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

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St. Charles at Dusk: The House of Crimson and Clover Series Prequel Page 27

by Sarah M. Cradit


  “I did the only thing I could do. I submitted a promise to a dying woman to help her enjoy what was left of her life, so she could pass on knowing her husband would not run back to his previous love. It didn’t matter I knew you wouldn’t; I had ruined all chances of that. She wanted to hear something that represented finality and gave her hope. An hour or so later, she drove her car into the river on the way back to New Orleans.”

  “I never knew,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. I was still reeling from Adrienne’s words and what they meant. I didn’t know how to process this. I didn’t want to process this. “I never even questioned why she was out near the Memorial Bridge that day.”

  “Now you understand why I said I was sorry, yesterday, and that I felt responsible for the loss of your marriage. Had she never come to me, had I never been so honest with her…”

  “Don’t,” I stopped her, my mind whirling. Had Janie really done this? Had she gone to all the trouble of finding out about Adrienne? “Janie made the choice herself, and she can’t blame anyone for it, but herself.”

  “I had no right to come back. I had to, though. I had to tell you about your son, if nothing else. I couldn’t keep that from you.”

  “Adrienne-“

  “No, let me finish! I know you hate me, and I don’t blame you in the least. I would understand if you never spoke to me again, never wanted anything to do with me! But your son needs you, Christian needs you!” She began to cry.

  Adrienne reached out and touched my closed hand, opening it at once. When she released it, I looked down and saw she’d placed a picture in my hand.

  “That’s your son,” she told me, swiping at her tears.

  I stared at the picture for a long time, my breath caught in my chest. As she said, the eyes and hair were exactly the same as mine. He also had my dimples, and even the same grin of mischief. His chin bore my tiny Irish cleft.

  There aren’t words to describe the first time a father looks upon the image of his son. All I knew was I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything else in my life.

  I was so angry with Janie for wanting him to be kept from me! But at the same time, I empathized with her. How unfair it had been to marry her and steal her life when I had still been in love with someone else. I couldn’t blame her for looking into the matter, for paying Adrienne a visit. It is only the last desperate act I could not forgive.

  And, once again, here was Adrienne, sitting before me, having told me a story I would never recover from. For now, I wasn’t processing any of it except the little boy whose photo I now held in my hand.

  I looked at Adrienne. I thought of my dead wife, and felt like a horrible person because I suddenly could not picture her. Instead, I could see Adrienne and nothing else. Adrienne, sitting in her father’s high backed chair in the office preparing to go to school in Brussels, still a girl; I saw her when I opened my door to her three years later, almost a woman. In the park, The Girl of the Stately Oak, finally a woman; I saw her smile, her brilliance, and her kindness.

  “It’s up to you now, Oz. It’s your choice. You can ask me to walk out of your life forever, and I will do that. I’ll make sure you see your son, but you will never have to see me again.”

  I was still staring at Christian’s photo. How was it possible to love someone you haven’t even met yet?

  “Or?”

  Tears slid down her soft, round cheeks again as she went on. “Or you give me a chance I don’t deserve, and I promise with all my heart never to hurt you like that again. I’m not perfect, but I know what mistakes I’ve made. I’ve grown up enough to understand you have no reason to make this choice.”

  I tore myself away from the photo finally, and looked at her.

  “Adrienne, why should I believe this is any different now? Because you say you’ve grown up? Because you promise? It was never about promises or age, Adrienne, don’t you understand? It was about trust! You never trusted me to protect you and take care of you! You never trusted I loved you enough to see past the bad things, or to understand the truth! I told you over and over and over again, I loved you. Damn it, I nearly begged for you to believe in me, and you never did! You chose the weak and cowardly way out, and you’re living the life that you chose. I never promised you the world, but I promised to care for you, and that wasn’t enough. No, don’t argue with me. I know you told yourself you didn’t tell me everything for my own good, but if you truly believed in me, not telling me would not have been an option!”

  I fell back, exhausted. One look told me she understood in a way she never could have two years ago. I was done arguing. I was finished with the drama and the rich plots. Angelique was still alive, but Adrienne had chosen to defy her anyway. I wanted to think of Janie, and to mourn her death properly, but I found myself slipping back into the old Oz; the one who had once been prepared to give up everything for the little girl sitting in front of him.

  “There is a limit to how much a person can take,” I said.

  Her face fell. “I know.”

  “And right now, I think I’ve hit that limit, Adrienne. I honestly believe one more thing could send me over the edge.”

  Tears ran down her face as she watched me. She wanted to speak, but was afraid to.

  “But the truth is,” I said, once again looking down at the photo of my son. My son.

  “I’m only Oz when I’m with Adrienne.”

  Epilogue

  4 years later

  Summer 2005

  Oz: 30

  Adrienne: 25

  It was summer again in New Orleans. The tourism had slowed, because people not from the South couldn't handle the lilting heat and humidity that made the world feel like one gigantic swimming hole. The afternoon storms were persistent. The rain came almost daily, flooding out the small yards with large gardens for approximately an hour, leaving the air slightly cooler in its place. The weather reporters predicted this would be a hurricane season to remember. The cicadas Adrienne adored sang their rough melodies through the day, and into the night; the air smelled like a bouquet of fresh, exotic flowers.

  To the southeast, the sounds of the river; the steamboats. Two blocks away, the ambling rumble of the antiquated streetcar running along its course. Young mothers in their Suburbans drove with the windows up, and the air conditioning on, as they ushered their children from one mansion to another for birthday parties. A homeless man walked towards Prytania peddling Mardi Gras beads with little success.

  I watched as the last of my family and friends drove away from my birthday party, and realized I could not have happened upon a better time to turn thirty. My world was alive, and just as I liked it.

  Behind me, Naomi squealed as Christian tugged on her long hair. “You are hurting me!” she protested. Christian smiled, but shrugged. He was six years old and wore it well. He loved to tease his little sister.

  “Be nice,” I warned, but my admonishment was hardly necessary. Christian was a sweet and delicate little boy who never took things too far. He left his sister alone and went outside to play with his trucks in the garden. Christian was so much like me; clever and bright, but introspective. Everything amazed him, and he had a penchant for discovery and research like his mother. He spent hours in the garden, behind the banana trees, near the Bird of Paradise, trapping spiders and bugs in a small plastic house. He used them for many things, including unleashing them on his unsuspecting sister.

  “Can I go play too?” Naomi asked with bright eyes, completely over the episode of a few moments ago. She had to ask to go outside because her skin was pale, like Janie’s, and she burned in the Louisiana sun. I had to lather her up in SPF 30 before I would send her out to play. She protested most times, but I would not see my daughter suffer for her obstinacy, so I made her endure.

  Smiling, I told her to go get the pink bottle, and she skipped off toward the bathroom, her tiny legs carrying her this way and that as her dark hair hung halfway out of the rubber band.

  Yet chil
dren grew up. Just a month ago, we watched Christian walk down the small aisle of the kindergarten classroom and “graduate.” He held his head high, so proud of himself. He kindly let everyone take their pictures and fawn over him, with more grace and patience than most adults. Naomi would be starting kindergarten in the fall. They were both growing up so fast. I wanted to hold them again in my arms, the way I did when they were babies. By the time I met Christian, there wasn’t much baby left in him, but I held him anyway.

  They had both been so good at the party, completely well-behaved. I was always proud of them, but there were times, such as these, I wanted to take a day meant for me and show them off to everyone; show how sweet and kind and wonderful they were.

  My mother offered to clean up the mess everyone left behind. My parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, even Ana and Nicolas, had all shown up to help me celebrate this milestone event. My home was littered with half-empty wine glasses, frosting on the edges of the sofa, napkins built in the shape of a house by one of the kids, wrapping paper in shreds, and, most humorous, a kazoo sticking out of the last piece of cake.

  “No, Mom, I can do it.” I love you for being in my life, for being my mother, I almost said. I love you for taking me to the doctor for the sniffles, for keeping me home from school when I scraped my knee on that broken fence next door. I can appreciate you so much more now that I have my own to look after.

  She kissed me quickly, the way mothers do, and understood. “I’m so proud of you, Colin. You are so strong; not like me at all.”

  “Oh, Mom, don’t say that. You’re stronger than you realize.”

  Her eyes gleamed with the start of tears and she shook her head. “No, darling. You were my strength, always. Keeping after you, worrying over you, watching you grow up into a boy and then a man. That’s my strength. Now, I also have Naomi, and Christian. What could be better?”

  She ushered out most of the guests when she saw the children getting irritable with the burden of a long day. It was nearly eight and they had families to get back to. The Sullivans brought their swarm of wives, husbands, children, and grandchildren. I wondered mid-day what the legal occupancy would be on a house this size and was almost sure we had reached it, but I was happy to be surrounded by people I knew and trusted; people I loved and that loved me. It made me wealthy in the way that meant the most.

  Nicolas, my dearest and oldest friend, toasted me around four, embarrassing me with a speech delivered with too much cognac and an abundance of enthusiasm. It was sloppy, and loud, but it was Nicolas, and I loved it. I would remember it always.

  The threats which had once plagued us were now gone. Angelique had passed away unexpectedly not so long ago. Anne, her daughter, was slowly assimilating into the Deschanel clan, thanks to the kindness and sponsorship of Aunt Colleen. Jesse moved on, without ceremony. There no longer existed anything which could come between Adrienne and I, and all we had fought for.

  I picked up a plastic wine glass adorned with a smudge of pale lip gloss on the rim, and tossed it in a large plastic garbage bag. I thought of the woman who wore the gloss and a warm, comfortable feeling washed over me. My heart palpitated softly, my arms threatening to go numb. There were times like this, where silly little things would happen to me, and I would fall in love with her all over again.

  I felt the lips that wore the special gloss graze the back of my neck. I thought nothing had ever felt so soft, so perfectly real. “Adrienne,” I whispered and turned around the meet the owner.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she purred.

  “The kids?”

  “Your mother is still here.”

  The sun had only begun to set, but the sky was dark and turbulent. The rain would begin to roll in at any moment. “Where to?” I asked. Asking was a habit. I knew the answer.

  “St. Charles.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s dusk.”

  We walked up Seventh and hung a left on St. Charles, making our path along the route we had taken night after night. I held my wife’s hand as the breeze came in long and soft from the river, carrying with it the scent of magnolia and camellia.

  I loved the softness and beauty of her. The yielding down on her arms, and the way her hands had to be occupied at all times.

  Her hair fell long and loose behind her as it caught on the breeze. Neither of us said a word. There were many times where we would talk for hours on end, sometimes from one day into the next. Our hearts, our souls, were connected by the electricity in the air, and the cool, fragrant scents surrounding every thought and every action on the old avenue.

  We came upon Audubon Park, and her oak. Here, we could talk. She was no longer The Girl of the Stately Oak. Instead, she owned the oak, owned her moments on it. The oak had not grown in the short time we had been visiting it, but she had, in a myriad of ways.

  The tears spilled down her cheeks and she pressed her face into my neck. I felt her soft, pliable lips, her hot breath. “Happy birthday, my Big Hero.”

  I wanted to take her then, under the oak, and to hell with anyone who had a problem with it. I wanted to be inside of her, to love her in the best way I knew how. I owed her my heart; Adrienne, the wonderful mother of my children. My beautiful wife.

  “Aren’t you ever afraid?” she whispered, pushing my thoughts back to reality. “Afraid I might disappoint you? That Naomi and Christian might disappoint you?”

  “Don’t ever say that,” I said firmly. I held her face in both hands, and watched her lower lip tremble. It tortured me. “Don’t ever stop trusting in me.”

  It started to rain. She looked up instinctively at the drops that descended, but I held her chin. “I love you,” she said. “I sometimes remember the things I’ve done, and I have to remind myself you don’t hold them against me. Forgive me, Oz.”

  “I already have,” I replied.

  I knew it would always be like this. Enough time would pass and her old insecurities would surface. I would have to reassure her, as I did then. It was a small price to pay to keep her with me, to maintain her level of trust in me. More than ensuring her own happiness and security, I was keeping her from running again.

  I held her on the strong arm of the oak tree for a long while, letting the rain wash over us both. The sun broke through the dark clouds, and St. Charles Avenue lay before us in a damp and shimmery brilliance.

  The Series Continues…

  With The Storm and the Darkness, Book 1 of The House of Crimson & Clover series.

  Read further for an excerpt.

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  The Storm and the Darkness Excerpt

  “All I’m saying is, Deliverance was based on a true story.”

  For the past hour, Nicolas had been trying to talk Anasofiya into coming home to New Orleans. She rifled through the fridge, looking for something easy to cook.

  “Mhm,” she said, agreeing with him as she often did when he was rambling on about something idiotic.

  “Anywhere that doesn’t have cell service might as well be Iceland,” Nicolas added.

  Ana laughed. “They have cell phones in Iceland.”

  He dropped his voice low. “I’m talking about the parts without cell service, Ana. Dark places. Places where you can’t even pronounce the name of the village you’re in because it has sixteen consonants and no vowel, and there are more active volcanoes than people.”

  “The more worked up you get, the less you make sense.” Ana sighed. “Anyway, how’s everything at home?”

  Nicolas gave an exaggerated yawn through the phone. “Your father is fine, your stepmother is fine, Adrienne is fine, blah blah blah. Would you like to hear about the weather? I could give you the score of the Saints g
ame, if you’re so inclined.”

  “You act like those things aren’t important.”

  “They’re not,” he said simply. Silence on his end for a moment and then he added, “and if you did care so much about how the family is doing, you wouldn’t have abandoned us.”

  “Stop being an ass,” Ana said lightly, but she knew he could hear the slight reprimand in her voice. Nicolas had a way of finding the line and stepping over it. Normally she enjoyed the parry, but the circumstances were different now. Of course, Nicolas had no way of knowing that because, for the first time in her life, she had kept something from him. Quarter-life crisis, she told him when she revealed her plans to move to Maine. He had known better, though; had seen right through her lie and let her keep lying because he loved her. She didn’t know what stopped her from telling him.

  That’s a lie. I know why.

  She knew it hurt him that she was lying. It hurt her to do it. He was not just her cousin, but also her closest friend. Telling herself he probably kept things from her all the time didn’t help. The thought was hollow because she knew better.

  “Have you shown anyone your parlor trick yet?” he asked with a snicker.

  “You know I haven’t. They already dislike me. I don’t need them also thinking I’m a freak of nature.”

  “Not a freak of nature, darling. Just a Deschanel.”

  Ana was not the only Deschanel with a special talent, but she might be the only one who wished she didn’t have one. It was more of a curse than a blessing.

  “How did your family escape it then?” she asked. Not only was Nicolas born without special abilities–benign, the other Deschanels liked to call it–his father and four sisters had also been benign.

 

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