The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  She laughed at that and it loosened some of the tightness in her chest. “Are all the Fitzgerald men so easy?”

  “We’re not easy. We just have exceptional taste.”

  She pulled up in front of Odette’s house, and finally turned to look at him. “Any of them coming down for Remy and Effie’s wedding?”

  “My parents are.”

  “We’ll see what we see, won’t we?”

  She hopped out, headed to the door ahead of him. “Grandmama!” She bumped the door open and strolled in. “I brought you a handsome gentleman caller.”

  Odette came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a red checked cloth. The smells of fresh coffee and baking followed her. She was, as always, decked out in layers of jewelry and sturdy boots. But there was a strain around her eyes and mouth even Declan spotted instantly.

  “A gentleman caller’s always welcome. Bébé,” she replied and kissed Lena’s cheek.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Baked me some brown bread this morning,” Odette said, evading Lena’s question. “Y’all come back to the kitchen.” She wrapped an arm around Lena’s waist to nudge her along. “What you got in the pretty bag, cher?”

  “Just a little something I thought you’d like.” In the kitchen, Declan set it on the table. “Smells fabulous in here. Maybe I ought to learn how to bake bread.”

  Odette smiled as he’d hoped she would, but the tension in the air didn’t lessen. “Could be I’ll teach you a thing or two. Kneading dough’s good therapy. Takes your mind off your troubles, gives you thinking time.”

  She took the small wrapped box out of the gift bag, turned it in her hand, then tugged the ribbon free. “Lena, you don’t nail this boy down, I may just snatch him for myself.” When she opened the box, her face softened.

  The trinket box fit into the palm of her hand. It was heart-shaped and hand-painted with a couple in old-fashioned formal dress sitting on a garden bench. When she lifted the lid, it played a tune.

  “I’ve been hearing that song in my head for weeks,” Declan told her. “So when I saw this, I figured I’d better buy it.”

  “ ‘After the Ball,’ ” Odette told him. “It’s an old waltz. Sad and sweet.” She looked up at him. “Maybe you got a nice widowed uncle you could send my way.”

  “Well, there’s Uncle Dennis, but he’s homely as a billy goat.”

  “He’s got half your heart, I’ll take him.”

  “Isn’t this a pretty picture?”

  At the voice, Lena went stiff as if someone had pressed a gun to her head and cocked the hammer. Declan saw the look pass between her and her grandmother. Apologetic on Odette’s part, shocked on Lena’s.

  Then they turned.

  Lilibeth slumped against the doorjamb. She wore a short red robe, loosely belted. Her hair was a tumble around her shoulders, and her face already made up for the day with her eyes darkly lined, her lips slick and red as her robe.

  “And who might this be?” She lifted one hand, languidly pushed back her hair as she sent Declan a slow, feline smile.

  “What’s she doing here?” Lena demanded. “What the hell is she doing in this house?”

  “It’s my house as much as yours,” Lilibeth shot back. “Some of us have more respect for blood kin than others.”

  “I told you to get on a bus and go.”

  “I don’t take orders from my own daughter.” Lilibeth pushed off the jamb, sauntered to the stove. “This here coffee fresh, Mama?”

  “How could you?” Lena demanded of Odette. “How could you take her in again?”

  “Lena.” All Odette could do was take her hand. “She’s my child.”

  “I’m your child.” The bitter fury poured out and left its horrid taste on her tongue. “You’re just going to let her come back, stay until she’s sucked you dry again, until she and whatever junkie she hooks up with this time steal you blind? It’s cocaine now. Can’t you see it on her? And that doesn’t come free.”

  “I told you I’m clean.” Lilibeth slapped a mug on the counter.

  “You’re a liar. You’ve always been a liar.”

  Lilibeth surged forward. Even as Lena threw out her chin to take the blow, Declan stepped between them. “Think again.” He said it quietly, but the heat in his voice pumped into the kitchen.

  “You lay a hand on her, Lilibeth, one hand on her, and I’ll put you out.” Odette stepped to the stove, poured the coffee herself with hands not quite steady. “I mean that.”

  “She’s got no call to speak to me that way.” Lilibeth let her lips quiver. “And in front of a stranger.”

  “Declan Fitzgerald. I’m a friend of Lena’s, and Miss Odette’s. I’ll get that coffee, Miss Odette. You sit down now.”

  “This is family business, Declan.” Lena kept her furious eyes on her mother’s face. She would think of the embarrassment later. Right now it was only a dull pinch through the cushion of anger. “You should go.”

  “In a minute.” He poured coffee, brought a cup to Odette. Crouched so their faces were level. “I’m Irish,” he told her. “Both sides. Nobody puts on a family fight like the Irish. You only have to call me if you need me.”

  He squeezed her hand, then straightened. “Same goes,” he said to Lena.

  “I’m not staying. I’ll drive you back.” She had to breathe deeply, to brace for the pain her own words would cause. “Grandmama, I love you with all my heart. But as long as she’s in the house, I won’t be. I’m sorry this hurts you, but I can’t do this again. Let me know when she’s gone. And you.” She turned to Lilibeth. “You hurt her again, you take one dollar from her or bring any of the scum you like to run with in this house, I’ll hunt you down. I swear to God I will, wherever you go. And I’ll take it out of your skin this time.”

  “Lena, baby!” Lilibeth rushed down the narrow hall as Lena strode to the door. “I’ve changed, honey. I want to make it all up to you. Give me a chance to—”

  Outside, Lena whirled. “You’ve had your last chance with me. Don’t you come near me. Don’t you come near my place. You’re dead to me, you hear?”

  She slammed the car door, ground the engine to life, then sped off, spewing up a thin cloud of smoke that obscured her mother and the house where she’d grown up.

  “Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Lena punched the gas. “I bet your family would just love a load of Lilibeth Simone. Whore, junkie, thief and liar.”

  “You can’t blame your grandmother for this, Lena.”

  “I don’t blame her. I don’t.” The tears were rushing up from her throat. She felt the burn. “But I won’t be a part of it. I won’t.” She slammed the brakes in front of the Hall. “I need to go now.” But she lowered her brow to the wheel. “Go on, get out. Va t’en.”

  “No. I’m not going away.” Others had, he realized now. And that’s where the hurt came from. “Do you want to talk about this out here, or inside?”

  “I’m not going to talk about it anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are. Pick your spot.”

  “I told you all you need to know. My mother’s a whore and a junkie. If she can’t earn enough to feed her various habits on her back, she steals. She’d as soon lie as look at you.”

  “She doesn’t live around here.”

  “I don’t know where she lives. No place for long. She came to my place yesterday. Stoned, and full of lies and her usual talk about new starts and being friends. Thought I’d let her move in with me again. Never again,” she said and leaned her head back on the car seat. “I gave her fifty dollars for bus fare. Should’ve known better. Likely it’s already gone up her nose.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “This isn’t something you walk off or kiss better, Declan. I need to get back.”

  “You’re not driving into town when you’re still churned up. Let’s walk.”

  To ensure she didn’t just drive away when he got out, he took the keys out of the ignition, pocketed them. Then he climbed out, walked
around the car. Opening her door, he held out a hand.

  She couldn’t drum up the energy to argue. But instead of taking his hand, she slid out of the car and dipped hers in her pockets.

  They’d walk, she figured. They’d talk. And then, it would be over.

  She imagined he thought his gardens—that new blossoming, the tender fragrances—would soothe her. He would want to comfort. He was built that way. More, he’d want to know so he could find solutions.

  When it came to Lilibeth, there were no solutions.

  “Family can suck, can’t it?”

  Her gaze whipped to his—dark and fierce, and sheened with damp. “She’s not my family.”

  “I get that. But it’s a family situation. We’re always having situations in my family. Probably because there are so many of us.”

  “Not having enough canapés at a cocktail party, or having two aunts show up in the same fancy dress isn’t a situation.”

  He debated whether to let the insult pass. She was, after all, raw and prickly. But he couldn’t quite swallow it. “You figure having money negates personal problems? Takes the sting out of hurts, buries tragedies? That’s pretty shallow, Lena.”

  “I’m a shallow gal. Comes through the blood.”

  “That’s bullshit, but you’re entitled to feel sorry for yourself after almost taking a slap in the face. Money didn’t make my cousin Angie feel much better when her husband got her and his mistress pregnant the same month. It didn’t help my aunt when her daughter died in a car wreck on her eighteenth birthday. Life can fuck you over, whatever your income bracket.”

  She stopped, ordered herself to calm down. “I apologize. She tends to put me in a mood that’s not fit for company.”

  “I’m not company.” Before she could evade, he cupped her face in his hands. “I love you.”

  “Stop it, Declan.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’m no good for you. No good for anybody, and I don’t want to be.”

  “That’s the key, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  He reached down, lifted the key she wore around her neck. “It wasn’t a man, but a woman who broke your heart. Now you want to lock it up, close it off so you won’t accept love when it’s offered. Won’t let yourself give it back. Safer that way. If you don’t love, it doesn’t matter if someone walks away. That makes you a coward.”

  “So what if it does?” She shoved his hand aside. “It’s my life. I live it the way I want, and I get along fine. You’re a romantic, cher. Under all that Yankee sense, that expensive education, you’re a dreamer. I don’t put stock in dreams. What is, that’s what counts. One of these days you’re going to wake up and find yourself in this big, old house in the middle of nowhere, wondering what the hell you were thinking. And you’ll hightail it back to Boston, go back to lawyering, marry some classy woman named Alexandra, and have a couple pretty children.”

  “You forgot the pair of golden retrievers,” he said mildly.

  “Oh.” She threw up her hands. “Merde!”

  “Couldn’t agree more. First, the only woman I know named Alexandra has teeth like a horse. She sort of scares me. Second, and more important, what I’m going to do, Angelina, is live out my life in this big, old house, with you. I’m going to raise a family with you, right here. Golden retrievers are optional.”

  “You saying it, over and over, isn’t going to make it so.”

  Now he grinned, white and wide. “Bet?”

  There was something about him when he was like this, she realized. Something potent and just a little frightening when he wore that sheen of affability over a core of concrete stubbornness.

  “I’m going to work. You just stay away from me for a while, you hear? I’m too irritated to deal with you.”

  He let her walk away. It was enough, for now, that her anger with him had dried up those tears that had glimmered in her eyes.

  15

  New Orleans

  1900

  Julian was drunk, as he preferred to be. He had a half-naked whore in his lap, and her heavy breast cupped in his hand. The old black man played a jumpy tune on the piano, and the sound mixed nicely in his head with wild female laughter.

  Cigar smoke stung the air, giving him a low-level urge for tobacco. But he couldn’t quite drum up the gumption for a cigar, or to haul the whore upstairs.

  The fact that he was broke—again—didn’t worry him overmuch. He patronized this brothel habitually, and always, eventually, scraped together the funds to pay his bill. His credit was good here, for the moment.

  He’d selected the prostitute because she was blond and lush of build, vacant of brain. He could tell himself that later, when he rode her, he wouldn’t see Abigail’s face staring back up at him.

  Not this time.

  He took another swig of bourbon, then pinched the blond’s nipple. She squealed and slapped playfully at his hand. He was grinning when Lucian walked in.

  “My sainted brother.” Though his words slurred, they were bitter on his tongue. Julian gulped more whiskey as he watched Lucian shake his head at a redhead who sidled up to him.

  He looked, Julian thought, pale and gold and perfect through the hazy smoke, against the garish colors, through the raucous noise.

  And he wondered if Cain had looked at Abel and felt the same violent disgust as he himself felt now.

  He waited, jiggling the blond on his knee, squeezing her breast as Lucian scanned the parlor. When their eyes met—identical eyes—there was a clash. Julian would have sworn he heard it in his head. The sound two swords make when struck in battle.

  “What’s this?” he said as Lucian approached. “Finally lowering yourself to the rest of us humans? My brother needs a drink, a drink and a woman for mon frère!” he called out. “Though I doubt he knows what to do with either.”

  “You embarrass yourself and your family, Julian. I’m sent to bring you home.”

  “I’m not embarrassed to pay for a whore.” Julian set down his glass and ran his hand up the blond’s thigh. “Now if I married one, it would be a different matter. But you beat me to that, brother, as you have so many other things.”

  Lucian’s face whitened. “You will not speak of her in this place.”

  “My brother married a slut from the swamps,” he said conversationally, jerking the blond back when she tried to crawl off his lap. He could feel her heart pounding, pounding under his hand now as the heat between him and Lucian stirred fear.

  And her fear excited him as none of the promises she’d whispered in his ear had done.

  “Lucian, pride of the Manets, brought his tramp into our home, and now he pines and weeps because she left him for another, and saddled him with her bastard whelp.”

  He had to believe it. Over the winter he’d drowned in an ocean of bourbon the look of her staring eyes, the sound of her body sliding wetly into the bayou.

  He had to believe it, or go mad.

  “Allez,” Lucian ordered the blond. “Go.”

  “I like her where she is.” Julian clamped his hands on her arms as she struggled.

  Neither of them noticed as the room fell silent, as the notes of the piano died away and the laughter trailed off. Lucian reached down, dragged the blond off Julian’s lap. She bolted away like a rabbit even as Lucian yanked Julian from the chair.

  “Gentlemen.” The madam of the house swept forward. Behind her was an enormous man in spotless evening dress. “We want no trouble here, Monsieur Julian.” Her voice cooed, her hand glided intimately over his cheek. And her eyes were frigid. “Go with your brother now, mon cher ami. This isn’t the place for family squabbles.”

  “Of course. My apologies.” He took her hand, kissed it. Then turned and leaped on Lucian.

  The table and lamp they fell on shattered. While people rushed away and women screamed, they rolled, jabbing with fists, snapping like dogs as the violence of a lifetime sprang out of both of them.

  The bouncer waded in, dragged J
ulian up by the scruff. He quick-marched him to the door, heaved him through. Lucian had barely gained his hands and knees when he was lifted.

  Curses and screams followed him out the door. And anger was smothered by mortification. Lucian shook his head clear, gained his feet.

  He looked down at his brother, that reflection of self, and felt a different kind of shame. “Have we come to this?” he said wearily. “Brawling in brothels, sprawling in gutters. I want peace between us, Julian. God knows I have peace nowhere else.”

  He held out a hand, an offering, to help Julian to his feet.

  But Julian’s shame had a different color. And it was black.

  He wouldn’t remember drawing the knife out of his boot. Liquor and temper and guilt blinded him. Nor would he remember surging to his feet, striking out.

  He felt the blade slice through his brother’s flesh with a kind of wild glee. And his lips were peeled back, his eyes mad as he scented first blood.

  They struggled, Lucian through the pain and shock, Julian through the black haze, with the hilt of the knife slippery in their hands.

  And the bright, bright horror paralyzed him as Julian’s eyes widened when the killing point turned on him, into him.

  “Mère de Dieu,” Julian murmured, and stared down at the blood on his breast. “You’ve killed me.”

  Manet Hall

  2002

  The heat had pumped in from the south. It seemed to Declan that even the air sweat. Mornings and evenings, when it was bearable, he worked outside. Afternoons, he sought the cooler regions of the house.

  It wasn’t as efficient, dragging his tools in and out, but he was making progress. That was the name of the game.

  He didn’t call Lena—he figured she needed to simmer and settle. But he thought of her, constantly.

  He thought of her as he nailed boards, when he studied paint samples, when he installed paddle fans.

  And he thought of her when he woke, in the middle of the night, to find himself curled on the grass by the edge of the pond, Lucian’s watch clutched in his fist and his face damp with tears.