St. Charles at Dusk: The House of Crimson and Clover Series Prequel

by Sarah M. Cradit

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Quote

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part One Quote

  1- Oz

  2- Adrienne

  3- Oz

  4- Oz

  5- Oz

  6- Adrienne

  7- Oz

  8- Oz

  9- Adrienne

  10- Oz

  11- Oz

  12- Adrienne

  13- Oz

  14- Oz

  15- Oz

  16- Oz

  17- Oz

  18- Oz

  19- Oz

  20- Oz

  21- Oz

  22- Adrienne

  23- Oz

  24- Adrienne

  25- Oz

  Part Two

  Part Two Quote

  26- Oz

  27- Adrienne

  28- Oz

  29- Oz

  30- Oz

  31- Adrienne

  32- Oz

  Epilogue

  Scene

  The Story Continues

  Want to Know What Happens Next?

  The Storm and the Darkness Excerpt

  Novels by Sarah M. Cradit

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  St. Charles

  at

  Dusk

  The House of Crimson & Clover Series Prequel

  Sarah M. Cradit

  First Edition Copyright © 2011 Sarah M. Cradit

  Revised Edition Copyright © 2014 Sarah M. Cradit

  Cover Design by Sarah M. Cradit

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For James, my constant

  Author's Note

  If you’re reading this, you’ve received the revised version of St. Charles at Dusk.

  Why revise? When I wrote St. Charles at Dusk, it was intended to be a standalone novel. The broader House of Crimson & Clover series was but a twinkle in this author’s eye. In hindsight, I should have known better. I spent months researching details such as the finer intricacies of Oz’s house (more on that later), the exact specifications of Ophélie, and the dimensional family histories of the Deschanels and Sullivans. It should have been clear to me this world-building served a greater purpose than one novel.

  But, as Mercy would say, hindsight is patently unhelpful.

  As I moved through the series, and certain things became clear, some of those things caused challenges with consistency. We learned more about the Deschanel “gifts,” something never mentioned in St. Charles at Dusk. A major character with ties to all of Dusk’s major players, Anasofiya, seemingly appeared out of thin air. And as the series continued, flowing beautifully in one consistent direction, Dusk stuck out as a major incongruence.

  Stephen King did something similar, when he re-released The Gunslinger. Halfway through his Dark Tower Series (which, if you have not read, do so immediately), his vision took him in an unforeseen direction. In order for the books to flow from start to finish, he knew some of these inconsistencies needed to be addressed.

  So, what is different? Anasofiya, for one, has been added to the story in small ways. The Deschanel paranormal abilities are now also mentioned, though only in passing, as Adrienne and her siblings did not share those gifts. Other relatives, cousins, aunts, have been given brief mentions.

  In addition, I’ve removed some length. All that research I did was colorful, and fun, but an entire chapter on Oz’s house, I now see, was perhaps not needed to move the story forward. There are other examples, as well. I’ve taken some of these larger chunks and will be making them bonus material on my website. That way, those readers who enjoy that sort of thing (like me) can still have access to the material, while those who prefer to skip it, can.

  It is my sincere hope these changes will make St. Charles at Dusk serve as the effective prequel to the series it was meant to be.

  Enjoy!

  “If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, the possibility of life is destroyed.”

  War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy

  Prologue

  Present

  Summer 2001

  Oz: 26

  Adrienne: 21

  It was raining the day I laid my wife to rest. I had been watching her die for months, and it was hard to accept she died of something other than what had been killing her.

  Water poured down from the heavens in sheets, forming puddles all around us in the shallow Louisiana ground. I supposed it was appropriate and what I could have expected, if one can ever truly prepare for such an event.

  We were huddled together near the elaborate tomb, in a sea of mourning smocks and matching black umbrellas. The rain echoed our somber mood, beating down mercilessly. Her friends, family, co-workers, and of course my own people, came to say goodbye. I felt hands on my back and shoulders, whispering their condolences in low, cautious voices.

  Naomi, our daughter, took her first steps not long before her mother died. She now stood bravely at my side, her tiny hand firmly ensconced in mine. Normally lively and talkative in the spirited way of a toddler, Naomi said not a word to me, or anyone else, the entire day. Her reaction to the disposition of those around her was limited to an occasional glance at me with confused, pain-filled replicas of her mother’s big blue eyes.

  It struck me as funny, despite the somber overtone, how even the loudest, most garrulous person could be rendered speechless at a Metairie funeral. Crisp suits and dresses, stickers on their cars that granted them access to the country clubs, and appointments to keep for later in the evening with manicurists and clients. Life did not stop for the dead here the way it did only a few miles away, in New Orleans. We did not celebrate the deceased in this cold, crisp suburb. None of the laughing, the gaiety, the sense of family and togetherness like the funerals I was used to, in the Garden District. It would be entirely improper.

  And to think, I had gone through this yesterday at the wake. I found it inhumane our traditions demanded I publicly mourn my wife over and over again. My own grandfather had done this not long ago after over fifty years of marriage. We had been far too concerned with his well-being, so it was months later before we truly began to mourn her ourselves. Yet no one, not even my grandfather, could possibly understand what the last week had been like for Naomi and me, despite the number of people who came to my side claiming they did. I loved them all for being there, but at the same time hated them for the sense of relief they must feel at knowing when they went home, most of this disappeared for them.

  During the service, Naomi cried because everyone around her did. The sorrow of the adults, standing around in the rainy cemetery, traumatized her. One of Janie’s many aunts would burst into sobs, and Naomi reacted by curling her tiny lips around each other and wa
iling into the musty air. Someone would notice this and comment, “Poor, sweet darling.”

  Oh, how I loved and needed her.

  I stood motionless as those part of the service moved like programmed androids around me. Was this really happening? I kept my eyes on Naomi. When I heard someone call my name, or move in my direction, I would kneel down in front of my daughter, tending to her. I’m not listening, my actions said. Don’t talk to me about this.

  It was not, however, only the last week which had produced this effect on the two of us; we had been little more than existing since Janie was diagnosed, too late, with breast cancer. “Six months,” said the doctor.

  What could she possibly do in six months? The doctor delivered the message as if it were better than he expected. Better than three months, two weeks? How does that change the end result? The fact that Janie would not live to see her twenty-seventh birthday was inevitable with those words. And beyond that, the milestones of Naomi’s life would happen while Janie simply ceased to exist. Was six months supposed to warm our hearts with relief?

  “Suicide,” people whispered, far from me but still within earshot. I had expected they would talk about it. How could they not? It wasn’t every day the daughter of a cigar magnate from the “good side of town” decided to throw herself into the raging Mississippi. When she drove her car off the bank near Destrehan, it had been nothing short of a miracle that Naomi, sitting in her car seat in back, emerged without even a scratch.

  So grateful I was the man had stopped his car to help; so completely indebted to him he had pulled my crying daughter from the car as the powerful torrent threatened to take it from where it lay barely wedged on the muddy bank.

  “I tried to get your wife out, son,” the man had apologized. “The river was just too strong for me.”

  He and his wife had come to the service. The man blamed himself for not being able to save them both. I wished I had the presence of mind to disagree, to tell him if it weren’t for him, my daughter would also be gone. I knew the man had risked his own life to save hers.

  Was it selfish to wonder how no one, save this kind man and his wife, stopped to wonder why a woman was driving her car over the levee? Had there come a point when even Janie realized the insanity? These questions would likely torment me until my dying day.

  For the service, and especially for Naomi, I swallowed back the anger and confusion encircling my heart. All the “whys”: Why wouldn’t she try any of the experimental drugs the doctor offered? Why had she turned from me in the end? Why had she taken our daughter? Did she even realize Naomi was there?

  And what about the “hows”: How could someone of sound mind drive a vehicle into a raging river with a twelve-month old baby in the back? How could I not have seen the signs? Read them for what they actually meant?

  You did not love her enough. You did not love her enough to give her what she wanted, and you did not love her enough to let her find someone who would.

  Looking down at Naomi, I pushed the thoughts away.

  I wasn’t entirely grounded during the service itself, and as it came to an end, and everyone slowly filtered out, I picked up only bits and pieces of the sentiments passed to us.

  “She was an amazing woman Oz.”

  “Oz, you and Naomi are in our prayers.”

  “No one thinks badly of you for not giving the eulogy. We know this must be devastating for you and the family.”

  “Your beautiful darling girl will bring you through this.”

  Coupled with this came a handful of invitations, many from people I barely knew, who offered to “be there if you ever want to talk about this.” I wasn’t ungrateful; this just wasn’t an experience I was ready to share with anyone. It was mine, and it was Naomi’s. I wanted more than anything to be home, in my bed, finding my own way to deal with this (You did not love her, how do you deal with that?), not standing among people who meant well but were only making it harder.

  It occurred to me at some point it was their attempts at making it somehow acceptable that I couldn’t handle. Through their kind words, and soft gestures, they were trying to help me forgive her.

  Ahh, forgive her? First you have to forgive yourself, Oz.

  The longer the day stretched on, the more reality began to take hold.

  Please get me out of here before I scream, I thought. I cannot lose it in front of my little girl.

  “I’m so sorry, Oz.”

  I turned to see my father, Colin. Beside him, my mother, Catherine, who seemed to have aged ten years overnight. Janie’s suicide had really affected her. Of all the girls I’d dated, Janie was really the only one my mother wanted as a daughter-in-law. From the day she introduced us, I knew she was envisioning the wedding: Janie and I exchanging vows, the first dance, shoving cake in each other’s faces. Janie’s own mother died when she was four.

  “Oh, darling…” my mother sobbed, kneeling down in the gravel in front of Naomi. “How is she?”

  “I don’t know how to explain this to her.”

  Naomi looked such the young lady; when you met her thoughtful gaze it was easy to forget how little she actually was. At my age, I still didn’t fully understand the meaning and impact of death, and certainly not the death of someone close to me. I didn’t know the magical words that would explain it as a part of life rather than something which would plague us for years to come.

  “Oz, your mother and I were talking last night.” They exchanged a glance; one I wasn’t sure I liked. It was the look I saw often when I was still living at home. One that typically preceded them making a decision for me I disagreed with, but usually ended up allowing for one reason or another.

  As always, I let them talk. I hadn’t the energy to do much else.

  “Given the circumstances, maybe you and Naomi could stay with us for a while. It might help if you didn’t have to watch her all the time. She’s starting to walk and it’s a huge responsibility you don’t need right now. You know, just for a while until you can collect your thoughts-”

  “Dad, no. Naomi needs me right now. She needs to be in her own house with her Daddy. She’s never going to see her mother again, and it would further confuse and scare her if we took away everything she was used to.” I pulled Naomi closer to my side, protectively. I didn’t say it, but I needed her. I needed to coddle her, and somehow make it up to her. I needed to be close to her so I could mourn her mother, too.

  Because you are afraid only the sight of your daughter’s pain can bring you to sadness over Janie’s death.

  My mother cupped my face in her warm hands and kissed my forehead. “Colin, you are so young, and I fear this experience will change you forever.”

  My mother called me Colin, my given name, only in times of crisis. More specifically, at times when she felt a loss of control; an inability to fix something. I knew in her heart she was already staging an intervention for me, but that was beyond her ability at this point. There were times even a mother’s touch could not heal wounds.

  The rain came down harder, and the rest of the mourners were rushing to get out of Metairie Cemetery. My mother picked up Naomi, who was now sobbing uncontrollably, and started carrying her to the car as if I had already given in. All the sadness of the day had finally taken its toll on her; she was the picture of pure exhaustion.

  When I made no move to seek shelter, I felt my father take my arm. “Oz, come on, let’s go home, Son.”

  I didn’t look at him. With the crowd dissipated, I could see Janie’s family tomb clearly now. Her will had clearly expressed her unbending refusal to be entombed at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 where my family had been interred for generations, choosing instead to lay at rest in the Metairie neighborhood where she was raised. This had been a bone of contention between us in the last months of her life, as we sat in front of the stoic lawyer and divvied up our future. My future.

  Right under her grandmother’s name were words I morbidly imagined would be embossed in my mind forever. Words of sadne
ss? Regret? Guilt?

  Janette Lynn Masters-Sullivan

  Beloved Mother, Wife, Sister, and Daughter

  1975-2001

  “Give me a few minutes. I’ll meet you at home.” Although I didn’t turn around, I knew my father stood, indecisive a moment, before I heard him leave.

  As I stared at the tomb, and the words on my dead wife’s epitaph rolled over and over in my mind, I finally allowed myself to cry freely. Yet I didn’t know if my tears were any different than the contagious ones Naomi had wept.

  Why like this? Anything but this. “You don’t understand what it’s like!” she screamed at me the last time I saw her. “You are going to be here to see her graduate, to see her get married! Damn you, Oz!”

  In all the commotion, no one but I realized today would have been our one-year anniversary. We had been married right after Naomi was born because Janie wanted to look good in her wedding dress. I always told her she would look beautiful no matter what. She was beautiful, always.

  But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? Nor was her kindness, or intelligence, or wit, or anything else she gave to you without reserve.

  As I turned to leave my wife, I had the distinct feeling someone was watching me. It occurred to me I had felt it all throughout the service, but had been too consumed to notice or really care.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  I heard the rustle of leaves and a twig snap. A squishing of footprints in the flooding Louisiana mud. I turned toward the sound and saw a figure advance from behind another family’s tomb. A woman’s figure.

  “Who’s there?”

  As she approached, my question became unnecessary. The last person I ever expected to see at all, at any point again in my life. Thoughts of her almost prevented my marriage to Janie (Certainly prevented you from loving her properly), who had had no inkling what role this woman had played in my life. I had carefully seen to that.