How to Live and Die in Crescent Rock (Crescent Rock Series)

by Bree Wolf

  Her mother beamed with joy. It was almost embarrassing to look at. Giving her sister a nudge, Quinn excused herself and they went into the kitchen. The food was being kept warm in the oven. After carefully decanting it into the bowls their mother had set out for that purpose, they carried them into the dining room, where the rest of the party had already taken their seats.

  “May I ask what brought you to Crescent Rock?” her father asked, pouring wine for his guest. “My wife said you moved into your family’s old home.”

  Mr. de la Roche nodded. “My ancestors used to live here but had to abandon the manor during the war.”

  “The war?” Cora asked, handing the bowl of rice to her mother.

  “Yes, the revolutionary war,” he explained, waiting for his hosts to start eating before he picked up his own silverware. “Some of my family fled to relatives in the south, but those who remained were killed when a group of deserters happened upon the house one night.”

  “How awful,” Mrs. McPherson exclaimed.

  “Yes, I imagine it was,” he said, a sad smile showing on his face. “After that tragedy the rest of my family remained in the south even after the war had ended. I believe the pain was too great for them to face.”

  There were nods of understanding around the table.

  “But you decided to return now?” Quinn asked, eyeing her opposite curiously.

  “I did,” he said, holding her gaze for a moment. “I grew up with stories of the war and how my family moved down south, that I felt I had to come and see this place for myself.” He smiled. “It is quite beautiful.”

  Mrs. McPherson nodded in agreement. “The McPherson family settled in Crescent Rock as well, after the crossing from Ireland. But we were spared the loss yours suffered. We lived through the war almost intact.”

  “Then you were most fortunate indeed,” he said, and again Quinn felt his eyes on her. There was something in them that she couldn’t quite grasp. As though he knew her.

  “So you bought your old family home?” Mr. McPherson said more than asked, offering his guest seconds.

  Taking the meat platter, he laughed. “I forgot I’m in a small town now.” He took another piece of venison. “By the way, my compliments to the chef,” he added, turning to Mrs. McPherson.

  “I am glad you like it, Mr. de la Roche.”

  “Please, call me Arnaud,” he said. “I know it must sound like a cliché but Mr. de la Roche always makes me think of my father, and after all I am only a few years older than your lovely daughters.” Again he glanced at Quinn and there was that crinkle in the corner of his mouth.

  “Alright, Arnaud then,” her mother said. “I am glad you could come tonight. I meant to thank you again for what you did for my daughter.”

  “Yes, we are very grateful,” her father chimed in.

  An embarrassed look on his face, Arnaud waved his hand in dismissal. “Please, it was nothing. I just happened to come by there. But I am glad she is alright.”

  Looking over, Quinn’s eyes met his and she quickly looked away. For some reason he made her nervous. It was a new experience for her. “My mother said you were at the football game,” she said, trying to steer the conversation to a more general topic.

  He nodded. “Yes, it was a good game. No doubt you ought to take some credit for that night’s victory. Your performance was very …dedicated.” The way he looked at her made Quinn feel like he’d just caught her doing something wrong. She felt flustered, and before she knew it, she heard herself say, “Well, I don’t think there is anything wrong with being dedicated. I was just supporting my school, unlike some people.” She glanced to her left, at her sister.

  Cora’s face darkened but she didn’t say a word.

  Their father caught the exchange and quickly intervened, “Will the house need a lot of remodeling before you can move in?”

  Slowly, Arnaud’s eyes shifted from Quinn to her father. “Maybe a few touches of paint here and there but other than that it seems to be in surprisingly good condition.”

  “That really is amazing,” Mrs. McPherson agreed, looking astounded. “That house has been empty for over two centuries. How can it not be in desperate need for repairs?”

  “Although my family back then did not wish to return, they had someone looking after the house, for future generations I presume.” There was an inward smile on his face. “It is nice to come home to a place that once housed my ancestors. I already feel like I belong here.”

  Mrs. McPherson smiled. “So, you’re staying then?”

  “For now.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “It’s always good to see new faces and with your family’s history no one can deny you belong here. And should you need anything, help with any repairs … as they arise, or anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “You’re too kind,” he said, slightly bowing his head. Although his manners were definitely what some people would surely call accomplished, they seemed strange to Quinn, even more so considering his young age.

  After they were finished with the main course, her parents rose to clear the table.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Arnaud offered, reaching for the plates.

  “Oh no, please,” Mrs. McPherson objected. “You’re our guest.” She turned around. “Cora, could you?”

  While the rest of her family vanished into the kitchen to dispose of the dirty dishes and prepare the dessert, a layer cake with peaches and whipped cream, Quinn took the small dessert plates from the mahogany cabinet. All the while she felt Arnaud’s eyes on her, almost burning a hole in the back of her head. As she turned back to the table, he suddenly stood behind her though. Startled, a plate slipped from her hand. In one swift motion, he caught it, taking the rest out of her hand as well. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He looked at her, an amused grin on his face. “Are you always this nervous? Or is that just for me?”

  Quinn didn’t know what to say.

  “Or maybe it’s your parents?” he asked. “Can you not be yourself around them?”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, a deep frown on her face.

  “I think you do,” he replied, distributing the plates while his gaze lingered on her. “There is a wickedness about you that I find quite amusing.”

  Quinn just stared at him, not recognizing her mother’s dinner guest in the man before her.

  “Your sister seems to bring it out in you,” he continued, reminding her of her earlier off-hand comment.

  “That was just …” Her voice trailed off.

  He laughed. “Don’t get me wrong. I quite like it. There’s just one thing you’re doing wrong.”

  “And what is that?” she asked, rediscovering her voice.

  A gleam came to his eyes as they swept over her now straightened posture and raised head. She looked him straight in the eye and he smiled approvingly.

  “You use it against your own,” he said, glancing at the arched doorway that led to the kitchen from where Cora’s voice drifted over.

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Are you lecturing me?”

  He shrugged. “You look like you could use it.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Really?” A mischievous grin lit up his face.

  Footsteps approached from the kitchen and Arnaud’s face suddenly changed. Back in place was that good-natured expression along with his helpful demeanor. He hurried to take the glass platter with the layer cake from her mother’s hands and set it on the table. “It looks fabulous,” he said. “You have outdone yourself, Mrs. McPherson.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “I actually enjoyed having the opportunity to cook a real dinner for once.” She cast a disapproving look at her family. “It is sad how rarely these things are appreciated these days.”

  “Let’s eat then,” Mr. McPherson said, handing out the cake while avoiding his wife’s eyes. “It does look delicious.”

  “Yes, mom, it does,” Cora agreed.

&n
bsp; “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  Quinn remained quiet, refusing to take the bait, but when she looked up, she saw Arnaud’s eyes flash over her in that condescending way he kept hidden from the rest of her family. Turning his attention to her mother, he said, “I have to thank you again for inviting me. It is very nice to meet you all and I apologize for leaving so quickly that night at the hospital.”

  “Oh, don’t mention it,” Mrs. McPherson said smiling. “You got her there safely and we will always be grateful to you for that, won’t we?” She looked at Quinn.

  Seeing Arnaud’s eyes shift to her again, with that challenging grin playing on his lips, she said as politely as she could, “Of course, we are.”

  “I know that I was a bit …out of control that night,” her mother went on. “I am really sorry for that. You see, my brother died in a car accident when we were only teenagers, actually not too far from where this accident happened and I guess … I just remembered.” She took a deep breath. “I was so scared that night. So scared that I would lose her too.” There were tears glistening in her eyes but she blinked them away.

  “I am very sorry to hear that,” Arnaud said, his face earnest. For a moment he seemed to hesitate before he went on. “I lost my sister a while back and … I still haven’t been able to deal with that.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened a little at the display of what seemed like honest grief on his face. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if what she saw was just another mask.

  Her mother didn’t share her concerns though. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her face growing even sadder. “She must have been very young.”

  He nodded. “She was. Not yet nineteen.”

  “How awful. Was it an accident?” she asked but then stopped herself. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s alright,” he said. “No, it wasn’t. She was murdered.”

  A deadly silence engulfed the room at his words. Quinn glanced at her parents and saw the shock there that every parent must feel at even just the contemplation of losing a child. Especially after almost losing their own daughter not a week ago.

  “I shouldn’t have spoken of it,” Arnaud said. “This is nothing suitable for a dinner table.” He took another bite from his piece of cake. “I hear you own the town’s best diner,” he said, looking at his hosts.

  Grateful for the change of topic, her parents spoke of their business and enquired after Arnaud’s profession. He was a writer he told them. Mostly travel literature. For his age, he had gotten around a lot and had basically lived out of a suitcase for the past five years.

  After that the evening slowly died down and when it was time to leave, they all walked their guest to the door. “I had a wonderful time,” Arnaud said to her mother. “Once I’m settled, I shall return the favor.”

  “We gladly accept.”

  Saying his goodbyes, Arnaud walked down the small gravel path from their front steps to the driveway, where a black SUV with tinted windows stood waiting.

  “Wow, writing travel literature must pay well if he can afford that car,” Quinn’s father said.

  “Shh,” her mother warned, a finger to her lips as she ushered them back inside.

  Standing by the window, Quinn peered out into the darkness, watching the black monster of a car back out into the street in one swift motion and then speed off down the road.

  Chapter 9 – Small Oddities

  Sleeping in on Saturday, Quinn planned to spend the day in leisure, meeting up with her friends. All week she’d been confined to the house, unable to take part in the life of her school while everyone else had moved forward. But when the family sat around the breakfast table, that morning with toast and fruit muesli, her mother asked her a simple question that upset her plans. “I think last night’s dinner went quite well. Arnaud is such a polite young man.” She turned to her daughter. “Did you have a chance to thank him yourself?”

  Quinn looked at her mother. “What? Why? No, I thought—”

  “You didn’t thank him for his help?” her mother asked, shaking her head. “I thought you wouldn’t want to speak up in front of everybody, so we left you alone before dessert, and you didn’t say anything?”

  “Mom, I …I …you’d already thanked him many times. I didn’t think it necessary,” Quinn stammered, noticing a smug smile on Cora’s face.

  “This is not about it being necessary but about it being the right thing to do,” her mother chided. “What he did was priceless and since there is no way to repay him, we at least need to let him know, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but….”

  “Honey,” her father jumped in, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on her. I don’t think Mr. de… Arnaud would mind. We thanked him and I think that should be enough.”

  “I’m sorry but I disagree,” her mother insisted. “I really think you should thank him personally, now that you’re feeling better.”

  Quinn frowned. “What? Do you want me to call him? Now?”

  “No, I said ‘personally’,” her mother reminded her. “I think after breakfast you should go over and speak to him.”

  Quinn sat up straight. “What? Go to his place? Why?”

  “Where else do you hope to find him?” her mother countered, still shaking her head. “Really Quinn, I thought you had better manners.”

  In the end, Quinn relented, unable to bear her mother’s disapproval. With a lot of grumbling and complaining she hit the road, noticing only a slight dent on the passenger side of her father’s jeep. It seemed like it had barely collided with the tree line.

  Driving down Park Street, Quinn’s mind was reeling. She felt uneasy about her destination and the person she would find there. Arnaud was not like anyone she had ever met. Usually she read people quite well and just as easily bent their minds to see her the way she wanted to appear. But when Arnaud looked at her, she knew that he saw past her mask. His own on the other hand was flawless. She had only seen a glimpse of his true self because he had let her.

  After turning onto Cypress Road, she headed east at the next intersection, driving down de la Roche Avenue, which led her straight to Arnaud’s family home. Many of the old streets running east to west had been named for those who had first settled in the palm of the crescent rock. The de la Roches as well as the McPhersons and other established families of the town could still pride themselves on having a street named in their honor.

  Quinn passed by Crescent Rock’s only cemetery and adjacent chapel on her left. To her right, she saw the faint outline of her school, surrounded by meadows and occasional groves, as at the end of the road Arnaud’s home came into view, standing like a lonely giant in the woods. Like most houses it was a two-storey building with hung double sash windows. Three chimneys rose into the sky, but were outreached by old sycamore trees, growing in little groves around the house. The old stables set in the lower left part of the house had been turned into a roomy, three-car garage. The house itself had many nooks and crannies, giving it character and a cozier feel for the size of it. Quinn parked her car in a shady spot by a group of sycamores growing by the front porch, which ran along the entire frontage of the house. The grass grew wild and, stretching its hands, reached far into the gravel driveway leading up from the road. There were no flower beds or cut back bushes and hedges. Everything blooming had a randomness to it that spoke of a wildness which would not be contained.

  Climbing the front steps to the covered porch, Quinn’s eyes tried to peer through the windows but failed. Heavy black curtains prevented any unwanted intrusion. Taking a deep breath, she raised a hand to knock on the door, only to find it ajar. Hesitating a moment, Quinn knocked nonetheless. When no answer came she carefully pushed open the door. “Hello? Anyone home?”

  A part of her wanted nothing more but to turn around and leave. But she knew that if she gave in, her mother would be very disappointed and she’d never hear the end of it.

  So she took all her coura
ge and stepped into the shadowy dark foyer.

  To her left a winding staircase led the way to the upper floor, while the opposite wall opened in arched doorframes to the dining room, where a long table stood covered in a white linen sheet. Putting one foot before the other, Quinn crossed the foyer and stepped into a sitting room filled with furniture that spoke of times past. Some armchairs and a chaise were still covered like the dining room table while others had obviously been used recently. The large fireplace at the back wall was framed by two floor-to-ceiling windows on each side, all of them hung with dark curtains. The walls were decorated with old paintings showing people of times long gone. Quinn let her eyes glide over the dimly lit paintings, trying to make out the people’s faces. But she couldn’t see more than mere outlines of them. Side tables and commodes, judging from the bulging shapes of the linen sheets covering them, were filled with artifacts and antiques of some kind.

  A dark gloom lay over the house that rose goosebumps on Quinn’s skin. She felt a faint shiver ran over her and had to take a deep breath to calm herself, hearing her own heartbeat ringing in her ears.

  After calling out several more times and receiving no answer, Quinn decided to leave. As she reached the foyer, there was a sudden whoosh of air coming from behind her, as though a window had been opened and a draft was blowing through the house. Turning towards it, Quinn let out a cry.

  In the left archway, opening to the sitting room not three feet behind her, stood Arnaud, with that amused half-smile on his face, eyeing her curiously.

  Startled, Quinn stumbled backwards before steadying herself with one hand against the wall that held the long row of portraits.

  “You look flustered,” Arnaud stated matter-of-factly, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his delight with her shocked reaction to his sudden appearance.

  Taking a deep breath and straightening her posture to a more dignified position, Quinn realized that the man before her once again had nothing in common with her mother’s dinner guest. For whatever reason, he chose to meet her without his mask in place. She wondered why. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.