Sandra Hill - [Creole]

by Sweeter Savage Love

  She shook her head and made a small whimpering sound.

  It was almost his undoing.

  “That had better not be a limb from a peach tree poking my belly,” she said with a nervous twitter.

  He ran the pad of his thumb over her parted lips, and she hissed in pleasure.

  “Why do you fight the inevitable? You asked me on the train to make love to you over and over till you wiped out your pesky dreams,” he reminded her. Then a sudden thought occurred to him. “I’m not still satisfying you in those dream fantasies, am I? Because if I am, stop them. For me, it’s most…unsatisfying.”

  She laughed softly and traced his jaw with her fingertips in a loving fashion. It was his turn to hiss with an indrawn breath of pure ecstasy. How could such a slight touch affect him so?

  “No, the forceful seduction fantasies have stopped. But I wonder if they’ll return when I go home. Somehow I doubt it.”

  “I refuse to make love to you in dreams,” he asserted.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes we can’t control our minds.”

  How true! “But that doesn’t answer my question. If you were willing before, why not now? Don’t tell me that you don’t desire me. I know that you do.”

  “It’s Saralee.”

  “Saralee?” he sputtered. “What has she to do with this…this thing between us?”

  “Etienne, this ‘thing between us’ is more than a momentary lust, no matter what you say—”

  “Who said momentary? I’m thinking much longer. Days. Till I leave.” He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

  “I’m not going to let you rile me now. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve never been into casual sex, despite that impulsive…uh…encounter back in New Orleans.”

  “Encounter?” He hooted. “It was more like an assault, the way I remember it. And, honey, I remember it a lot.”

  Her lashes lowered with unaccustomed modesty. Then she opened her eyes, leveling an honest gaze at him. “Okay, it was an assault…a mutual assault. But my point, which you keep interrupting, is that any relationship between you and me is going to be powerful. And then it’s going to end. Oh, not when you leave, mister. When I leave to go back to the future.”

  “So?” There she went again, recalling a reality he didn’t like facing. “All the more reason to enjoy the moment.”

  “You and I aren’t the only ones involved. Now that you’ve acknowledged Saralee as your daughter, I can’t present myself as your potential spouse.”

  “Spouse?” he roared. “Who said anything about marriage?”

  “Now, settle down. I’m not ringing the wedding bells. But Saralee is a child, and she will naturally think that the woman who sleeps with her father is going to become his wife, and her mother. I can’t mislead her that way. It would be too cruel.”

  “We could be subtle,” he argued.

  “Hah! You’re about as subtle with those man-looks of yours as…as a peach tree in full bloom.”

  He grinned. “There must be a way.”

  “No,” she said, putting two halting hands on his chest. “There’s another really important reason why you and I can’t make love. Professional ethics.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A psychologist can’t have intimate relations with a client.”

  Huh? A client? Does she mean me? “I never hired you. No, no, no. If that’s all that’s keeping you from my bed, then I’m dismissing you. Right now.”

  “I volunteered my services. Remember?”

  “Unvolunteer.”

  She laughed. “Etienne, it’s not going to work with us. We come from two different worlds.”

  “So did my father and Selene.” He immediately regretted that comparison.

  “Yes, but they loved each other. And one of them had to make a sacrifice and give up a former life.” She stared at him pensively. “I don’t suppose you’d consider coming to the future with me…if it were possible? With Saralee, of course.”

  His eyes went wide with horror at the prospect. Riding through time to a foreign existence? Starting over? Leaving behind Cain and Abel, Blossom and…well, others?

  She watched him expectantly.

  “I don’t want you that badly, Harriet.”

  “I know,” she replied, her shoulders slumping. “I know.”

  And Etienne suspected he’d lost something precious in that moment of truth.

  Later that evening, Harriet sat with Saralee on a bed in the former overseer’s cottage located at the rear of the mansion. It was a spacious, one-story house with a sloping mansard roof that overhung a porch circling it on four sides. All of the rooms had tall windows that took advantage of the ventilating breezes that came up from the bayou. It was in better condition than the mansion because it was smaller and easier to keep up.

  Saralee hummed softly as she played with her dolls. The peaches song melody, Harriet recognized with a grimace. Like I need that reminder.

  Harriet was transcribing data from her tape recorder into her notebook, having realized that her two cassettes were about to overflow with MCP ideas. The three jerks of the Old South were providing her with an abundance of material for her new book. Especially the super jerk.

  “‘Men Who Scare Women with Snakes.’ A three.

  “‘Men Who Smoke Cigars.’ A four.” Harriet had seen Etienne and Abel smoking thin cheroots this evening as they’d strolled down the street to find Cain. Ugh!

  “‘Men Who Make a Woman Fall in Love with Them…and Don’t Fall in Love Themselves.’” Harriet winced at that one. “A ten.”

  Saralee had exhibited an initial fascination with the solar-powered machine when Harriet first brought it out, but soon lost interest and resumed playing with her three rag dolls—Marilee, Jewel and Francois. In a charming Southern twang, Saralee spoke to the dolls as if they were human beings.

  In fact, Harriet noted that the only time the girl was truly exuberant or stutter-free was when she addressed her pretend playmates. This was an important factor that Harriet would consider in her counseling sessions, along with Saralee’s constant role-playing, which, of course, masked a deep-seated need for affection. One of the dolls, Marilee, had long, black hair made of hemp, and Harriet was sure the doll represented Saralee.

  Blossom, who was already asleep in the other room, had given up her bedchamber behind the kitchen to Etienne, and would be staying here with Harriet and Saralee, along with the schoolteacher, Ellen, when she returned. Cain and Abel lodged in the large cabin that housed the clinic. The sleeping arrangement was a temporary one…until Etienne left Bayou Noir again.

  Those last words sounded like a death knell to Harriet, and she wasn’t sure why. First of all, she had no intention of letting Etienne abandon her at the plantation in three days. Second, she’d known all along that she and Etienne would have to part when she returned to the future.

  So why did she feel as if her heart were breaking?

  Because she loved the jerk, of course.

  Besides, she hadn’t had a chance to help Etienne yet. Although she’d set up a reconciliation between father and daughter, she hadn’t begun to use her psychological skills to cure Etienne of his postprison syndrome. And she was sure she could alleviate his migraine headaches. Until he was healed both physically and mentally, her job here wouldn’t be completed.

  Well, goodness, she was one of the most competent professionals in her field. Therapy for Etienne should be a snap, given the seven-plus weeks she had left till the Illinois Central railroad bridge was completed.

  With a plan in mind, Harriet felt better.

  Setting her tape recorder and notebook aside, she scooted over to the middle of the bed. She was wearing only the leopard-print nightie and panties with one of Etienne’s old shirts for a robe. The tails reached all the way to her knees.

  She sat cross-legged, facing the little girl, who was also cross-legged in her long, sleeveless chemise. “Saralee, honey, how about you and I play a game with your do
lls?”

  Saralee shimmied backward slightly and stammered out, “I doan…doan wanna play a game.”

  “Don’t be frightened, sweetheart. I used to play with dolls all the time when I was your age. Barbie dolls.”

  “Ba-Barbie?”

  “Yes. Barbie and Ken. They were horrible, gender-stereotyping dolls,” Harriet started to say, but saw the confusion on the little girl’s face. “But that’s another story. My favorite of all my Barbie dolls was the princess one. Maybe this doll of yours could be Princess Maralee.” She picked up the one with the long black hair. “And that one over there could be the King—Princess Maralee’s father. King…uh, Toadienne.” She pointed to the male rag doll.

  Still unconvinced, Saralee clutched the remaining two dolls to her chest protectively, unsure of Harriet’s intentions.

  “And who could the other doll be?” Harriet pretended to be thinking hard, tapping her chin. “I know,” she said brightly. “That could be the fairy queen who comes to visit from another land. Queen Merry-Hat.”

  Saralee giggled.

  “The fairy queen would be Saralee’s friend.”

  She turned big blue eyes—like Etienne’s—on her with such open yearning that Harriet’s maternal instincts went into overdrive. Saralee wouldn’t be the only one hurt by the eventual separation.

  “Do you want to play?” Harriet asked, reaching out slowly, so as not to alarm the child, and cupping her downy cheek.

  Saralee leaned into her hand, obviously starving for tactile affection. Then she nodded her agreement.

  “Once upon a time there was a magic kingdom,” Harriet began, “but it was like no other place in the whole world. Because here the subjects were splendid creatures. Dainty butterflies and fierce alligators. Three-legged chickens—Harriet had actually seen one of those today—and wild hawks. Kitty cats and scary wolves. Smelly skunks and snapping turtles.”

  “Were thar puppy dawgs?” Saralee asked tentatively, still not sure she wanted to play this game.

  “Absolutely! Lots of puppies. All kinds.” Then Harriet thought of something. “Do you have a dog?”

  Saralee shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Blossom says a dog is too much botheration.” Then she had second thoughts about criticizing the old cook, who was no doubt very good to her. “Blossom is old. She cain’t hardly chase no puppies ’round. Spec’ly ones that makes puddles in the house.”

  “Well, this princess had oodles of puppies.”

  “Oodles?” she sighed.

  “And they never made puddles in her house because they were such good and loyal subjects.”

  “Did the princess have jewels and crowns?”

  “Well, of course. What kind of princess would she be without those? But in this land all the jewels grew on trees and bushes. And they were all colors and all sizes.”

  “Flowers!” Saralee guessed, hopping up and down on the mattress with excitement. “And I know what her crown was, too. A May crown of blossoms.”

  “Yes! How clever you are, Saralee. But let me tell you more. This very special princess lived in a splendid house in this magic kingdom called Noir in the land of Bayou. She had many friends and loyal subjects. She had everything a princess could have except one thing, which made her very unhappy. Do you know what that was, Saralee?”

  The girl stuck a thumb in her mouth.

  “Well, one day a royal visitor came to see Princess Maralee. Her name was Queen Merry-Hat because she wore a funny hat like a wizard. Queen Merry-Hat had special powers that came from the fairy dust she kept in her magic hat.”

  “Could we…could we make a hat like that tomorrow?”

  “Sure thing, honey. Now, back to the story. Queen Merry-Hat saw that Princess Maralee was sad and she told her that she could have a teensy pinch of her fairy dust. And that would entitle her to one wish, and one wish only.”

  “Ooooh! What did the princess wish for?”

  “Well, at first, Princess Maralee couldn’t make up her mind. Should she wish for real jewels? Or a boat? Or twenty wagons full of candy? Or a swing? Or a puppy? Or a million gowns?”

  Saralee laughed merrily.

  “The princess just couldn’t decide. So Queen Merry-Hat told her that she knew a story that might help. It seems there once was a brave knight in the land of Noir…King Toadienne. He was called Toadienne because he liked to play with the slimy critters when he was a boy and because sometimes he even acted like one.”

  “I lak to play with toads sometimes,” Saralee offered defensively.

  It probably runs in the genes. “Yes, well, one day the brave Toadienne went off to war, and never came back. He became lost, you see. Worst of all, he never knew that his wife, Queen Vera, gave birth to his most precious little girl, Maralee.” Harriet figured it would be only a little fib to imply that Etienne married Saralee’s mother. “Even when he wandered back to his kingdom on occasion, he didn’t know the little girl was his.”

  “Someone should ha’ told ’im,” Saralee cried.

  “Well, they did, but Toadienne had lived among toads for so long that he got warts on his brain. He didn’t believe them. Maybe he was afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of the princess?” Saralee looked horrified.

  “Maybe he was afraid that she wouldn’t like him.”

  “Maybe the princess was afraid he wouldn’t lak her either.”

  Harriet could barely restrain herself from hugging the sweet girl and assuring her that she was very likeable. “For days and days, then weeks and weeks, years and years, the princess couldn’t make up her mind. What should her wish be?”

  “I know, I know,” Saralee exclaimed.

  “Really? What do you think the little princess wished for?”

  Saralee paused dramatically, then whooped, “Her papa.”

  Etienne pressed his forehead against the wall in the corridor outside the bedchamber. He’d come to talk to Saralee…perhaps to get to know his daughter a little better.

  The only light in the dark hall came from a lantern he’d set on the stand next to him and from the oil lamps on either side of the tester bed that shone through the open doorway.

  He felt so damn guilty.

  Saralee feared that he wouldn’t like her.

  What did “like” have to do with it? Love should be unconditional. Wasn’t that the biggest wall separating him and his father all these years?

  When Etienne had defied his father back in 1861 and left Oxford to join in the fray that was to become the Civil War, his father had been upset. He’d claimed that one of the most important reasons he’d left the South was to spare himself and his son from participating in what was doomed to be a hopeless cause.

  But Etienne had been twenty-two at the time, and thought he knew everything. While in California to inform his father of his decision, Etienne had run into Lafe Baker, who was starting up the National Detective Agency, soon to become the Secret Service. Lafe, “the Spymaster,” had talked Etienne into working for the Union army through covert operations as a double agent.

  The most effective spies had to be trained in the nuances of language, customs and manners of the enemy forces, right down to eating habits, dress and personality traits. Etienne already had those assets, being a Southerner by birth, Creole by appearance, speaking with a Southern drawl, fluent in English, French and Spanish, having a knowledge of Confederate geography, not to mention being daring and highly intelligent. Most important, he had to be willing, at all costs, to keep his work secret.

  The last time Etienne had seen his father, Etienne had been wearing the uniform of a Rebel captain. He would never, ever forget his father’s last words. “You are not my son. From this day forth, you are not my son.”

  “Papa,” he’d pleaded.

  “Take off that uniform, Etienne. All your life, you’ve been a wild child. Stubborn, willful, careless. But this…this is too much. For God’s sake, how could you? How could you?”

  Shouldn’t h
is father have had faith in him? Hadn’t he known him well enough to believe in his integrity? Did he truly think he would fight on the side that wanted to put his best friends, Cain and Abel, in chains? Most important, regardless of what he did, shouldn’t his father have loved him unconditionally?

  But Etienne hadn’t had the freedom then to say those things to his father. And the years had only driven the rift wider.

  Now, he thought, bringing himself back to the present…now his own child forced him to realize he was no better than his father. Saralee feared he wouldn’t like her, thought that was why he hadn’t wanted her all these years.

  Shouldn’t a father love a child unconditionally, the way he’d wanted his father to love him?

  Harriet had told him earlier that he needed to show Saralee that he loved her, and he’d responded that it was unreasonable to expect him to love her when he didn’t even know her.

  The love between a parent and child should be given freely. From the heart, with no strings attached.

  Etienne pulled away from the wall and straightened in determination. That, at least, was one wrong in this misdirected life of his that he could correct. And it wouldn’t cost him anything…just a little love. He hoped he had some left.

  Intending to go in to Saralee now, he hesitated when he heard Harriet moving about and saying, “Sweet dreams, princess.” Apparently, she’d just tucked the girl in for the night. The bed linens rustled as Saralee presumably squirmed around to get comfortable. Well, perhaps his talk could wait until the morning. Yes, it would give him time to get his emotions in order, to handle the situation in a carefully planned manner.

  Planned? Oh, merde! The witch has got me making plans.

  “Can we make a wizard hat tomorrow?” Saralee asked Harriet.”

  “Oh, I think so. I’ll be in the room next door if you need me, hon.” Harriet blew out the lamps and, seconds later, she was sashaying out toward him, closing the door partially on the already sleeping child. In fact, she sashayed right into him.

  “Ooomph!”

  Feeling good about all the progress she’d made with Saralee, Harriet hadn’t been paying attention when she barreled out into the hall—and slammed into the rock-hard wall of Etienne’s chest. He grabbed her upper arms to hold her upright.