by Toni Blake
He looked around, glad to see no one nearby. He'd never talked to a tomb in his life and he generally thought it was silly when people did. But he felt the urge to talk and didn't squelch it. "I'm sorry I haven't been here before," he said, low. "But it hurt too much, and I've ... been in a bad way, Beck. You'd hate me like this, the way I've been," he said, realizing it just now. Shondra wasn't the only one who liked him better when he was happy.
"Anyway, the man who was responsible for your death—he's gonna go to prison. And he won't get out. Because if he ever comes up for parole, I'll be there to remind people what he did, what he took from me. From you."
The man who was responsible for your death. Damn, but talking out loud made him pay more attention or something. Had he just admitted—to her, to himself— that maybe someone else truly was to blame, not just him?
He took a deep breath, glanced up at a strangely blank sky of white, and felt a sharp breeze cut through him, making him pull Stephanie's scarf up around his neck. "There's more," he said. "More I need to tell you."
"Jake? Is that you?"
He cringed, then turned to find Becky's mother walking toward him. Peter, Paul, and Mary—the one time he comes here ... "Yeah," he said. "Hi."
She wore a severely elegant black coat with a shiny brooch on the collar. Every dyed brown hair lay in place as if unaware it was a windy day, her red lipstick cut a grim line across her face, and she didn't look any happier to see him than he was to see her. She'd never approved of him, only tolerated him, and they hadn't seen each other since Becky's funeral—neither had picked up a phone or driven to see each other over the two years they'd been suffering the same loss. He'd figured Becky's family held him responsible, too, and that thought reminded him... "I have some news."
"News?"
"We've found the guy who ordered the hit," he said, going on to give her the rough details, mainly that there would eventually be a trial and the guy would be put away for a long time, at the very least.
When he was done, she drew in her breath and splayed diamond-clad fingers across her chest. "Well, praise God for that much. I hope it will let her rest in peace."
"Me too."
It was then that she bent to place a bouquet of plastic flowers in one of the vases affixed to the vault. Surprised, he spoke before thinking. "Becky loved fresh-cut flowers—she hated plastic ones, even silk ones."
The woman glared at him in shock and he realized how rude he'd been.
"Mon Dieu, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to say that."
She looked at him a moment longer before turning her gaze back on the tomb. "The plastic ones are the only ones that hold up to the weather. At least until someone steals them. It's silly to bring anything else."
But Becky would rather have real flowers for a day than fake flowers for a year. "You're right," he lied instead, wishing like hell he'd thought to stop on the way and bring a fresh bouquet.
"I'll go and leave you to yourself," she said then.
"You don't have to," he replied, feeling bad.
"I come all the time. I can come back another day." Translation: You don't come all the time. You might never come again.
But he would. And he'd bring fresh flowers the next time.
He watched as the woman walked away, her well-coiffed hair still showing no signs of the swirling wind.
When she was gone, he looked back to the tomb, old memories suddenly overflowing. He'd forgotten until just now how insanely Becky loved flowers—flowers of any kind, so long as they were real. Her grandmother had grown an English perennial garden and taught Becky all about flowers, and she'd filled their little house with them—everything from carnations to tulips to roses cut from the bushes she'd planted in the side yard. She'd said flowers were God's most beautiful example of life, living.
Damn.
Flowers.
In the dreams.
It hit him like a tidal wave. Every dream he could remember had flowers in it.
Whether they were real or a pattern in a piece of lingerie or in the words to a song, weren't there always flowers?
"Am I losin' my mind?" he asked out loud, peering at the tomb. Then he shook his head. "But why would a part of you be in my dreams about... ?" He couldn't even say it. Another woman.
"That's the other thing I need to tell you, Beck. There's ... a woman. I care for her. Too much." He swallowed, hard. "I wish I didn't, keep tellin' myself I don't. Because I always thought there'd only be you. Forever." He stopped, sighed, stuffed his hands in his pockets because they were getting cold. "But she's still in my head, all the time. And I don't know ..."
Had he come here to ask Becky for permission?
And were dreams of Stephanie and flowers her way of giving it?
Was she there in the dreams, too, telling him it was okay to need someone new?
"You are losin' it," he told himself. "Unless..." He looked up at the stone angel, then to the stark empty sky. "Are you tryin' to tell me somethin', Beck?"
He lowered his gaze, shook his head, and let out a sigh, feeling like an idiot to be standing here trying to read signs into dreams, trying to converse with a slab of concrete.
When he caught sight of something white in the air around him, he looked about, confused for a few seconds, trying to figure out what it was—it looked like tiny bits of fluffy confetti floating down.
And then he realized. Snow. It was snow.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran up his spine.
He'd never been farther north than the Louisiana border and he'd only seen snow one other time in his life—it had fallen on the December day he and Becky had married almost five years ago.
And it was falling again now, on a brisk October day.
And he might well be losing his mind—he might be bending the facts to believe what he wanted to believe, that his dead wife was sending him messages from the grave. But as the snow fell from the New Orleans sky and the wind stopped blowing and the world suddenly felt almost at peace for Jake for the first time in two years ... he believed.
As Jake drove back to the Quarter, other words he'd spoken came back to him—words he'd said to Tina the other night. Just let Stephanie help you and things will work out like they should. Didn't that apply to his life as well? And hadn't he known that for a while now?
As he turned up his street and approached his building, he saw a good parking spot—but he drove past it. He kept heading northeast—toward Esplanade.
What if she was gone already? What if she'd already packed her bags and taken her sister home to Chicago? Merde. He pressed down on the gas pedal.
A minute later, he barreled into the parking lot at LaRue House and spotted a familiar-looking car—thank God, she was still here! Killing the ignition, he walked briskly along the winding pathway until he was rapping on her door.
When it opened, Tina stood on the other side. "Jake," she said.
"I need to see Stephanie." His heart pounded against his rib cage.
"She went to find you." "What?"
Tina nodded, as if to assure him he'd heard correctly. "She left a little while ago, walking to your place." Behind Tina, he noticed packed suitcases lined up at the foot of the bed. Damn it, she was just about to leave.
"Thanks," he said, then headed back toward the truck.
Two minutes later, he parked outside his building and rushed into the courtyard. She'd never been to his apartment before—only knew the location from when they'd taxied here for the truck the other night. The courtyard and interior verandas were empty and quiet but for the hum of a washing machine coming from the laundry room.
He walked over to find Mrs. LaFourche standing guard over the machines. "Taken," she said when he leaned inside.
"Any chance you've seen a pretty woman wanderin' around here lookin' for me?"
She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes. "Jake, right?" He nodded.
"Yeah, I seen her. Pointed her to your apartment, but she knocked and didn't ge
t no answer, so she left."
Damn. "Thank you," he said quietly, then wandered back out to the street.
Where would she have gone? Not back to the LaRue, or he'd have passed her while he was driving. He thought next of the bayou house, but her rental car had still been at the B and B five minutes earlier.
As he glanced in the other direction, a new thought struck him. Chez Sophia. It was the only other place.
He took off in a sprint, realizing that somewhere along the way the sun had come out, the wind had died, and it was turning into a pretty day. He was starting to sweat, so he shrugged out of the jacket and scarf, gripping them in his fist as he ran.
When he reached Sophia's, all was quiet, but the front door was unlocked.
He heard people working inside—the clink of bottles, the sound of a chair scooting on the floor somewhere, and low music playing—but no one was in sight. He didn't bother seeking them out, just walked on through like he figured Stephanie might have done in the same situation.
Unlike at night, no one stood guard at the door leading to the stairwell that rose toward the secret third floor. He took the stairs two at a time. He was winded when he reached the top, having to stop and catch his breath before pushing through the red curtains.
All was still inside and his heart sank as he tossed his jacket and scarf on the bar. Stephanie, where are you? I need you.
But then a blast of memory washed over him, and he took slow, silent steps toward the place where their passion had first ignited—the red room.
He walked in to find her seated on one of the lush divans, her head in her hands. She wore denim shorts and a summery red top. Her pretty blond locks curled at the tips, falling around her face.
"Hey," he said softly.
She looked up, clearly startled. "Jake."
"Been lookin' for you, beb."
"I was looking for you, too." She pushed to her feet, appearing a little confused, like maybe now that she'd found him she wasn't sure why she'd been looking in the first place.
He wanted to remind her without another second's delay, so he took sure steps toward her until he could lift one hand to cup her smooth cheek. "I've ached for you every second we've been apart."
"Me too," she murmured.
He looked into her eyes, tried to let everything he felt for her pour from his gaze, then lowered his mouth onto hers in a slow, deep kiss.
A shudder echoed through them both. "Mon Dieu," he whispered. "I need you, chère."
He replaced that kiss with another, and another, until, just like the last time they'd touched, they were both trembling, filling the room with ragged breaths as they clung to each other. Her arms twined around his neck and his molded to her slender waist.
But this wouldn't be like that night outside her room. He needed more than that, and he had so much to give her now.
Pulling back just slightly, he eased her top over her head, then ran his hands down over the delicate white lace of her bra. His thumbs caught on beaded nipples, so he stroked them—again and again.
"More," she whispered up into the silence.
"Much more," he said.
She pushed his T-shirt up and he yanked it off before reaching deftly behind her to unhook her bra. Looping his fingers through the straps at her shoulders, he drew it down, letting his gaze feast on her lovely breasts.
He didn't know yet if this was the last time, if it was too late for him to save things. He didn't know if this was a parting gift from her or a last plea from him. But he'd never thought he'd get to hold her, touch her, again—and he intended to soak up every second, every blessed nuance, of this liaison.
He shivered when she reached for the button on his jeans, glancing down to watch her delicate fingers lower the zipper. He cupped her breasts and her pretty sighs grew labored when he sank his mouth to one turgid pink peak, licking and suckling her.
"I feel that between my legs," she whispered, and it nearly undid him.
"Wanna make you feel so much more, beb," he murmured, lifting a kiss to her forehead, then taking her in his arms to ease her down onto the same lush red sofa where he'd first touched her.
Raining kisses onto her pale, perfect breasts, he undid her shorts and tugged gently at the waistband, pulling them off, along with the lacy panties underneath. He wanted her so badly he could barely breathe. He pressed another long kiss to her mouth as she pushed at his jeans and he shrugged free from them—underwear too—so that they lay completely naked together, as naked as the women in the paintings that seemed to float on the red walls above, as naked as Jake knew they were meant to be together.
He rolled her to her back, easing between her parted thighs, pushing his way inside her. They both moaned and peered into each other's eyes, and Jake watched her lovely lips tremble, watched her head fall back in passion, watched a single tear roll down her cheek.
"No, no," he whispered, reaching to blot it from her skin. "Don't cry, beb. I love you."
Her eyes shone on him, warm and blue with shock.
But he kissed it away, not wanting to talk anymore right now, just wanting them to move together like they'd been made to do.
He pushed deeper and she met the pressure, lifting her hips, and they held like that for a long, quiet moment, until finally he closed his arms around her and sat up, swinging her up astride him with one swift move. He wanted to take her to heaven.
She bit her lower lip, her eyes falling half shut with heat as she began to ride him. He nibbled at her breasts, roamed her lush body with his hands—he wanted to give her more, more, everything. Her fingernails dug lightly into his shoulders and her breath caught, making him murmur, "Oui, beb, oui. Come for me." She thrust faster, moaning, moaning, until finally the ecstasy washed over her face for a few long, glorious seconds.
That was all it took and he was gone, too, erupting inside her, losing himself in the profound, burying pleasure, and finally just holding her tight as the energy drained from him and he tried to recover from the sweetest few moments of life he could ever remember.
Because this was different. This was freedom. Freedom to love her.
When she eased back on him, their eyes met, and she looked wistful, sad. "I decided," she said slowly, "I'd rather have one last time with you to remember... than to not have it... even though that's scary for me."
He lifted his hand, pushing her hair back from her face. "Aw, chère—you've got no idea how much I admire the way you never let fear hold you back."
"Yes I do," she argued softly.
He shook his head. "Not from findin' your sister, no matter what it took. Not from puttin' yourself out there in a dangerous situation with bad men, or even paddlin' out after me in a leaky pirogue." He cast a gentle smile.
She returned it, saying, "I didn't know it was leaky."
"It was still brave as hell."
She relented, her body relaxing against him. He was still inside her. "Well, fear did hold me back from one thing. Sex."
"Not for long."
"Yes, for long."
He grinned. "Not for long once you met me." He grazed his hands up her arms onto her face and she leaned forward until their foreheads met. "Stay," he whispered.
She drew back slightly. "What?"
"Stay. Don't leave me. I need you. You're the only thing that's made me feel good in a long time. What I feel when I'm with you, I want that every day. I want it for the rest of my life."
She quaked in his arms, and this time he hated it— because he wanted her to believe him, to understand that things had changed.
"I'm in love with you," he explained. "Desperately, wildly in love with you. I was just too afraid to say it. I lost so much with Becky, and felt I owed her so much, too.
I was afraid—afraid of somehow sullyin' her memory, and just as afraid, I suppose, that I'd somehow lose you, too. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to take care of you."
She blinked. She'd stopped shaking, mostly. "And now?"
"Now I wanna be
like you, beb. Brave, even though I'm afraid. I wanna love you. Take care of you. Do my very best to take care of you."
A slow smile spread across her face, reaching into those blue, blue eyes. Her gaze felt like sun shining into his heart. "I want to take care of you, too, Jake. And I like who I am when I'm with you." She let out a pretty, trilling laugh. "I steal breakfast for two from Mrs. Lindman when I'm with you. I actually like having my underwear torn off by you. I walk out into the bayou naked without a care for anything in the world... except being with you."
He smiled, filled with pure joy. "Mon Dieu, chère, you make me happy."
She finally eased off him and they wordlessly lay back on the red sofa in a loose, easy embrace. "But this is ... quick, Jake. In some ways, we don't know each other at all."
He only cast his typical sexy grin. "But in other ways, we know each other intimately. I'm not afraid. The rest'll come. I feel it in my soul."
He watched her draw in a deep breath, meeting his gaze. "I'm not afraid, either."
"I knew that," he said with a sure nod. "But still... what about your job?" It had just occurred to him, how much he was asking her to give up. Her whole life.
Yet she only shrugged. "I'll get another one. Or maybe start my own little ad firm."
"Didn't you work awful hard to get where you are?"
"Yeah," she said, "and it's scary to go back to square one, but..."
"You'll be brave," he finished for her. And then he swallowed, ready to lay something heavy on her. "I'm thinkin' about rejoinin' the force. Can you handle that? Danger every day?"
To his surprise, the question brought a warm smile to her face. "Jake, you were born to help people. I've known that about you from the beginning."
As he looked into her eyes and felt her belief in him, he knew he'd been wrong: He could save people. He'd saved Shondra. Maybe even Tina. Hell, maybe even Raven, in some small way. But mostly, he'd saved himself, by letting himself love the only woman who could breathe life back into him.