Flourish: The Story of Anne Fontaine (A La Famille Lagniappe)

by Sarah M. Cradit

  Though she had not lifted a hand against her mother, Anne knew she had killed her. There was no comfort found in reminding herself that the woman was dying anyway.

  Where had this terrible power come from? And why? Hindsight reminded her of seemingly innocuous childhood experiences that took on new meaning. Her giftedness in nurturing blossoms and fruit from the small family garden. Tree limbs that conveniently broke her fall as she stumbled in a run. Cypress roots that comfortably molded to the perfect shape supporting her as she read, or slumbered, in the cool shadows around their property. Anne would have described herself as having a green thumb, but after the incident in the hospice facility with her mother, she knew the truth to be more potent.

  This was the real reason she had come to New Orleans seeking her sister. This... power did not come from the Fontaines. Jesse was not like Anne. He was kind, simple, and utterly unremarkable. Angelique’s aptitude had not extended beyond her natural powers of dominating persuasion. For sanity’s sake, Anne had to believe these abilities had come from somewhere, and it was reasonable to assume the Deschanel side of her family might know more about it.

  And if they didn't? Well, there were good mental hospitals in New Orleans too.

  3- Nicolas

  “Jane” was staying at Renaud's Bed and Breakfast on Second Street in the Lower Garden District. Nicolas hadn't ever heard of it, and if it wasn’t on his radar then it wasn’t likely to be upscale accommodations. He was not interested in showing up at her place, anyway. He preferred to meet this Jane in public, where it would be safer if things went sideways. Anyone who would go to such great lengths to swindle someone out of their money had the potential to be dangerous.

  At Oz’s urging, because caution and forethought were not Nic’s usual mode, he had her tailed by someone Oz hired through the firm. One of the benefits of his position was that he never had to worry about how he was going to pay for ridiculous commissions like this. Put it on my tab, he would say, but Nicolas never saw the bills.

  "She just stepped into Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop," Oz said, on the phone. "Please remember what I said, though."

  "Yeah, yeah, nutcase, yeah yeah," Nicolas assured in a deliberately flippant tone. "Duly noted, though I doubt it will stop your curiosity from asking me later how it went."

  Oz sighed. "Just be careful."

  Nicolas' driver dropped him off at Lafitte's, a touristy joint Jane likely chose out of a guidebook. He wondered briefly what incredible story this one came with. An involuntary chuckle escaped as he recalled the woman who claimed to have beaten Adrienne in a drunken poker game, where Adrienne promised the deed to Ophélie as payment. Adrienne didn’t even know how to play poker.

  Nicolas slipped into the dark bar. Being midday, the place was empty except for a young woman sitting at the far end of the bar. She did not notice him enter, and so he had a moment to take stock of her.

  She was blonde, and slender of build. Not entirely unattractive, but certainly plain. Her posture was poor, and Nicolas instinctively detected a lack of confidence in her sad, troubled expression. He wondered if she was having second thoughts about her crazy scam.

  In one practiced move, Nicolas sidled up to her and signaled for the bartender to order her another drink. He then ordered himself a Hennessy, neat, and flashed the blonde girl his winning Deschanel smile as an introduction.

  "Don't you think it's a bit early to be drinking alone?" he teased.

  Her smile was half-hearted. "It's only ginger ale," she answered in a timid voice, followed by a shrug. It was hard to tell if she was more embarrassed he might think she was drinking by herself in the middle of the day, or that he had caught her drinking something so lame.

  "Well shit. That's no fun." Nicolas beckoned the bartender over and asked him to double the cognac shots, one for each of them. When she waved it away, Nicolas insisted. "On me. I, for one, do not allow the clock to dictate my drinking schedule."

  This pulled a more genuine smile from her. "My mother used to say that it's always happy hour somewhere."

  "Your mother is a smart woman."

  "Was," she corrected. "She died recently. But yes, I learned all I know from her."

  Nicolas never knew what to say when people thrust awkward admissions on him, so he lifted his drink and drained the glass. She did the same in response, wincing as the strong alcohol burned her throat.

  "Another round!" Nicolas called, and then turned back toward the blonde. Upon closer inspection he decided cute, but not exactly pretty. Definitely the kind of chick that would do after a few drinks. "I don't suppose your wise mother gave you a name?"

  The girl looked down, twisting her lips into what might be another smile. Nicolas recognized this look because he saw it often when he flirted with women. Most had the good sense not to look too eager. "A-Jane," she said quietly.

  "Ajane? Is that French?"

  "Sorry, just Jane," she corrected. "I'm a little out of sorts today. I wasn't expecting to meet anyone here."

  No, but I was. "Well, Jane, my name is Colin and I would love to spend the afternoon buying you drinks. That is, if I'm not interrupting something more important?" Nicolas did not feel the least bit of shame using Oz’s given name. To use his own would risk giving away the ruse.

  "No, no," Jane said quickly, blushing. "You can stay. I mean, you don't have to buy me drinks, though, I can buy my own. I mean, thank you for offering, but I don't need you to... oh, god, I should just stop talking now."

  Her rambling was almost endearing, if Nicolas hadn't known her real reason for coming. Nothing was harder on the nerves than guilt, he surmised.

  Lady, you are so far out of your league you won’t even get a chance at bat.

  “You’re not from the city,” Nicolas ascertained. It was not a question. Her hands, though clean, bore the dark under-nail stains common in country girls. Her knuckles had a permanent tan. Rounding out the image was her ridiculous gingham dress straight out of the prior century and several sizes too small. What should have been a standard elastic waist landed just below her breasts in an awkward way. The skirt, originally intended to cover mid-calf, showed a good bit more than her knees, perched on the bar stool as she was.

  Jane shook her head. For a moment she said nothing. Probably trying to decide if I am worth wasting time on with whatever cover story she came here with. “I’m from Abbeville. It’s in Vermillion Parish, near–“

  “I know where it is,” Nicolas snapped. She flinched, but did not seem too put off by it. Most women found themselves surprisingly drawn to the easy way he controlled a conversation.

  Well, at least her story had one accurate element. Most of the con artists hadn’t even bothered to properly research the bayou town Adrienne washed up in. Maybe this one wasn't such an amateur, after all.

  “Oh,” Jane said finally. Her eyes widened, and she cupped her glass with both hands, gazing intently at the caramel-colored firewater. “I didn’t expect many people from the city would know it.”

  “What brings you here?” Nicolas snapped his fingers, ordering another round of drinks, nodding at Jane to keep up. She obediently drained hers, with a wincing shudder this time, but then smiled like a good sport.

  “I’m meeting some family I haven’t seen in a while,” she replied. When the shot was placed in front of her for the third time, she was less timid with it. Nicolas raised an eyebrow as she drained it in one move. Jane giggled then, biting her lip, lost in her thoughts in a way that made Nicolas feel like an awkward intruder. It pissed him off.

  “Something funny?” he barked.

  Jane looked up, contrite. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I am a little nervous about the whole thing. It’s a ridiculous story, and I won’t bore you with it.”

  “No, please. I insist you bore me with it,” Nicolas pressed. More drinks were placed before them.

  “I don’t even know you…” she demurred. It was less coquetry, more manners.

  Nicolas slipped his hand over her bare
knee. He felt her shiver, but she didn’t draw back. “We’re fast friends,” he said coolly. “And I’m told I am an excellent listener.”

  A small sigh escaped her lips. Nicolas could not help but notice that rather than pulling together in modest purity, her legs parted slightly in response to his touch. Something stirred in his trousers.

  He resisted rolling his eyes. You can have it later, he promised himself.

  “It’s my sister,” Jane sighed. “We haven’t seen each other in a few years, and she isn’t expecting me. I’m not even sure she will want to see me.”

  “Oh, I see,” Nicolas replied, in the most understanding voice he could muster through his increasing frustration with the twit’s farce. “I can’t imagine why your own sister wouldn’t want to see you.”

  She finished off another Hennessy. The bartender was there like clockwork, placing another before her. Five. This had been stupid easy. “We didn’t part on the best terms,” Jane said, wrapping her fingers around the crystal glass. She laughed then, a sad, remorseful sound. “My last words to her were hurtful.”

  Impressive. Jane was quite the actress. She had done her research, and rehearsed her story enough, that her emotions seemed real. He paused, downing another shot, reminding himself that the entire thing was fiction, and this increasingly attractive girl was nothing more than a leggy con artist.

  Jane continued speaking, weaving in vague statements that were obviously bullshit, but Nicolas was already tuning her out. His utterly deficient attention span had shifted entirely to the peachy skin between her slightly parted legs, and the way her toes nervously slipped in and out of her cheap sandals. He shifted on his stool, flexing in an attempt to squelch a sudden rush of desire as he envisioned those muscled legs wrapped around his waist. Country girls did not stand on ceremony the way city debutantes did. They were uninhibited, and always, always knew exactly what to do.

  “Do you think I should?” Jane was asking. Nicolas snapped out of his hazy fantasy, painfully aware that if she were to look down at any point, his body would betray his errant thoughts.

  “Of course,” Nicolas said, distracted. He licked his dry lips, attempting to clear the vision of her sitting astride him. It was no use. There was only one cure for this.

  This is what I get for letting weeks go by without scratching the itch.

  He leaned forward then, slipping both his hands up either side of her legs, then resting his lips near her left ear. She shivered as his hot breath tickled her. “But first, what do you say we get out of here?”

  She nodded and gulped, dropping her tiny linen wallet in her flustered state. Nicolas knelt down to retrieve it, as a proper gentleman should. On the way up he was rewarded with a glimpse of white cotton panties nestled between her thighs. Moist.

  He threw a hundred dollar bill on the counter and pulled Jane out the door.

  4- Anne

  Anne was delirious. She couldn’t decide which was more intoxicating… the spirits or this charming stranger.

  This isn’t what you came for, she kept trying to remind herself. But the voice of reason was being marginalized, until her efforts at better sense felt more like meaningless nagging. As she found herself sitting on the crushed velvet seats in the backseat of Colin’s town car, the pesky warnings ceased entirely.

  Who was this handsome man? Was everyone in this city filthy, stinking rich? And why was he interested in her? His silky-soft-cotton shirt likely cost more than her entire wardrobe put together.

  All pretense of caution evaporated. Anytime one of these questions threatened her growing excitement, she would push it aside. Choosing instead to face this beautiful man who was caressing her inner thighs with smooth hands that had never known a hard day’s work in their life. She bit her tongue and rashly surrendered herself to the attentions, determined to remember every second. Each one a memory borrowed from someone more deserving than she.

  All the men Anne had ever known delivered very predictable experiences, as if they all learned from the same, dull rulebook. Quick. Selfish. Fumbling. Completely lacking in finesse. It was why she had protected her virginity, despite the decision bringing ridicule. Colin, a startling contrast, was taking his time with it. Teasing her, spoiling her. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but she was already halfway there.

  Her mother’s realistic, yet often cruel, words drifted tauntingly into her head. Ain’t nothing wrong being the wife of a farmer, Anne. Ain’t no shame in it. Daydreaming about saffron when you were raised for corn is a waste of good planning.

  Tears threatened as she was thrust forward into the sobering reality of those words. Whatever this was, it was a distraction she didn’t need. She needed to focus her energies on how to approach her sister. The longer she delayed, the more her resolve crumbled away.

  But then Colin slipped his hot, privileged tongue between her lips, and all pretense of reason melted away.

  5- Nicolas

  Nicolas had many years of practice at the art of seduction; of perfecting the delicate dance between temptation and surrender. Over the years, his self-control had become a finely honed tool in his arsenal, and it had saved him from many embarrassing and uncomfortable moments.

  So, it was inexplicable he would be such a slave to his desire, with a girl he was hardly attracted to.

  Nicolas' plan had been to entice her, then tease her, to the precipice of full disclosure. Once she was a quivering mess, he would get her to reveal her plans, and then adequately shame her, putting an end to her nefarious intentions. If the game went a little far, and he was left with an ache of his own, he would call up one of his friends for a romp. No problem.

  It was not quite so simple anymore. From the twinkle of hopefulness in her pale blue eyes, to the way her dirty blonde hair clung to the sweat on her neck and bosom, she had completely hooked him. Nicolas had forgotten all about her intent to con his sister (and likely him), or the details of his original game. All he knew was he wanted her.

  And he almost had her, if she hadn't completely lost her fucking mind the moment his driver pulled up to Ophélie.

  6- Anne

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Colin was asking. He was actually pulling back from her, shrinking against the other side of the town car, as if he expected her to come at him with a shiv. “It ain’t anywhere near midnight, princess, so don’t give me some story about turning into a damned pumpkin.”

  But Anne’s mind was completely disregarding Colin and his smartass comments, engulfed in trying to grasp the spectacle that was slowly filling her vision. A looming, timeworn, white mansion, with balconies that spanned the full circumference, and alternating columns of different patterns. Ionic and Doric, the book had said. As they approached, she correctly anticipated seeing Italianate windows, and if they were to venture around back, she would see Brigitte’s Garden, the lovely parterre that was commissioned from France.

  Ophélie. Adrienne’s home.

  “Why are you taking me here?” Anne shrieked, running her hands over her legs in a desperate, clawing motion. I don’t know how to stop.

  Colin was still looking completely bewildered. “I live here,” he said slowly, annunciating each word as if she had just stepped off a space ship.

  “How? Does Adrienne know?” Anne’s voice had reached an agitated, nearly accusatory tone. “Are you homeless?”

  The obvious insult temporarily eased Colin’s discomfiture. He snickered, choking out a laugh. “No, you darling thing. Bless your heart. I own it.”

  Own it. He owns it. He can only be one of two people then, and this is not Adrienne’s Oz. Anne knew this because she still had the newspaper clippings announcing Adrienne’s engagement and nuptials. The happy couple had even appeared on the cover of Deschanel magazine. Anne would know Oz’s green eyes anywhere. So if this was not Oz, it could only mean…