independent film studio who planned to restore it to its former glory and use it as offices. She’d warned them about the ghosts, but for some reason no one ever saw them, not even Rachel-Ann.
She’d had a hard time finding an apartment that would let her bring a dog as big as Roofus, but Dean had grown into his role as corporate shark, and he’d found this place for her in a matter of hours, once the sale of La Casa was agreed upon. And the apartment had been perfect, in dire need of having the wallpaper and woodwork stripped, the leaded windows reglazed, the walls replastered. Unfortunately it was finished now, perfect, and there was nothing to occupy her. Rico and Rachel-Ann flatly refused to let her do anything to their new bungalow, so she had to make do with buying baby clothes before her sister was even four months along. Even though Consuelo insisted in shocked tones that it was bad luck. Rico and Rachel-Ann were unconcerned with bad luck.
She had no one left to take care of. Rachel-Ann was happier than she’d ever been in her life, surrounded by her huge, extended family of in-laws. If Rachel-Ann missed the brother she only knew she had for a few hours, then Consuelo and the cousins made up for it. As did the child growing within her.
And Dean had blossomed. Smooth, sure of himself, though still attached at the hip to his beloved computer, he didn’t need her at all. The only creature who seemed to need her was Roofus, and even he was getting tired of the small apartment.
She braced herself as she opened the door, waiting for Roofus to bound out in an excess of canine enthusiasm, but instead she heard a soft, plaintive woof from within the dark confines of the apartment.
She dropped the bag of groceries, stumbling into the living room in sudden panic, calling his name. Only to find him sitting peacefully, his tail wagging, his huge head on Coltrane’s lap.
Eight months. Eight months without a word, and there he sat, in the middle of her new apartment.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded. She didn’t make the mistake of calling Roofus to her side. He looked so pleased there was a good chance he wouldn’t come.
“I actually know how to pick locks. An old skill, acquired under circumstances you’re better off not hearing about,” he said. His voice. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the sound of it.
“Then why don’t you pick your way out?” she said sweetly. He looked different. His hair was no longer bleached by the sun—it was more a sandy color, and it was shorter than she remembered. His clothes were different. No more California Armani.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I’m sure you do. How did you find me?”
“I’ve always known where you were.”
“That’s more than I can say about you.”
“I went back to New Orleans.”
“And you think I care?” She was quite proud of herself—the brittle anger, the cool disdain. She was a better actress than she’d realized.
“Yes,” he said. “You know what my name is?”
“Probably not. You lied about everything else.”
“It’s Coltrane. I mean my full name. Zachariah Redemption Coltrane. I thought it was time to start living up to it.”
“So you’ve redeemed yourself. I’m overjoyed to hear it. Now go away.”
“What do I have to do, Jilly? Crawl through fire?”
“What do you want from me? If it’s Rachel-Ann’s phone number I imagine Dean will give it to you.”
“I’ve seen her a number of times since last fall. I like her husband.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You were in L.A.? Because I know for sure that Rachel-Ann hasn’t left.”
“Yes.”
Her icy composure was cracking fast, and she needed him out of there. It had taken her months to stop crying at the drop of a hat, months longer to finally feel like she’d have a life again. All he had to do was break into her apartment like a sneak thief for her to know she’d been fooling herself.
“What do you want from me?” she asked again. “I’ve got a date tonight, and I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“You’re still not very good at lying. You don’t have a date.”
“You think no one would want me?”
“No. I think you don’t want anyone but me. Don’t throw that lamp at me,” he added hastily, as she glanced around her.
“It’s my lamp. I can throw what I want. I’m asking you one more time. What do you want from me?”
“I have a house in the French Quarter. It’s a disaster, even though it’s a historic site. They used to hold Quadroon balls there. Lots of historic preservation going on. People actually care about the past in New Orleans.”
“And?”
“I’ve got a lousy job for shit wages. I’m a public defender, defending every kind of loser.”
“Why?”
“Because someone has to do it. Someone has to watch out for people who can’t watch out for themselves.”
“Codependent,” she said.
“Takes one to know one,” he replied. “There’s a huge yard at the house. Lots of room for Roofus.”
“I see,” Jilly said calmly. “You came back after all this time without a word, picked my lock because you want to take my dog away from me?”
For a moment he thought she was serious. “Jilly!” he exploded, and then stopped. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“Crawling through fire is a nice image,” she said.
“I went away to see if there was any way I could still be a decent human being. You don’t deserve less.”
“And now I deserve you? Lucky me,” she said lightly.
His slow, lazy smile was absolutely devastating. “Well, I doubt you’ll ever be bad enough to really deserve me. But you were showing a real talent for being wicked and selfish, and I thought it was my duty to encourage that side of you.”
“Did you?”
“Hell, if you won’t come for yourself, come for me. I need taking care of. R
escuing from my inner demons, and you’re so good at that, Jilly. You’ve had so much experience taking care of everyone else.”
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“Or you could come for the best sex either of us have ever had or ever will have in our entire lives.”
“Not good enough.”
“Then come with me because I love you.”
And in the end it was that simple. “I love you, too.”
“I know,” he said.
Roofus barked as she threw the lamp at Coltrane’s head. The boy had a lot of redemption left to seek, but she was going to make sure he found it.
With her, in a ruined old house in New Orleans. And maybe there’d be a little redemption left for her, as well. Even the strong one sometimes needed help.
“Are you going to marry me?”
His slow, sexy grin made her dizzy. “If you’ll stop throwing things at me.”
“I want babies.”
“If you stop throwing things at me.”
“I want you.”
“Well, that, Jilly, you may have. Any time you want.”
And she did.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2917-8
SHADOWS AT SUNSET
Copyright © 2000 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
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