Midnight Bayou

by Нора Робертс

"Not sleeping so well." But he didn't want to talk about the dreams, the sleepwalking. The sounds that so often wakened him in the dead of night. "Come on back to the kitchen so I can show off. I've got some lemonade-not from actual lemons, but it's wet and it's cold.”

  "All right." She touched his arm in a kind of silent acknowledgment and, because she understood, lightened her tone. "I've only got about half an hour, but I've got some information for you. Information and speculation. What's going on in here?”

  She glanced into the front parlor. There were papers stacked on the floor, books spread open, a pile of paint and fabric samples.

  "My next project. I thought I'd start on a room where people could actually sit down when it was finished. What kind of information?”

  "On the Manets. Facts were easy enough," she said as they continued through the house. "Henri Manet married Josephine Delacroix. They both came from wealthy and prominent Creole families. Henri was active politically. It's rumored his father profited handsomely by running supplies during the War between the States. The family became staunch Republicans during Reconstruction, and again it's rumored they used their power and influence to buy votes and politicians. Oh my goodness, Dec, just look at this!”

  She stepped into the kitchen and beamed at the base cabinets he'd installed. "Why, they're beautiful.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, and his grin was crooked. "You sound surprised.”

  "Well, I am, but in a very complimentary sort of way. Remy can barely hammer a nail in the wall to hang a picture." She ran her hand over the wood, opened and closed a door. "These are really fine. You must be so proud.”

  "I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself.

  Counter guys just left. I'm going with solid surface. It'll look like slate. Ordered this giant Sub-Zero refrigerator– for reasons I've yet to explain to myself-and a range, a dishwasher. I'm going to make panels so all you'll see is wood.”

  He set the books down on a sheet of plywood he had over the top of the base cabinets. "Want that lemonade?”

  "That'd be nice." She wandered into the dining room behind him. He had two of the top cupboards finished, and a third started. "My, aren't they going to be pretty. You must be working night and day.”

  Losing weight, she thought. Getting a gaunt look in your face.

  "Better than sleepwalking." He was jittery, and found himself dipping hands into his pockets again to keep them still. "Tell me more, Effie.”

  "All right." She suppressed the urge to fuss over him and went back to the facts. "The original owners had lost most of their money during the war. They hung on, selling off parcels of land, or renting it out to sharecroppers. Their politics and the Manets' were in opposition. There was a fire, burned the house down to the ground. Wiped them out. The Manets bought the land, and had this place built. They had two sons, twins. Lucian and Julian. Both went to Tulane, where Lucian did very well and Julian majored, you could say, in drinking and gambling. Lucian was the heir, and was meant to run the family businesses. Most of the Manet money had dwindled, but Josephine had a considerable inheritance. Both sons died before their twenty-third birthday.”

  Declan handed her a glass. "How?”

  "Here we have rumors and speculation." She sipped. "The strongest speculation is they killed each other. No one seems to know why, family argument gone violent. It's said Lucian went into New Orleans, on his mother's orders, to fetch his brother back out of one of the brothels he frequented. Julian didn't want to be fetched, they argued, and one of them-odds are on Julian here-pulled a knife. They fought, struggled for the knife, were both wounded. Julian died on the spot. Lucian lingered about another week, then somehow got out of bed, wandered outside, and fell into the pond, where he drowned.”

  The pond, he thought, choked with lily pads, steaming with mists at dawn. "That had to be rough on the parents.”

  "The father's heart gave out a few years later. Josephine lived several years more, but had a reversal of financial fortune. She had the house, some land, but had all but run out of money. Again, speculation is Julian had gambled a large part of it away, and it was never fully recouped.”

  "Remy said there was a granddaughter. Lucian's or Julian's?”

  "There's speculation there, too. Though the records show that Lucian married an Abigail Rouse in 1898, and that a daughter was born the next year, there's no record of Abigail's death. After Lucian was killed, the Manets declaimed the child, legally. Had her written out of the will. She was, apparently, raised by the Rouses. I can't find anything on Abigail Rouse beyond the legal records of her birth and her marriage.”

  "Maybe they kicked her out when Lucian died.”

  "Maybe. I talked to Remy about it." She wandered toward the windows, stared out at the messy gardens. "He's a little vague, but seems to recall hearing stories about how she ran off with another man.”

  She turned back. "Stories from the Rouse side differ sharply. They lean toward foul play. You'd get a fuller picture of her, and what might've happened, if you talk to someone from the Rouse or Simone families.”

  "A clear picture about a girl who ran off or died a hundred years ago.”

  "Honey, this is the South. A hundred years ago was yesterday. She was seventeen when she married Lucian. She was from the bayou. His family could not have approved of such a match. I doubt her life in this house was rosy. Running off might've been just what she did. On the other hand … I saw something, someone, in that room upstairs. I don't believe in that sort of thing. Didn't." Effie fought back a shiver. "I don't know what I think about it now, but I sure would like to find out.”

  "I'll ask Miss Odette. And Lena. I've got a date with her Monday.”

  "Is that so?" The idea brightened her mood.

  "Looks like we'll have more rumor and speculation." She handed him back the glass. "I have to get on. I'm sending Remy out here tomorrow to give you a hand and keep him out of my hair. I've got a fitting for my wedding gown and other bridal things to take care of.”

  "I'll keep him busy.”

  "Why don't you come back into town with him?" she said as she headed out. She wanted to lock her arm around his and tug him through the door and away. "We'll have some dinner, go out to the movies.”

  "Stop worrying about me.”

  "I can't help it. I think about you way out here, alone in this house, with that room up there." She glanced uneasily up the staircase. "It gives me the shivers.”

  "Ghosts never hurt anybody." He kissed her forehead. "They're dead.”

  But in the night, with the sound of the wind and rain, and the bang of spirit bottles, they didn't seem dead.

  He gave himself Sunday. He slept late, woke to a sky fighting to clear, and spent another hour in bed with the books Effie had brought him.

  She'd marked pages she felt would have the most interest for him. He scanned and studied old photographs of the great plantation houses. And felt a thrill race through him as he looked at the old black-and– white picture of Manet Hall in its turn-of-the-century splendor.

  Formal photographs of Henri and Josephine Manet didn't bring the same thrill. With those there was curiosity. The woman had been undeniably beautiful, very much in the style of her day with the deep square bodice of her ball gown edged with roses, and the high, feathered comb adorning her upswept hair.

  The gown, tucked into an impossibly small waist, gave her a delicacy accented by the sweep of the brocade skirts, the generously poofed sleeves that met the long white gloves.

  But there was a coldness to her face, one Declan didn't think was a result of the rigidity of the pose or the quality of the print. It overwhelmed that delicacy of build and made her formidable.

  But it was the photograph of Lucian Manet that stopped him in his tracks.

  He'd seen that face, in his dream. The handsome young man with streaming gold hair, riding a chestnut horse at a gallop through the moss-laced oaks.

  The power of suggestion? Had he simply expected the face in
the dream to be real, and was he projecting it now onto the doomed Lucian?

  Either way, it gave him the creeps.

  He decided he'd drive into New Orleans and treat himself to a few hours' haunting the antique shops.

  Instead, less than an hour later, he found himself walking into Et Trois.

  It did a strong Sunday-afternoon business, he noted. A mix of tourists and locals. He was pleased he was learning to distinguish one from the other. The jukebox carried the music now, a jumpy number by BeauSoleil that do-si-doed around the chatter from tables and bar.

  The scent of food, deeply fried, reminded his stomach he'd skipped breakfast. Recognizing the blond tending bar from his second visit, Declan walked up, tried a smile on her. "Hi. Lena around?”

  "Back in the office. Door to the right of the stage.”

  "Thanks.”

  "Anytime, cutie.”

  He gave the door marked PRIVATE a quick knock, then poked his head in. She was sitting at a desk, working at a computer. Her hair was clipped back and made him want to nibble his way up the nape of her neck.

  "Hi. Where y'at?”

  She sat back, gave a lazy stretch of her shoulders. "You're learning. What're you doing at my door, cher?”

  "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd see if you'd let me buy you lunch. Like a prelude to tomorrow night.”

  She'd been thinking about him, more than was comfortable. Now here he was, all tall and rangy and male. "I'm doing my books.”

  "And I've interrupted you. Don't you hate that?" He came in anyway, sat on the edge of the desk. "Bought you a present.”

  It was then that she noticed the little gift bag he carried. "I don't see how you could've fit a new car in there.”

  "We're working up to the car.”

  She kept her eyes on his a moment longer as she took the bag from him. Then she dipped in for the box. It was wrapped in gold paper, with a formal white bow. She took her time with it, she'd always believed the anticipation was as important as the gift.

  The bow and ribbon she tucked neatly back into the bag, and after she'd picked at the top, slid the box out, folded the paper precisely.

  "How long does it take you to open your presents Christmas morning?" he asked.

  "I like taking my time." She opened the box, felt her lips twitch, but kept her expression sober as she took out the grinning crawfish salt and pepper shakers. "Well now, aren't they a handsome pair?”

  "I thought so. They had alligators, too, but these guys seemed friendlier.”

  "Are these part of your charm campaign, cher?”

  "You bet. How'd they work?”

  "Not bad." She traced a finger over one of the ugly grins. "Not bad at all.”

  "Good. Since I've interrupted you, and charmed you, why don't you let me feed you? Pay you back for the eggs.”

  She eased back in her chair, swiveled it as she considered. "Why do I get the feeling, every time I see you, I should start walking fast in the opposite direction?”

  "Search me. Anyway, my legs are longer, so I'd just catch up with you." He leaned over the desk, lifted his brows. She was wearing a skirt, a short one. His legs might've been longer, but they wouldn't look half as good in sheer stockings. "But you could eat up some ground with those. How come you're dressed up?”

  "I'm not dressed up. Church clothes. I've been to Mass." Now she smiled. "Name like yours, I figure you for a Catholic boy.”

  "Guilty.”

  "You been to Mass today, Declan?”

  He could never explain why a question like that made him want to squirm. "I'm about half-lapsed.”

  "Oh." She pursed her lips. "My grandmama's going to be disappointed in you.”

  "I was an altar boy for three years. That ought to count.”

  "What's your confirmation name?”

  "I'll tell you if you come to lunch." He reached over for the crawfish, made them dance over her desk. "Come on, Lena, come out and play with me. It's turned into a nice day." "All right." Mistake, her practical mind said, but she got to her feet, picked up her purse. "You can buy me lunch. But a quick one." She leaned over, saved her file, and closed down her computer.

  "It's Michael," he said, holding out a hand. "Declan Sullivan Michael Fitzgerald. If I was any more Irish, I'd bleed green.”

  "It's Louisa. Angelina Marie Louisa Simone.”

  "Very French.”

  "Bien sъr. And I want Italian." She put her hand in his. "Buy me some pasta.”

  From his previous visits Declan knew you had to work very hard to find a bad meal in New Orleans. When Lena led the way to a small, unpretentious restaurant, he didn't worry. All he had to do was take one sniff of the air to know they were going to eat very well.

  She waved a hand at someone, pointed to an empty table, and apparently got the go-ahead.

  "This isn't a date," she said to him when he held her chair.

  He did his best to look absolutely innocent, and nearly succeeded. "It's not?”

  "No." She eased back, crossed her legs. "A date is when we have a time arranged and you pick me up at my house. This is a drop-on-by. So tomorrow, that's our first date. Just in case you're thinking of that three-date rule.”

  "We guys don't like to think you women know about that.”

  Her lips curved. "There's a lot y'all don't like to think we know about." She kept her eyes on his, but lifted up a hand to the dark-haired man who stopped at the table. "Hey there, Marco.”

  "Lena." He kissed her fingers, then handed her a menu. "Good to see you.”

  "This is Remy's college friend from Boston. Declan. I brought him by so he can see how we do Italian food here in the Vieux Carre.”

  "You won't do better." He shook Declan's hand, gave him a menu. "My mama's in the kitchen today.”

  "Then we're in for a treat," Lena said. "How's your family, Marco?”

  Declan saw how it happened then. When she shifted in her chair, lifted her face, looked at Marco, it was as if the two of them were alone on a little island of intimacy. It was sexual, there was no question about it, but it was also … attentive, he decided.

  "Good as gold. My Sophie won a spelling bee on Friday.”

  "That's some bright child you got.”

  They chatted for a few moments, but Declan entertained himself by watching her face. The way her eyebrows lifted, fell, drew together according to the sentiment. How her lips moved, punctuated by that tiny mole.

  When she turned her head, he shook his. "Sorry, did you say something to me? I was looking at you. I get lost.”

  "They got some smooth talkers up North," Marco said.

  "Pretty, too, isn't he?" Lena asked.

  "Very nice. Our Lena here's having the seafood linguini. You know what you want, or you need some time to decide?”

  "You don't get the same." Lena tapped a finger on the menu Declan had yet to read. "Else it's no fun for me picking off your plate. You try the stuffed shells, maybe. Mama makes them good.”

  "Stuffed shells, then." He had a feeling he'd have tried crushed cardboard if she'd requested it. "Do you want wine?”

  "No, because you're driving and I'm working.”

  "Strict. San Pelligrino?" He glanced at Marco.

  "I'll bring you out a bottle.”

  "So …" She tucked her hair behind her ear as Marco left them. "What're you up to today, cher?”

  "I thought I'd hit some of the antique stores. I'm looking for a display cabinet for the kitchen, and stuff to stick in it. I thought I might go by and see Miss Odette on the way back. What does she like? I want to take her something.”

  "You don't have to take her anything.”

  "I'd like to.”

  Lena hooked an arm over the back of her chair, drummed her fingers on the table as she studied him. "You get her a bottle of wine, then. A good red. Tell me something, cher, you wouldn't be using my grandmama to get to me, would you?”

  She saw the temper flash into his eyes– darker, hotter than she'd expected from
him. Should've known, she thought, that all that easy manner covered something sharp, something jagged. It was impressive, but more impressive was the lightning snap from mild to fury, and back to mild again.

  A man who could rein himself in like that, she decided, had a will of iron. That was something else to consider.

  "You've got it backwards," he told her.

  "I'm using you to get to Miss Odette. She's the girl of my dreams.”

  "I'm sorry.”

  "Good, you should be.”

  Lena waited until their water and bread were served. His tone had raised her hackles. Mostly, she could admit, because she'd deserved the quick slap. Folding her arms on the table, she leaned toward him.

  "I am sorry, because that was nasty. I'm going to tell you something, Declan, nasty words have a habit of popping right out of my mouth. I don't always regret saying them. I'm not a sweet– mannered, even-tempered sort of woman. I don't have a trusting nature. I've got good points, but I've got just as many bad. I like it that way.”

  He mimicked her posture. "I'm single– minded, competitive and moody. I've got a mean temper. It takes a lot to get it going, which is a fortunate thing for the general population. I don't have to have my way in the little things, but when I decide I want something, really want it, I find a way to get it. I want you. So I'll have you.”

  She'd been wrong. He hadn't snapped back to mild. Anger was still simmering behind his eyes. As the one person she tried to be honest with at all times was herself, she didn't bother to pretend it didn't excite her.

  "You're saying that to make me mad.”

  "No, that's just a side benefit." He eased back, picked up the basket of bread, and offered it. "You want to fight?”

  Feeling sulky, she picked out a piece. "Maybe later. Getting riled up spoils my appetite. Anyway." She shrugged, bit into the bread. "You don't want to go by Grandmama's today. She's over visiting her sister this afternoon.”

  "I'll stop in later this week. I got the kitchen counters installed. Remy gave me a hand, so to speak, with the wall units yesterday. It should be finished in a couple of weeks.”

  "Good for you." She wanted to brood, and could see by his amused expression that he knew it. "You been back up on the third floor?”