by Нора Робертс
"It's mostly cosmetic. People who bought it last got a good start on the big work, from what I hear. Seems they had an idea about turning it into a fancy hotel or some such thing. Gave it nearly six months before they turned tail. Probably they ran out of money.”
Lifting his eyebrows, Remy ran a finger over the floor, studied the layer of dust he picked up. "Too bad you can't sell this dirt. You'd be filthy rich. Ha. Oh yeah, I forgot. You already are filthy rich. How's your family?”
"About the same as always.”
"And they think, Our boy Dec, il est fou." Remy circled a finger by his ear. "He's gone round the bend.”
"Oh yeah. Maybe they're right, but at least it's finally my damn bend. If I'd gone to one more deposition, faced one more meeting, handled one more pretrial negotiation, I'd have drowned myself in the Charles.”
"Corporate law's what stifled you, cher." Remy licked sauce from his fingers.
"You should've tried criminal, like me. Keeps the blood moving. You say the word, we'll hang out a shingle together tomorrow.”
"Thanks for the thought. You still love it.”
"I do. I love the slippery, sneaking angles of it, the pomp and ceremony, the sweaty wrestling, the fancy words. Every damn thing." Remy shook his head, tipped back the bottle. "You never did.”
"No, I never did.”
"All those years busting ass through Harvard, tossed aside. That what they're saying to you?”
"Among other things.”
"They're wrong. You know that, Dec. You're not tossing anything aside. You're just picking up something different. Relax and enjoy it. You're in New Orleans now, or close enough. We take things easy here. We'll wear some of that Yankee off you soon enough. Have you doing the Cajun two-step and stirring up some red beans and rice on wash day.”
"Yeah, that'll happen.”
"You come on into town once you're settled in, Effie and I'll take you out to dinner. I want you to meet her.”
Remy had pulled off his tie, shucked his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his lawyerly blue shirt. Except for the hair, Declan thought, he didn't look that different than he did when they'd been at Harvard sucking down pizza and bourbon.
"You're really doing it? Getting married.”
Remy let out a sigh. "Twelfth of May, come hell or high water. I'm settling my bad ass down, Dec. She's just what I want.”
"A librarian." It was a wonder to Declan. "You and a librarian.”
"Research specialist," Remy corrected and hooted out a laugh. "Damn prettiest bookworm I ever did see. She's a smart one, too. I'm crazy in love with her, Dec. Out of my mind crazy for her.”
"I'm happy for you.”
"You still got the guilts over … what was her name? Jennifer?”
"Jessica." Wincing, Declan took another swig to cut the taste her name brought to his tongue. "Calling off a wedding three weeks before you're due to walk down the aisle ought to give you the guilts."
Remy acknowledged this with a quick shrug. "Maybe so. Feel worse if you'd gone through with it.”
"Tell me." Still, his gray eyes remained broody as he stared at the bottle. "But I think she'd have handled it better if we'd done the thing, then gone for a divorce the next day." It still gave him a twinge. "Couldn't have handled it any worse, anyway. She's seeing my cousin James now.”
"James … James … That the one who squeals like a girl or the one with the Dracula hair?”
"Neither." Declan's lips twitched. Jesus, he'd missed this. "James is the perfect one. Plastic surgeon, polo player, collects stamps.”
"Short guy, receding chin, broad Yankee accent.”
"That's him, but the chin doesn't recede anymore. Implant. According to my sister, it's starting to look serious between them, which just serves me right, I'm told.”
"Well, hell, let your sister marry Jennifer.”
"Jessica, and that's what I told her," he said, gesturing with the bottle for emphasis. "She didn't speak to me for two weeks. Which was a relief. I'm not very popular with the Fitzgeralds right now.”
"Well, you know, Dec, I'd have to say, given the circumstances and such … screw 'em.”
With a laugh, Declan handed Remy the bottle. "Let's drink to it.”
He took another slice of pizza from the box. "Let me ask you something else, about this place. I've researched the history, did a chunk of it way back after we came here the first time.”
"Stumbling around like drunken fools.”
"Yeah, which we may do again if we keep hitting this bourbon. Anyway, I know it was built in 1879-after the original structure burned down in an unexplained fire, which was very likely set due to politics, Reconstruction and other post– Civil War messiness.”
"That's the War of Northern Aggression, son." Remy pointed a warning finger. "Remember which side of the Mason-Dixon Line you're plopping your Yankee ass down on now.”
"Right. Sorry. Anyway. The Manets scooped up the land, cheap, according to the old records, and built the current structure. They farmed sugar and cotton primarily and divvied off plots to sharecroppers. Lived well for about twenty years. There were two sons, both died young. Then the old man died and the wife held on until she apparently stroked out in her sleep. No heirs. There was a granddaughter on record, but she was cut out of the will. Place went to auction and has passed from hand to hand ever since. Sitting empty more than not.”
"And?”
Declan leaned forward. "Do you believe it's haunted?”
Remy pursed his lips, copped the last piece of pizza. "That whole history lesson was your way of working around to asking that one question? Boy, you got the makings for a fine southern lawyer. Sure it's haunted." His eyes danced as he bit into the pizza. "House been here this long and isn't, it'd have no self– respect whatsoever. The granddaughter you mentioned. She was a Rouse on her mama's side. I know that, as I'm fourth or fifth cousins with the Simones, and the Simones come down from that line. Girl was raised, I believe, by her maternal grandparents after her mama took off with some man-so it's said. Don't know if I recollect what happened to her daddy, but others will if you want to know. I do know that Henri Manet, his wife, Josephine, and the one son-damned if I know what his name was –all died in this house. One of them doesn't have the gumption to haunt it, that's a crying shame.”
"Natural causes? The people who died here?”
Curious, Remy frowned. "Far as I know. Why?”
"I don't know." Declan had to fight off a shudder. "Vibes.”
"You want someone to come through here? Little gris-gris, little voodoo, chase off your ghost, or maybe summon the spirit for a little conversation? You can find yourself a witch or psychic every second corner in town.”
"No, thanks.”
"You let me know if you decide different." Remy winked. "I'll put you onto somebody who'll give you a fine show.”
He didn't want a show, Declan decided later. But he did want that shower, and bed. With Jim Beam buzzing pleasantly in his blood, he hauled in boxes, pawed through them to find sheets and towels. He carted what he figured he'd need for the night upstairs.
It was good old Catholic guilt rather than any need for order that had him making the bed. He treated himself to a ten-minute shower, then climbed into the fresh sheets to the sound of the incessant rain.
He was asleep in thirty seconds.
There was a baby crying. It didn't strike him as odd at all. Babies tended to cry in the middle of the night, or whenever they damn well pleased. It sounded fretful and annoyed more than alarmed.
Someone ought to go pick it up … do whatever people did with crying babies. Feed it. Change it. Rock it.
When he'd waked from nightmares as a child, his mother or his nanny, sometimes his father, had come in to stroke his head and sit with him until the fear faded away again.
The baby wasn't frightened. The baby was hungry.
It didn't strike him as odd that he thought that. That he knew that.
But it did strike h
im as odd, very odd, to wake, bathed in sweat, and find himself standing outside the door with the dull brass knob on the third floor.
Sleepwalking. That was something he hadn't done since childhood. But in the watery light of day it was simple enough to see how it had happened. Jim Beam, pepperoni pizza and talk of ghosts.
A little harder to accept was the gut-clenching terror he'd felt when he'd surfaced and found himself outside that third-level door. He'd snapped out of the fugue and into a nightmare of panic-one where he'd been certain he'd heard the fading echoes of a baby's restless crying.
He'd run. He couldn't have opened that door if he'd had a gun to his head. So he'd run, with his own bright fear chasing him, to lock himself back in the bedroom. Like a mental patient, he thought now over a lukewarm cup of instant coffee.
At least there'd been no one around to see it.
But if you thought about it, it was a rather auspicious first night. Cold spots, baby ghosts, fugues. It sure beat sitting in his empty town house in Boston, sucking on a beer and watching ESPN.
Maybe he would spend some time digging deeper into the history of the house. His house, he corrected, and with his coffee, he leaned on the damp iron rail of the gallery outside his bedroom.
His view. And it was a beaut once you skimmed over the wreck of the gardens.
Leaves dripped from the rain in steady, musical plops, and the air shimmered with the weight the storm had left behind. Mists crawled over the ground, smoky fingers that trailed and curled around the trees to turn them into romantic and mysterious silhouettes.
If the sun broke through, the glittery light would be spectacular, but it was nothing to sneeze at now.
There was a pond, a small one, choked with lily pads, and fields-some fallow, some already planted for a spring that came so much sooner here. He could see the thin curve of the river that ribboned its way through the deep shadows of the bayou.
A rickety little bridge crossed the water in a hump, then a dirt road pushed into the trees toward a house mostly hidden by them. He could just make out a puff of smoke that rose up to mix with the hazy air.
He'd already been up on the belvedere that morning, and had been relieved to find it, the roof, the chimneys, all in good repair. The last owners had seen to that and this second-floor gallery before they'd thrown in the towel.
It looked as if they'd started on the rear gallery as well, had started preliminary work on closing it into a screened porch.
Which might not be a bad idea. He'd think about it.
Declan wasn't certain if they'd run out of money or energy, or both, but he considered it his good fortune.
He had plenty of money, and just now, watching the steam rising over the weeds and water, plenty of energy.
He lifted the cup to his lips, then lowered it again as he saw a woman-a girl?– slip through the trees toward the curve of the river. A huge black dog lumbered along beside her.
She was too far away from him to make out features. He saw she wore a red checked shirt and jeans, that her hair was long and dark and madly curling. Was she old? he wondered. Young? Pretty or plain?
He decided on young and pretty. It was, after all, his option.
She tossed a ball in the air, fielded it smartly when the dog gave a leap. She tossed it twice more while the dog jumped and ran in circles. Then she reared back like a pitcher in the stretch and bulleted it through the air. The dog gave chase and didn't hesitate, but leaped toward the pond, shagging the ball with a snap of teeth an instant before he hit the water.
Hell of a trick, Declan thought and, grinning, watched the girl applaud.
He wished he could hear her. He was sure she was laughing, a low, throaty laugh. When the dog swam to the edge, scrambled out, he spit the ball at her feet, then shook himself.
It had to have drenched her, but she didn't dance away or brush fussily at her jeans.
They repeated the routine, with Declan a captive audience.
He imagined her walking with the dog closer to the Hall. Close enough that he could wave from the gallery, invite her in for a cup of bad coffee. His first shot at southern hospitality.
Or better yet, he could wander down. And she'd be wrestling with the dog. She'd slip on the wet grass, tumble into the pond. He'd be right at hand to pull her out. No, to dive in after her and save her because she couldn't swim.
Then one thing would lead to another, and they'd have sex on that damp grass, in the watery sunlight. Her body, wet and sleek, would rise over his. He'd fill his hands with her breasts, and …
"Jeez." He blinked, saw her disappearing into the trees again.
He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or relieved to find himself hard. He'd had sex only once in the six months since he'd broken things off with Jessica. And that had been more a reflex than real desire.
So if he could find himself fully aroused over some ridiculous fantasy of a woman whose face he hadn't seen, that area was coming back to normal.
He could check worry over his manhood off his list of concerns.
He tossed the last swallows of cold coffee away. He didn't mind starting the day with a stray erotic fantasy, but he did mind starting it with bad coffee. It was time to get down to practicalities.
He went back in, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed into town for supplies.
It took him most of the day. Not just to get the supplies, but to reacquaint himself with the city he was going to call his own.
If Boston was a respectable wife, with a few seamy secrets, New Orleans was a sensual mistress who celebrated her darker sides.
He treated himself to an enormous breakfast, so loaded with cholesterol he imagined his heart simply keeling over from the shock.
He bought coffee beans and a grinder. Bagels and beignets. He loaded up on the single-male cuisine of packaged dinners, frozen pizza, dry cereal. Hit the liquor store for beer, bourbon and some good wine.
He loaded it into his car, then struck out again, as much for the joy of wandering the streets as the recollection he needed something to eat on and with. He settled for paper plates and plastic ware, and stopped to watch a street musician set out his trumpet case, prime it with a few coins, then fill the air with a stream of magic.
Declan gave him his first dollar of the day.
He avoided the temptation of the antique shops and the lure of the Quarter. Lunchtime music was already pumping out of clubs and exotic scents wafted from restaurants. He bought himself a muffuletta-that marvel of meat and cheese and oil on Italian bread-to take back home for later.
As he walked to his car again, he noted the tourists with their bags from Cafй du Monde or the Riverwalk shops, the card readers sitting at folding tables around the perimeter of Jackson Square who would tell your fortune for ten dollars a pop. He caught the faint drift of marijuana under the ripening stench of garbage as he walked by an alleyway.
And saw an enormous black woman, smoking in indolent puffs, on the plant– jammed gallery above a shop that advertised erotic candles.
He bought one for Remy of a naked woman with breasts like torpedoes, and grinned over it all the way back to his car.
He drove home energized. He hauled in supplies, stuffed them wherever seemed logical at the time, then began a serious room-by-room inspection of the main level. He made notes on problems, on potentials, on plans and on priorities.
The kitchen was a definite first. He had experience there from his own house in Boston, and from two remodels where he'd assisted friends.
He couldn't claim to cook more than the occasional omelette or toasted sandwich, but he thought of the kitchen as the heart of any home. The latest transition of the Manet Hall kitchen was early eighties-stark white and chrome with a slablike island work counter and blinding white flooring.
The good points were the generous windows, the old and serviceable brick hearth and the pretty coffered ceiling. He liked the enormous pantry, but thought it would serve better as a mudroom. He'd hack down to the ori
ginal wood flooring, strip off the overly sweet teapot-themed wallpaper, yank out the island in favor of an antique baker's table or some such thing.
Decorating wasn't his strong point. He'd left that to Jessica, who'd favored pale colors and classic lines.
And now that he thought about it, he preferred stronger colors and the charm of the fanciful. He liked details and fuss. It was his house, damn it, and he'd do it his way. Top to bottom.
He'd put in some old glass-fronted cabinets where he could display antique kitchen appliances. Cracked, mismatched dishes, bottles and Mason jars. Cluttered.
Good solid surface countertops. Copper faucets. He didn't care if they tarnished. They'd just look more real.
Big-ass refrigerator. State of the art dishwasher and range. All fronted with distressed wood.
Now, we're cooking. He took reams of notes, measured, remeasured. He dragged out his research books and pored over them on the floor of the empty library while he ate half his sandwich and drank enough coffee to make his ears ring.
He could see it, so perfectly. The floor– to-ceiling shelves jammed with books, the deep green walls and the soft cream of the plaster ceiling and trim. Thick silver candlesticks on the mantel. He'd have to have all the chimneys checked professionally so he could start building fires, knock the chill out of the air.
The trim would be restored where it needed it, sanded smooth as satin. The pocket doors here, and the massive ones separating the gentlemen's and ladies' parlors were in excellent shape.
Someone along the way had refinished the library flooring.
He crawled around, running his hands over the wood. Sand it down lightly, slap on a couple coats of clear varnish, and they'd be set. The area rugs had protected it well-the good, thick Aubussons Josephine had ordered from Paris.
He smelled brandy, leather, beeswax and roses, but thought nothing of it. His eyes were cloudy and distant when he stopped at the tiled hearth, flicked his thumb over the chip at the corner. That section would have to be replaced, or if it couldn't be matched, rounded off. They'd been hand painted and glazed in Italy, at considerable expense.