by Francis Ray
“Sounds like my mother,” Lee said, taking the plastic card.
They searched every pocket and counted pennies, but they had enough. Clutching their plastic bags triumphantly, they proudly strolled from the store.
“I knew you’d understand them,” Kristen said as they walked behind the boys in the parking lot. “I’m glad you came.”
Yes, he understood pride; he also understood that Kristen made it too easy to forget his past.
* * *
Saturday morning Claudette woke up in bed alone. She sensed it even before she opened her eyes and rolled over to find the space beside her empty. Perhaps Maurice had awakened hungry and gone downstairs for breakfast.
Clinging to the thought like a frightened child to its mother’s skirt, she drew on a robe and went in search of him. She gave no thought to the fact that she had never dared leave her room until she was dressed. Her parents had never wanted her to look less than her best.
Her hand on the railing, she hurried down the stairs and into the small dining room where she and Maurice took their meals. Empty. She whirled and went down the hall toward the study. She opened the door. Her gaze searched the high-ceilinged room. He wasn’t there. Her heart sank.
Slowly she walked to her father’s—no, Maurice’s—desk. Her hands trembled as she shoved papers aside. She didn’t have to round the desk to know that they were the same papers he’d been working on for the past two nights at home.
“Mrs. Laurent.”
She whirled, inexplicably feeling guilty.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the maid said. “Before he left, Mr. Laurent said we were to let you sleep.”
She hated to ask, but she had no choice. “How long ago did my husband leave?”
“About an hour ago. He also said to tell you, in case you didn’t see it, that he’d left you a note on the secretary in your room.”
“I hadn’t. Thank you.” Clutching her silk robe, Claudette went back up the stairs and straight to the century-old secretary that had belonged to her grandmother. Propped in the middle was one of her note cards, resting against the single wedding picture Maurice had allowed to have taken the day they were married.
She snatched up the note, read it, read it again, then sank into the gilt chair. The heavy vellum crumpled in her hand.
I have a business lead. See you tonight. Love, Maurice
She’d cleared her calendar for them to spend the day together, asked Bridget to prepare a special dinner, had tickets to the theater tonight, had bought a new gown. Paper crinkled as she clutched the note in her hand.
All for nothing. Then she thought of the overwrought picture she must have made in her robe, running through the house, frantically searching for her missing husband.
Foolish. Foolish woman, and the house staff would know exactly how foolish when Maurice didn’t show up. She had to get out of here, but where could she go?
* * *
It was going to be one of those clear, beautiful days. Kristen could tell that when she woke Saturday morning and looked out her bedroom window. Smiling, she showered and quickly dressed in tan slacks and a short-sleeved white blouse. June in New Orleans was sultry. Seeing that she had forty-five minutes before Rafe was to arrive at nine, she laughed at her own eagerness and went to wait in the living room.
Waiting, she decided to do what should have been done long ago. Before her courage failed, she dialed her mother’s number. Both she and Jonathan were early risers.
A breathless voice answered on the fifth ring. “Hello.”
Kristen’s timing was off again. “I’ll call you back.”
Laughter filtered through the line. “Good morning, sweetheart, and don’t you dare. You’re up early,” her mother said.
Kristen settled back into the corner of the sofa. “Rafe and I are going antique-hunting.”
Bed covers rustled. “It’s about time you two got to know each other better.”
Kristen debated if she should admit that for her it was more than that, then decided to keep her own counsel. “Yes, it is.”
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” her mother asked.
“A sleigh bed for Adam Jr.,” she answered. “Lilly asked me to keep an eye out for one.”
“He’s such a wonderful little boy. I’m trying to talk Lilly and Adam into letting him spend a week with us this summer.” She laughed. “They both keep making excuses. Lilly told me she’s sure she’s going to cry when he goes to kindergarten next year.”
“Adam didn’t spend that long with Grandfather and Grandmother Wakefield until he was six and you and Dad went to a conference in Belgium,” Kristen reminded her.
Her mother laughed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember your father telling that story. Adam reminded me of the same story when we talked last night.”
With one eye on the clock, Kristen asked, “Everything all right?”
“Fabulous. It’s wonderful knowing your children are doing so well in life. Adam’s practice is thriving and so is Lilly’s business. You’re making headway with your nineteenth-century paintings. By the way, have you had time to contact Paulette Banks about her painting?”
Here it was. “Not yet. I’ve been rather busy.” Her hand flexed on the phone. “I changed jobs.”
There was a brief pause. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Kristen said, trying not to fidget or think she’d disappointed her mother. “I work at St. Clair’s, a well-known art gallery featuring a wide range of African-American art as well as traditional artists on Royal Street in the French Quarters.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it,” Kristen answered, becoming more assured. “I’d met the owner before, and when I went in to interview for the job the shop was so busy I put down my purse and started assisting a couple.” She related the details of her first sale. “At St. Clair’s, I get to talk with the customers and discuss art. At the museum I was usually stuck doing administrative duties. Jacques, my boss, is wonderful to work for. I go to work smiling every day.”
“I can tell, and that’s what’s important. The best part is that you won’t have that Dr. Smithe to contend with.”
Her mother had come to New Orleans with Jonathan on several occasions and visited the museum while she was at work. Dr. Smithe had been barely civil. “That’s one of the great benefits.”
“You’re a smart woman. I’m glad you found a job you love,” her mother said. “Now, when are you coming for a visit?”
The last of the lingering tension eased out of Kristen’s shoulders. Her mother trusted her to make the right decision. She always had. Why had it taken her so long to realize that? “Not for another month or so, probably.”
“Then we’ll have to visit you if you can’t manage it soon.”
“I’d like that.” The doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. Rafe was almost thirty minutes early. “Rafe’s at the door. I’ll talk to you next week. Tell Jonathan hi for me.”
“You know perfectly well he’s sitting here beside me.”
“Hi, pumpkin,” Jonathan said. “I’m glad you found a job you love.”
“Me, too. Love you both, ’bye.”
“’Bye.”
Hanging up, she went to answer the door. An uncertain Rafe stood there.
“I’m early,” he said by way of greeting.
“You’re exactly on time.” Taking him by the arm, she pulled him inside and closed the door. “I just got off the phone with Mother, and I told her about leaving the museum. She and Jonathan were happy for me.”
“You tell them why?”
Making a face, Kristen picked up her large, black bag from the sofa and slung it over her shoulder. “No, because I didn’t want them on the next plane here. Besides, I’m pleased with the way things turned out.”
He stared down at her in complete bafflement. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” Hooking her arm through his, she took heart that he didn’t s
tiffen. “Claudette will wise up sooner or later and Maurice will get his. In the meantime, I’m working at a job I love, have a fabulous boss, and best of all, I made a wonderful new friend.”
“Who?” he asked as they left her apartment.
She smiled up at him. “You.”
Rafe didn’t want his chest to swell with pride or a smile to grow on his face, but he was powerless to keep either from happening. No matter how he fought letting Kristen matter to him, he hadn’t been successful. So the only thing left to do was just keep things in perspective. She was a friend, nothing more.
“I found out the Catfish Shack serves breakfast. You want to eat there?” he asked as they stopped in front of the elevator.
“That’s a marvelous idea,” she said, stepping into the chrome-and-glass elevator.
* * *
The buxom waitress at the Catfish Shack recognized Rafe and Kristen immediately. Grinning broadly, she showed them to a small table, proclaiming that they were going to turn into regulars as they sat down. She could always tell. Rafe’s dark eyes widened at the announcement—then he became intensely interested in the small selection on the slate menu.
The friendly woman winked at Kristen and she winked back. She fully believed she was making progress knocking down Rafe’s doors and she planned to continue. “I’m starved. I’ll have ham, scrambled eggs, hash browns, French toast, juice, and coffee. How about you?”
His head popped from behind the slate to stare at her in astonishment.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He shifted in his cane-backed chair, then handed the menu to the waiting waitress. “I’ll have the same, except I’ll have apple juice.”
“Gotcha.” Collecting the menus, she left.
Bracing her arms on the small table, Kristen linked her fingers together and stared at Rafe. Her lips twitched. “Now that she’s gone, you can tell me that you think I’m a pig when it comes to good food.”
“It’s just that you remind me of a polished teak statue of a woman I saw in an art gallery. You’re both so elegant and graceful.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine you having a big appetite.”
His words went straight to her heart. Kristen strove to keep her expression unchanged and her arms from reaching across the small table to hug him. “I didn’t until lately. I’m enjoying life more and my appetite reflects that.”
“You deserve to be happy.” He placed his forearms on the table. “You were always so quiet at your family gatherings.”
“Here’s your coffee and juice,” the waitress said.
“What did I tell you about that?” Kristen asked as soon as the woman moved away, then noted his obvious confusion. “You are a part of this family.”
He glanced away. “Not really.”
Kristen didn’t resist this time: she reached out and placed her hand on top of his. He jumped at the contact. His head came up. Beneath her hand, his quivered, but he didn’t pull away.
“Rafe, that’s not true. You matter to us and you’ve proven that we matter to you. If you think otherwise, you do all of us and yourself a disservice.” Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away, sat back in her chair, and tried to bring some lightness back into the conversation. “You don’t want me to tell Lilly on you, do you?”
He almost smiled. “No, she’d get on me. She’s always been in my corner.”
“That’s the type of person she is.” Kristen picked up her coffee cup, a heavy white stoneware mug. “I’m happy she and Adam found each other.”
He seemed to take a moment to digest what she had said as he added two sugars and cream to his coffee. “When I came for the wedding and saw how wealthy Adam and you all were, I was worried that he was just grateful for her help while he was blind. Then I saw them together and knew he really cared about her.” His large hands curved around the mug. “I saw how the rest of you accepted, even loved Lilly and I knew I didn’t have to worry about her anymore. She’d found the place where she belonged and was wanted just for herself.”
The longing was back in his voice. Kristen recognized it because she’d heard the same longing in her own voice at one time. “You will, too. I think I already have.”
He couldn’t mask the surprise on his face or the hope that was quickly banked.
“Here you are.” The woman placed two oval-shaped platters wider than Kristen’s hand on the table. Both were heaped with food.
Kristen glanced at Rafe. “Just call me Ms. Piggy.”
He grinned at her. “I may not know much about women, but I do know that could get me into trouble.”
Kristen returned the smile, treasuring it, then bowed her head for him to say grace. He was getting there.
* * *
Their first stop at an estate sale yielded little. The reportedly antique furniture was little more than pressed wood. At the second stop thirty minutes later, the furniture wasn’t much better. Kristen hadn’t expected to find anything their first time out and told Rafe as much as they crossed the lawn, heading to his truck parked on the side of the two-lane blacktop.
“This might take a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
Taking her arm, he steered her around two small children running to catch up with their parents. “I have time. I’m ahead of schedule on my next three projects.”
“I can certainly see why your work is in such demand after today.” She climbed into the truck. “Mrs. Oliphant stopped by the gallery the other day and said she’d been by your shop and ordered a tea box and a chest.”
He propped his hand on the open door frame. “I gave her a card and she said she already had one. Then she said she thought I should discard my old ones because my new ones on the heavy paper with old English printing were so much better.”
“I, er, ah, intended to tell you about that.” She really had.
“I guess you forgot.” Closing her door, he went around and got inside.
“Are you upset with me?” she asked, a little worried. Things had been going so well between them.
Fastening his seat belt, he started the motor, then glanced at her. “Friends help friends. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t sure you were listening.” She grinned at him. It was going to be all right.
“I was.” Checking the rearview mirror, he pulled off. “Where to next?”
She checked the map she’d printed off the Internet. “Another estate sale about five miles from here.”
“What time do you have to be back?”
“Not until three,” she said, looking out the window at the denseness of the woods and the intense greenness. “Jacques gave me extra time since I’m working with the boys.”
“Sounds reasonable. I guess I’ll have to feed you again before I take you back,” he teased.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.” Of course that meant they’d spend more time together. The day was turning out to be as beautiful as she’d hoped.
nineteen
Damien had everything ready. The wine was chilling, a scrumptious lunch would be waiting after their swim, and the speaker system allowed soft music to drift out to the pool. He’d shown Angelique to the guest bedroom upstairs so she could change, then he’d come back downstairs.
The weather was cooperating. It was one of those clear days when the sky was so blue it almost hurt your eyes. The soft scent of the flowers in the well-tended gardens his mother loved so much drifted out to him. The vibrant hues of purple and red were startling against the lushness of the green leaves.
“I’m ready.”
Damien jerked around and his heart actually stopped, then galloped like a racehorse coming down the final stretch at Louisiana Downs. His throat dried and he was glad he’d kept on his robe. His reaction to her was instant and fierce.
She wore a deep tangerine two-piece suit that made her golden-brown skin lustrous. A knotted sarong in a bold tropical print was tied at her waist. The top was modest by most standards, but for a man who’d w
anted a woman as much as he wanted Angelique, it was pure torture.
The smile on her face died. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Can you change how you look?” he asked, coming to her.
“Of course not.”
His arms slid around her small waist, he nibbled on her ear. “Then I guess I can’t change how I look at you.”
Feeling herself slipping under his spell, Angelique pushed away. “You promised we’d go swimming.”
He untied his robe and tossed it on a chaise longue. “So I did.”
Now it was Angelique’s turn to stare. He was magnificent, with rope-hard muscles and a wide chest tapering to a trim waist and long, powerful legs. She caught herself and snapped her mouth closed. He was grinning at her. She blushed, but returned his grin.
“Come on, I’ll race you to the other end and back.” Giving her just enough time to untie her wrap, he took her hand and ran with her toward the clear, blue waters of the pool.
A few steps before they reached the tiled edge, he released her hand. He dove into the water mere seconds before her. Damien blinked in astonishment to see Angelique beside him when he broke free of the water. She quickly pulled ahead of him. He went after her.
He didn’t catch her until they reached the other end of the rectangular pool. He pushed away and pulled ahead on the way back. Twenty feet from the end of the pool and victory, he glanced behind and didn’t see her. His blood chilled. He paused, treading water: he was about to dive beneath the surface when he heard a giggle and turned to see Angelique near the end. He raced after her, knowing he wouldn’t win.
She waited for him at the end, one hand on the lapis blue tile surrounding the pool, the other rippling through the water as she floated. “You lose.”
“You cheated.” He placed his hand beside hers.
“I did not.”
“I was worried about you,” he said, trying to get his heart to stop drumming in his chest. “I thought you were in trouble and had gone under.”
Her satisfied smile faded into one of regret. “Oh, Damien, I didn’t think about that. There was a YMCA down the street from our house in Baton Rouge and usually one or the other of us worked there so we always had access to the pool whenever we wanted.”