by Nora Roberts
“I know it. I love you, too, but I’m not going to kiss you and smear my lipstick. One drink, Declan. This boy goes out there tipsy, I’m holding you responsible.”
Later, Declan would think his mother was right, as usual. When he stood beside Remy, and Effie, frothy in white, stepped out on the gallery, Declan felt the nerves drain out of his friend—his brother. He saw the wide, wide grin stretch over Remy’s face, heard his soft: “That’s my girl.”
He found his own gaze traveling through the rows of people, meeting Lena’s. And you’re mine, he thought. This time around we’re going to make it work.
So he stood in the spring garden, with the old white house rising over the green lawn, and watched his friends marry.
When they kissed, when they turned to be announced as husband and wife, cheers rang out, so much more liberating and celebratory than the applause Declan was more accustomed to.
He felt his own grin stretch, nearly as wide as Remy’s.
The music started up almost immediately. Fiddles, washboards, accordions. When the photographer whittled down to just the bride and groom, Declan broke free and wove his way through the sea of people to Lena.
She wore red. Bright, poppy red that left her back bare but for an intriguing web of thin straps. Just above her heart, she’d pinned the enamel watch and gold wings Lucian had once given Abigail.
“I wondered if you’d ever wear it.”
“It’s special,” she said, “so I save it for special. It was a beautiful wedding, Declan. You did a fine job getting this place ready for it. You’re a good friend.”
“I have lots of good qualities, which makes you a very lucky woman. I’ve missed you the last couple days.”
“We’ve both been busy.”
“Stay tonight.” He caught her hand, seeing denial and excuses in her eyes. “Angelina, stay tonight.”
“Maybe. You’ve got a lot of people you should be talking to.”
“They’re all talking to each other. Where’s Miss Odette?”
Lena scowled. “Your mother swept her off somewhere.”
“You want me to find them, cut Miss Odette loose?”
Pride stiffened her spine, her voice. “My grandmama can hold her own against your mama any day of the week.”
“Oh yeah?” Amused, Declan narrowed his eyes in challenge. “If they get physical, my money’s on Colleen. She’s got a wicked left. Why don’t we get some champagne and go find them? See what round they’re in.”
“If she hurts my grandmama’s feelings—”
“She would never do that.” No longer amused, Declan gave her shoulders a little shake. “What do you take her for, Lena? If she went off with Miss Odette, it’s because she’d like to get to know her.”
“I suppose that’s why she dragged your daddy into my place. So she could get to know me better.”
“They were in your place?”
“My bar, yeah.” Annoyed with herself for being annoyed, Lena reached out to take a flute from a waiter passing champagne. “She came in to check the place out, and me with it. So, she got her an eyeful, and a damn good martini. And I set her straight.”
He experienced jittery male panic at the image of the two most important females in his life squaring off. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I said what I had to say, that’s all. We understand each other fine now.”
“Why don’t you bring me up to date so I can understand you fine, too?”
“This isn’t the time or the place.”
“We’re going to find the time and the place.”
Because she heard the temper in his voice, she shrugged. Then smiled and traced a finger down his cheek. “Now don’t get all riled up, cher. We got us a party here. You and me, we can fight anytime.”
“Okay, we’ll schedule it in for a little later.” He caught her chin in his hand. “I can’t figure out who you’re selling short, Lena. Me, my family or yourself. Let me know when you’ve got the answer.”
He bent, brushed his lips over hers. “See you later.”
The reception moved into the ballroom, and still managed to spill onto the galleries, onto the lawn. For the first time in decades, the house filled with music and laughter. Racing children, crying babies, flirting couples and gossiping friends filled the great room, relaxed in the shade of white umbrellas at tables around the gardens or plopped down on the gallery.
Declan liked to imagine the house absorbing all that positive energy, even into the dark corners of the rooms he’d kept locked.
“Declan.” Effie laid a hand on his arm. “May I have this dance?”
“Did somebody kill Remy?” He led her out on the floor. “I figure that’s the only way he’d let you more than a foot away from him.” He kissed her hand before taking her into his arms. “Can’t blame him. When you’ve got the most beautiful woman in the room, you keep her close.”
“Oh, Declan.” She laid her cheek on his. “If I wasn’t madly in love with my husband, I’d make such a play for you.”
“If you ever get tired of him, let me know.”
“I want to thank you for everything you did to give me this perfect day. I know my mama, my sister and I drove you a little crazy the last couple weeks.”
“Has it only been a couple weeks?” He laughed. “It was worth every hour I hid in closets so none of you could find me.”
“I’m so happy. I’m so happy, and I love you. I love everybody today,” she said with a laugh. “Everyone in the world, but today, next to Remy, I love you best of all so I want you to be happy.”
“I am.”
“Not enough.” She turned her lips to his ear. “Declan, there’s something in this house that’s just not finished. I didn’t think I believed in that sort of thing, but . . . I feel it. Whenever I’m here, I feel it. I feel it even today.”
He could feel the tremor move through her, rubbed his hand over her back to soothe it away. “You shouldn’t think about it today. You shouldn’t worry today.”
“I’m worried for you. Something . . . it isn’t finished. Part of it, somehow part of it’s my fault.”
“Yours?” He eased her back now so he could see her face, then circled her toward one of the corners. “What do you mean?”
“I wish I knew what I meant. I only know what I feel. Something I did, or didn’t do for you. It doesn’t make a bit of sense, but it’s such a strong feeling. The feeling that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most. I guess I’m a little afraid something bad’s going to happen again if it’s not all made right. So, well, as silly as this sounds, I just want to tell you I’m sorry, so awfully sorry for letting you down however I did.”
“It’s all right.” He touched his lips to her forehead. “You couldn’t know. Whatever it was, if it was, you couldn’t know. And sweetheart, this isn’t a day for looking back. It’s all about tomorrow now.”
“You’re right. Just . . . just be careful,” she said as Remy walked up and gave Declan a mock punch.
“That’s my wife you’re holding, cher. You go get your own girl.”
“Good idea.”
He hunted up Lena, found her in a clutch of people. The red of her dress was like a sleek tongue of flame over her dusky skin. He imagined his reaction to it, to her, transmitted clearly enough as he saw that knowing and essentially female look come into her eyes as he stepped toward her.
He turned slightly and held out a hand to her grandmother. “Miss Odette, would you dance with me?”
“Day hasn’t come when I’ll turn down a dance with a handsome man.”
“You look wonderful,” he told her when they took the floor.
“Weddings make me feel young. I had a nice talk with your mama.”
“Did you?”
“You’re wondering,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ll tell you we got on just fine. And she seemed pleased when I told her I saw how you’d been raised up right the first time I met you. She paid me back the compliment by sa
ying the same about my Lena. Then we chatted about things women often chat about at weddings, which would likely bore you—except to say we agreed what a handsome young man you are. And handsome young men should find more reasons to wear tuxedos.”
“I could become a maître d’. But they get better tips when they have a snooty accent, and I’m not sure I could pull that part off.”
“Then I’ll just have to wait until your own wedding to see you all slicked up again.”
“Yeah.” He looked over her head, but Lena had moved on. “This one’s working out pretty well anyway. I was a little panicked that the storm last night would screw things up.”
“Storm? Cher, we didn’t have a storm last night.”
“Sure we did. A mean one. Don’t tell me you slept through it.”
“I was up till midnight.” She watched his face now. “Finishing the hem on this dress. Then I was up again ’round four when Rufus decided he needed to go outside. I saw lights on over here then. Wondered what you were doing up at that hour. Night was clear as a bell, Declan.”
“I . . . I must’ve dreamed about a storm. Pre-wedding stress.” But he hadn’t been up at four. Hadn’t been up at all, as far as he knew, after midnight—when he’d walked through the house to turn off all the lights before going to bed.
Dreams, he thought. Wind and rain, the flash of lightning. The yellow flames of the fire in the grate. Pain, sweat, thirst. Blood.
Women’s hands, women’s voices—Effie’s?—giving comfort, giving encouragement.
He remembered it now, clearly, and stopped dead in the middle of the dance.
He’d had a baby. He’d gone through childbirth.
Good God.
“Cher? Declan? You come on outside.” Gently, Odette guided him off the floor. “You need some air.”
“Yeah. Southern ladies are big on swooning, right?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.” He was mortified, he was awed, at what had happened to him inside his own dream. Inside, he supposed, his own memories.
“Go on back in,” he told her. “I’m just going to take a walk, clear my head.”
“What did you remember?”
“A miracle,” he murmured. “Remind me to buy my mother a really great present. I don’t know how the hell you women get through it once. She did it four times. Amazing,” he mumbled, and headed down the steps. “Fucking amazing.”
He walked all the way around the house, then slipped back in for a tall glass of icy water. He used it to wash down three extra-strength aspirin in hopes of cutting back on the vicious headache that had come on the moment he’d remembered the dream.
He could hear the music spilling down the steps from the ballroom. He could feel the vibrations on the ceiling from where dozens of feet danced.
He had to get back up, perform his duties as best man and host. All he wanted to do was fall facedown on the bed, close his eyes, and slide into oblivion.
“Declan.” Lena came in through the gallery doors, then shut them behind her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just a headache.”
“You’ve been gone nearly an hour. People are asking about you.”
“I’m coming up.” But he sat on the side of the bed. “In a minute.”
She crossed to him. “Is it bad?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Why don’t you just lie down a few minutes?”
“I’m not crawling into bed on my best friend’s wedding day—unless you want to keep me company.”
“It’s tempting. Seeing a man in a tux always makes me want to peel him out of it.”
“Maître d’s must just love you.”
“There now, you made a stupid joke, so you must be feeling better.”
“Considering I gave birth less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d say I’m doing great.”
Lena pursed her lips. “Cher, just how much have you had to drink this evening?”
“Not nearly as much as I plan on having. You know how you had this theory that I was Abigail Manet? Well, I’m starting to think you’re onto something seeing as I dreamed I was in that room down the hall, in the bed I’ve seen in there—that one that isn’t there. I wasn’t seeing Abigail on that bed, in the last stages of labor. I experienced it, and let me tell you, it ain’t no walk on the beach. Any woman who doesn’t go for the serious drugs is a lunatic. It beats anything they dreamed up for that entertaining era known as the Spanish Inquisition.”
“You dreamed you were Abigail, and you—”
“It wasn’t like a dream, Lena, and I think I must’ve been in that room when I had the—flash or hallucination, or whatever we call it. I can remember the storm—the sound of it, and how scared I was, how focused I was on bringing that baby out.”
He paused, replayed his own words. “Boy, that sounded weird.”
“Yes. Yes, it did.” She sat beside him.
“I heard the voices. Other women helping me. I can see their faces—especially the young one. The one close to my age—Abigail’s age. I can feel the sweat running down my face, and the unbelievable fatigue. Then that sensation, that peak of it all when it was like coming to the point of being ripped open. Bearing down, then the relief, the numbness, the fucking wonder of pushing life into the world. Then the flood of pride and love when they put that miracle in my arms.”
He looked down at his hands while Lena stared at him. “I can see the baby, Lena, clear as life, I can see her. All red and wrinkled and pissed off. Dark blue eyes, dark hair. A rosebud mouth. Tiny, slender fingers, and I thought: There are ten, and she is perfect. My perfect Rose.”
He looked at Lena now. “Marie Rose, your great-great-grandmother. Marie Rose,” he repeated, “our daughter.”
20
Their daughter. She couldn’t dismiss it, and something deep inside her grieved. But she couldn’t speak of it, wouldn’t speak of it, not when her head and heart were so heavy.
Lena threw herself back into the crowds, the music, the laughter. This was now, she thought. Now was what counted.
She was alive, with the warm evening air on her skin, under the pure, white moonlight with the fragrance of the flowers and gardens rioting around her.
Roses and verbena, heliotrope, jasmine.
Lilies. Her favorite had been the lily. She kept them, always, in her room. First in the servants’ quarters, then in their bedroom. Clipped in secret from the garden or the hothouse.
And for the nursery, there were roses. Tiny pink buds for their precious Marie Rose.
Frightened, she pushed those thoughts, those images, aside. Grabbing a partner, she flirted him into a dance.
She didn’t want the past. It was dead and done. She didn’t want the future. It was capricious and often cruel. It was the moment that was to be lived, enjoyed. Even controlled.
So when Declan’s father took her hand, she smiled at him, brilliantly.
“This one here’s a Cajun two-step. Can you handle it?”
“Let’s find out.”
They swung among the circling couples with quick, stylish moves that had her laughing up at him. “Why, Patrick, you’re a natural. You sure you’re a Yankee?”
“Blood and bone. Then again, you have to factor in the Irish. My mother was a hell of a step-dancer, and can still pull it off after a couple of pints.”
“How old’s your mama?”
“Eighty-six.” He twirled her out and back. “Fitzgeralds tend to be long-lived and vigorous. Something’s upset you.”
She kept her cheerful expression in place. “Now what could upset me at such a lovely time and place?”
“That’s the puzzle. Why don’t we get a glass of champagne, and you can tell me?”
He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. Like father, like son, she thought as he kept her hand firmly in his. He drew her to the bar, ordered two flutes, then led her outside.
“A perfect night,” she said, and breathed it in. “Look at those garden
s. It’s hard to believe what they were like just a few months back. Did Declan tell you about the Franks?”
“About the Franks, Tibald. About Effie and Miss Odette. About the ghosts, about you.”
“He bit off a lot here.” She sipped champagne, wandered to the baluster. Below, people were still dancing on the lawn. A group of women sat at one of the white tables under a white moon, some with babies sleeping on their shoulders, some with children drooping in their laps.
“He was bored in Boston.”
Intrigued, Lena looked away from the people, the charm of the fairy lights, and looked at Patrick. “Bored?”
“Unhappy, restless, but in a large part bored. With his work, his fiancée, his life. The only thing that put any excitement in his face was the old house he was redoing. I worried he’d go along, end up married to the wrong woman, working in a field he disliked, living a life that only half satisfied him. I shouldn’t have worried.”
He leaned back on the baluster and looked through the open doors into the ballroom. “His mind, his heart, was never set on the path we—his mother and I—cleared for him. We didn’t want to see that, so for a long time, we didn’t.”
“You only wanted the best for him. People tend to think what’s best for them is best for the people they love.”
“Yes, and Declan’s nature is to do whatever he can to make those he loves happy. He loves you.”
When she said nothing, Patrick turned to her. “You said he was stubborn. It’s more than that. Once Declan sets his mind on a goal, on a vision, he’s got a head like granite. He won’t be turned away by obstacles or excuses or lukewarm protests. If you don’t love him, Lena, if you don’t want a life with him, hurt him. Hurt him quick and make it deep. Then walk away.”
“I don’t want to hurt him. That’s the whole point and problem.”
“He didn’t think he was capable of loving anyone. He told me that after he broke it off with Jessica. He said he didn’t have that kind of love inside him. Now he knows he does, and he’s better for it. You’ve already made a difference in his life, an important one. Now you have to love him back, or leave him. To do anything in between would be cruel, and you’re not cruel.”