PerpetualPleasure

by Dita Parker

  He knew the drill. She would say goodbye, do her best queen of Savannah, dismiss him and try to forget.

  Because it already meant something. Because now she knew how much she already meant to him.

  “I can’t make you love me. If you really believe you can’t or won’t, what the hell am I supposed to do? How do I fight for you when you don’t want to be won over?”

  She slumped in a huge cushioned armchair, looking hopelessly small and a little bit lost before regaining her posture and poise. It took Mac everything he had not to go to her but to pull on his belt, pocket his phone and wallet, and head for the door instead.

  “All or nothing, Lucie.”

  Silent and unmoving like the Sphinx, she stared past him through the open door.

  “Long live the queen.” He cringed at the hurt and resentment in his voice, but it was an honest reflection of how he felt. In that moment, he really hated her.

  And he desperately loved her too.

  Chapter Eight

  Boyd Ferguson’s wife had been a longtime patron of the local film and theater scene in general and the Savannah Film Festival in particular. Boyd tried to carry on her work as best as he could. It kept him busy and made him happy, and when he had asked Lucie to be his opening night plus one, she had gladly accepted.

  His enthusiasm and exuberance was a delight to watch, Lucie thought, but if she had to listen to one more outsider comment on how charming and quaint Savannah was, how busy and yet so bucolic, followed up with a “but” and a string of suggestions on how to further improve things, she would scream.

  Outsiders saw the present and envisioned a future, but with no regard for the past and how very much alive that history was in a city three centuries in the making. They saw buildings and gardens, trees and statues, squares and ironwork. Savannahians saw private histories and personal stories, an ever-present past.

  Lucie’s past had been catching up with her all summer and well into the fall, ever since MacCale Moore had walked out of her house and out of her life in late spring. All the things he’d said had played in her head over and over again like a recording she couldn’t mute, like a film that wouldn’t stop playing. She escaped into work and solitude. She tried meeting up with people in town. Whatever she did, wherever she went, MacCale gave chase.

  He had warned her he could be tenacious. Little did she know it meant she would one day consider hiring an exorcist. Even if she could somehow drive him out of her house, nothing short of sweeping her memory clean would drive him out of her head. She would nap on the sleeping porch and wake up trembling from a wet dream starring MacCale, Mac making love to her under the skies with nothing but the wind and the water looking on. She would walk down Martin Luther King Boulevard and remember being carried up the street in his arms, how strong and safe he’d felt. She would visit Bonaventure and regret never making the trip with MacCale. He would have enjoyed it. She would have enjoyed his company. She missed it. Missed him.

  He had accused her of being unfeeling. If only he could see her now, all emotion, all the damn time. Lucie had been introduced to a wide range of feelings over the summer. Guilt for the pain she had caused. A constant worry over his safety. Jealousy over the women he might be dating and envy over the future he would share with someone someday.

  She knew the feeling of longing.

  And she knew love. MacCale had given her a glimpse of what it felt like for lovers, what it felt like to love and be loved, to look forward to a future together. She had all eternity to look forward to alone.

  Myriad feelings she had stomped into submission through the decades now followed her around like a pesky dog snapping at her heels, demanding attention and reminding her of him. She had accused him of being obsessed. Now it was she who felt possessed, her heart, head and home haunted by memories of him.

  And she fed the mindless obsession by draining the internet of everything she could find on MacCale Moore, a.k.a. Felix. He was strength and stamina personified. It figured he was some kind of superman. She hadn’t recognized the name or the face, but when had stunt performers or coordinators been all that visible even when they did much of the hard work the leading actors got credit for.

  He’d fought aliens in several movies and done a whole television series built around time travel. No wonder the truth about her life had made no impact. The thought of an immortal was probably just another day in the office for him. She had watched every film and show he’d worked in trying to spot him, read every snippet that mentioned his name. He was a versatile, experienced and respected performer, that much was obvious. He had an impressive career behind him and probably many years still ahead of him.

  If he didn’t die trying.

  She had never had to fear for her life. Lucie found herself fearing over his. She researched the projects listed as being in production, imagining Mac crashing cars, being shot at, jumping off bridges and moving vehicles, and worried even more. It gave her a glimpse into what it was like to live with the fear of loss. That’s life, Mac had said, the risk people have to take.

  She couldn’t understand how mortals bore it. Her insides turned to jelly every time she thought of the risks he took. No wonder no woman had stuck. The feeling of fear wasn’t uncomfortable, it was downright sickening. Or was he still single because he was always on the move? He talked about settling down but sounded far from settled. Maybe women gave up on him when they realized that he was fully capable of climbing the highest mountains and swimming the stormiest seas for them and that was why he was never home. Or maybe he just hadn’t found the right woman to climb and swim with him.

  And maybe that was none of her business. Maybe she should find herself a fuck buddy like Mac had suggested and try to forget. Maybe if he hadn’t stripped her of her defenses and ran away with her act she would have.

  If she hadn’t been in love with him, maybe she could have.

  Gasping for breath while trying to breathe out the awful swell of emotion threatening to take over, Lucie searched the crowd for Boyd. Tall as he was, he was easy enough to spot. Observant as he was, he gave a slow nod to indicate he understood before turning back to whomever he was talking to. Lucie noticed Boyd lingered far less than usual while saying goodbye. Was he tired or just as eager as she was to leave the hustle and bustle behind?

  He helped her into her coat before pulling on his own. “Did you drive here, dear?”

  “I took a cab.”

  “Excellent,” he exclaimed.

  “It is?” He was up to something, she could tell.

  “I was wondering if you’d care to join me for a nightcap.”

  He was definitely up to something. “I don’t know, Boyd. Your nightcaps always turn into all-nighter caps.”

  He grinned like a mischievous eighteen-year-old, not a well-preserved gentleman of eighty-five. “And you will miss them when I’m gone, so why not enjoy them while we’re both still here.”

  She did not want to be reminded of how little time together they had left. “Sold,” she said. His boyish smile widened, if possible.

  They stepped out of the Lucas Theatre and onto the street paved with photographers and movie fans eagerly waiting for a glimpse of the director and the female lead of the opening drama. Very eagerly. News had broken they had become an item during filming.

  Parting the swarm with a patrician air that commanded respect wherever he went, Boyd steered her through the crowd, hooked her elbow in his and took a course toward Orleans Square.

  “Are you sure you want to walk?” Lucie asked.

  He looked at her curiously. “It’s a ten-minute trek, dear.”

  “Very well,” she said, suspecting whatever he was hiding had to do with his health. Maybe she could get him to open up about it over mint juleps. She could prompt him by sharing some secrets of her own, feelings she had been sitting on all summer. If Boyd would swear upon the soul of his late wife he would never breathe a word of it to MacCale. He would berate her for not telling him soone
r. More likely, he would say that he had been waiting for her to fess up she had finally done the unthinkable and fallen in love.

  “You know what I like most about this city?” Boyd asked, interrupting her sullen silence.

  She already knew the answer since he’d told her a hundred times or more. “What?” She patted his arm.

  “Everything is within walking distance.”

  “Almost,” Lucie conceded, thinking of the islands and her home outside the city center.

  “You should move into town,” he said. “I would very much like to have you closer by.”

  Another topic they had covered several times over the years. “You only want to keep an eye on me. Admit it,” Lucie said.

  “When have I denied it?”

  Boyd was right. She would miss him and the good times they had shared when he was gone. He had been a good and loyal friend to her, one of the few men in all her extended life who had known the truth about her and kept her secret.

  “Will you still visit the house after I’m gone?” he asked after a while. “It is tradition.”

  She had known every owner of the Saville House. Not in every generation but someone in every family who had owned the house. The three-story Italianate mansion had been built in the early nineteenth century by a merchant who had made a fortune in the Cotton Kingdom era and lost everything in the bust that followed. Hard times hadn’t touched the house, though. It had been diligently and lovingly kept and the Fergusons had honored the spirit and history of the house ever since moving in between the world wars.

  “May I ask who will be living in it? You’re not thinking of selling, are you?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.

  A very stupid afterthought. Boyd clutched his chest and drew a melodramatic breath for emphasis.

  “Lucienne Marcotte, the nonsense you spout!”

  Lucie snickered. “I’m sorry, Boyd. Of course you never would.”

  Huffing in mock indignation, he jerked his chin back up. “I will have you know, mademoiselle, that I’m leaving the house to my grandnephews on the condition they leave it to their children in turn.”

  His grandnephews. MacCale and his brother Ronald.

  “I’m sure Ronald and his family will come down as often as they can, especially in the summer. But I have a feeling that MacCale may end up living here one day.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh no.

  “Yes. You and MacCale are the same type of Southerner. The ones who travel far and wide only to be drawn back. And I have a feeling my grandnephew is reaching breaking point. I would very much like for him to raise his family in this house. Those walls have gone without the laughter of children for far too long.”

  And she would die inside for good if she had to sit by and watch Mac live the life they would never have together.

  Trying for a breezy tone, lying to Boyd’s face and loathing herself for it, Lucie said, “I will do my best to keep the tradition going. If they’ll have me, I’ll visit and visit often. You know I love this house.”

  That much was true, she thought as they passed the massive magnolia tree nearly obscuring the entrance. But if MacCale moved in she would never set foot inside the mansion again. She would have to leave town just to avoid running into him. His wife. His wife and children.

  She couldn’t think about it now. She had to focus on Boyd, Boyd opening the door and letting her in ahead of him. Dearest, sweetest Boyd taking her purse and helping her out of her coat when it was he who needed help with his.

  “Champagne?” he asked.

  Mint juleps were his cocktail bravura, but champagne would work, Lucie thought. “I would love some.” Anything to calm her nerves and stop her hands from shaking.

  Hooking her elbow back in his, Boyd gently turned her in the direction of the sitting rooms. And brought Lucie face-to-face with MacCale coming down the entrance hall, dressed in black tie, looking as stunning as ever, his arm wrapped protectively around a lovely brunette in a flowing coral chiffon gown.

  A very busty, very pregnant brunette.

  His family? The family Boyd so dearly wished would one day live in the house?

  Wow, Lucie thought. That was fast. Something danced in her line of vision, her belly filling up with lead weighing her down to ground. Boyd now practically dragged her along to meet the happily smiling couple halfway.

  “You missed quite a sparkling spectacle, didn’t they, Lucie?” Boyd asked. “Their flight was delayed,” he added, looking down at her, and in that instant Lucie knew with absolute certainty Boyd knew something about her relationship with MacCale or he would not have kept mum about his house guests.

  And she never would have come had she known Mac would be there.

  Lucie wasn’t given time to ponder further. Instead, she was given a warm smile by the woman grasping her hands as if they were old friends.

  “So this is the infamous queen of Savannah.” The woman looked her up and down. “Mac has told me all about you.”

  Lucie gave a small, strangled laugh. “Oh, I sure hope not. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  The woman pulled her closer by the arms, smashing her full belly against Lucie’s.

  Awkward.

  “You do know he’s a catch?” the woman whispered. “Grab him before someone else does. I mean it.

  “What are you girls whispering about?” MacCale asked, craning his neck.

  “Nothing,” the woman quipped and released Lucie’s arms to step back. “Girl stuff.”

  MacCale stared at Lucie for a moment, his expression blank, before turning to the woman. “Are you badmouthing me?” His tone was stern but his eyes shone with warmth.

  “On the contrary,” the woman said. “I’m singing your praises.”

  “Oh, okay. Carry on then.” His gaze returned to Lucie. And forced her to look away. The warmth was gone, replaced by an intense, disconcerting scrutiny, the same that had drawn her as much as it had terrified her from the moment they had met.

  “Here comes Ronnie,” Boyd said. “Everything okay upstairs?”

  “She’s out like a light,” the tall, dark and slender man fast approaching confirmed, his eyes darting between the party present.

  “It worked,” the woman leaned in to whisper again. “The pendant you chose. It worked,” she said, smoothing her palm over her baby bump. “Twin girls.”

  Pretending she was on the map and not lost in space, Lucie returned the woman’s smile while frantically putting the pieces together. “Yes. Like magic, I see.” She winked playfully. “Congratulations to you both.”

  The pendant. The fertility pendant Mac had bought for his sister-in-law, Hannah. And Ronnie. His brother. Which could only mean that the someone sleeping upstairs was his niece, Emily.

  The woman. She’s not his. The babies aren’t his.

  “Where are my manners?” Boyd asked. “Lucie, meet Hannah and Ronald Moore. Hannah, Ronnie, this is my old and very dear friend, Miss Lucienne Marcotte.”

  Ready to faint with relief, Lucie blindly extended her hand and shook hands with the couple. Both husband and wife stressed what a delight it was to finally meet her, leaving her wondering what MacCale had said to bring on such a welcome.

  “And Mac you’ve already met, of course,” Boyd said.

  “Hello, Lucie.” He stepped up to her. She offered him her hand. He promptly took it and smoothly tugged her closer to kiss her cheeks.

  Very continental. Completely innocent-looking. Absolutely electrifying to her senses lighting up as if he’d touched her everywhere, not merely brushed her cheeks with his or held her hand for the briefest moment.

  “Nice to see you again, MacCale,” she said, sounding breathless even to her own ears.

  “Do not even think about it, young man.” Boyd stepped in and clasped her hand. “The mademoiselle is my date for the evening.”

  MacCale laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “After you, uncle.”

  “And don’t you forget it,”
the old gentleman said emphatically.

  With the rest of the party in tow, Boyd led Lucie down the entrance hall toward the smaller sitting room.

  “You’re blushing,” he whispered.

  “No I’m not,” she hissed. She was. Up to her hairline and all the way down her throat, she could feel it. Everyone could probably see it in the old rose boat-neck vintage gown she’d had the misfortune of choosing for the night.

  “You are,” he insisted. “It looks lovely, by the way.”

  She would have elbowed him except for the fear of actually hurting the man far frailer than he let on.

  “Why thank you, Boyd,” she said wryly. “I’m glad I amuse you.”

  “Temper, temper, dear. Your claws are showing.”

  If they were, it was because of her sudden and total lack of calm, control and composure.

  And she owed it all to MacCale.

  How different Lucie looked compared to the first time he had seen her in that very same house, MacCale thought. Lucie looked uncertain, awkward, totally out of her element. She could talk a mile a minute without saying much. Now she barely said anything and to him, that spoke volumes.

  He had seen the queen of Savannah, the imperious distance she could keep from everyone. He had seen the man-eater, Lucie exuding brazen sexuality. He’d seen her strong and assertive, an actress who had internalized her role.

  What he saw now was a woman adlibbing for her life. Vulnerability, raw and real. Not a jaded and sophisticated immortal but a twenty-six-year-old woman who didn’t know what to do with her hands. She must have sat in that parlor dozens of times, yet her eyes wandered over the carpets, tracing every pattern. Her gaze lingered on every print and painting on the walls, on every minutia around the room as if they were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. She only talked when talked to. She listened politely and answered briefly every time Ronnie and Hannah asked about her work and the town’s history. She barely touched the champagne, taking a sip every now and then and refusing a refill, and forced down some cocktail nibbles, probably to humor his sister-in-law who had mentioned she’d brought them along to ease her food cravings.