“Eventually Joshua started playing basketball on a Garden District church team. I wanted none of that, and I started hanging out with some characters who made Joshua and Skeeter look like saints. My father sobered up long enough to realize what was happening, and my mother convinced him to send me down to the swamps to stay with her brother, Claude.”
“And you went?”
“Sober, my father was a man to contend with.” He smiled a little. “I went. I stayed for two years. They were the best two years of my life.” He fell silent, finishing the contents of his glass but not his story.
“Will you tell me about those years?” Antoinette touched his cheek.
Sam realized that he’d never tried to explain that time in his life to anyone before. He’d chosen to keep the memories inside, untainted by casual conversation. There’d never been anyone who would understand the emotional investment that he had in them. Not until now. Realizing that Antoinette would understand made him even more cautious.
“There’s not a lot to tell,” he said finally. “That whole side of my family is Cajun. They’ve always lived along the bayous and in the swamps. Centuries ago they came to this part of the world with the first wave of Acadian exiles and vowed never to let anyone or anything push them from their home again. My mother was cut off from her family when she left to marry my father. Seventeen years later, when she had to write and ask for their help, they relented and agreed to take me in. They’d have taken her back, too, but she was too proud to ask. My father borrowed a car and drove me down to Bayou Midnight to live with my uncle. My mother stayed behind.”
“Did she ever reconcile with them?”
“No. She died while I was there. I came back to New Orleans for her funeral and decided to stay. By then I had a different view of life.” He paused, deciding to condense the next sixteen years of his life into one sentence. “I worked, went to school part-time and finally joined the force. That’s where I’ve been ever since.”
Antoinette looked at the fabric of his story, rent with holes though it was, and was grateful that he had shared even that much. “Will you tell me the rest of it someday?”
“Why?”
A lifetime of distrust seethed under his question. Antoinette shook her head. “We’re so different. This is really crazy, isn’t it?”
Sam pushed her away, standing to wander the room. Both of them knew exactly why he was putting distance between them.
“Put this place in a lineup and I could make a positive identification,” he said with a quick gesture that encompassed the room. “This belongs to Antoinette Deveraux.”
Since she had worked long and hard to be sure it reflected who she was, Antoinette wasn’t hurt by his words. “What do you see in it, Sam?”
He narrowed his eyes, shooting her an irritated glance. “You want to treat this like a giant inkblot test?”
“That’s how your comment sounded to me.” She stood, too. “I’d like to hear what you think you know about me. I’ve told you what I know about you.”
“What you think you know.”
“My mistake.”
He turned away, examining the room. “There’s nothing in here that’s not genuine. That landscape,” he said, pointing to a delicate watercolor, “is an original. That vase,” he said, lowering his finger, “came off a potter’s wheel, not an assembly line. You have to understand everything you live with. It has to speak to you in some way. It has to be real.
“You chose pieces of furniture as the mood struck you, mixing antiques and contemporary, woods and upholstery, with no regard for propriety. The antiques show your background, the contemporary your attempt to break away.”
He went on before she could congratulate him on his astuteness. “You use cool, feminine colors, but the warmth is always there in the accents. You don’t let it overwhelm you, but no one could miss it, either. You surround yourself with plants to make the room live, and as if that’s not enough, you keep a dog who likes to touch as much as you do.”
Her laugh tinkled across the room, and he turned to face her. “You rarely entertain.”
“How did you know that?”
“One couch, one armchair, only two chairs at your dining room table. No bar, no wineglasses turned upside down on the buffet. No space that would flow well for a party.”
“And what does that say?”
“That you can’t devote the kind of attention you like to give people if there’s a crowd. You’re happier with small groups, happiest with one other person.”
“Remarkably accurate.”
“You scare people with your honesty, scare them with your need to really know them.”
“Are we talking about me now, or you?” Antoinette walked across the room to stand in front of him.
Sam lifted his hands to her shoulders. She had her head cocked in her own unique way so that he knew she was listening on all levels to what he said. Irrationally it irritated him. He didn’t want the kind of intimacy she was capable of.
“I’m not scared of you, Antoinette. I just don’t want what you’re offering.”
Her eyes widened, and he heard her draw in a breath. “I didn’t realize I was offering anything,” she said softly.
“Let me tell you about the place I live,” he said, squeezing her shoulders in emphasis. “It’s the same house I lived in when I was a boy, only it’s mine now, not some slum landlord’s. It’s a big old house chopped into three apartments. I live in the smallest one. I change the light bulbs when I have to. Other than that, I haven’t changed anything since the day I moved in. It says nothing about me.”
“And is that the way you want to live the rest of your life?”
“I have no plans to change anything, ever.”
“Tell me why you’re here, then.”
He was there because he hadn’t been able to stay away. It had been a mistake not to try harder. His voice was harsh. “I find you more attractive than any woman I’ve met in a long time. We’re adults. Do I have to spell it out?”
“It shouldn’t be too hard. It’s only a three-letter word. S-e-x.” She waited for his answer.
“I’m not ashamed I want you.” He moved toward her, holding her still.
“No? Then why the warning?”
“I don’t want an entanglement. I want you in my bed, and when we’re ready to move on, I want us to part friends.”
“And if you’re ready to move on and I’m not?”
His face was only an inch from hers. She had not closed her eyes; her gaze was steady and clear. “Don’t let that happen,” he answered. “For either of our sakes.”
Her hands crept around his neck as much to hold him off as to bind him to her. “Sam,” she whispered, “look at me. I haven’t slept with a man since I slammed the door in Ross Dunlap’s face. Do you think I could give myself to you after what you’ve just told me? One thing I’m not is a masochist.”
Her refusal was predictable. The vulnerability in her voice and the news that she had been chaste for six years was not. If anything, it increased his certainty that he’d been right to be so blunt. “There must be plenty of men out there willing to make the kind of commitment I can’t, just to make love to you. What have you been waiting for?” he asked, blunter still.
A cop with eyes the colors of a winter-burned meadow? A man who protected and challenged with the same ease? An enigma in plain clothes who needed exactly what she had to give? “A man I could love,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Nothing more complicated than that.”
“Then be glad we talked.”
She pulled his mouth to hers in answer, giving herself up to the last kiss they would share. If he was not to give them a chance, then she would be sure he remembered what he had lost.
Her mouth moved against his with a hunger to know all its secrets. There was nothing to hold back because there was no place left for them to go. She was surprised by the mixture of sadness and sheer sensual pleasure she felt. Standing with her body pr
essed against his, she knew, for the first time, exactly how they fit together. There were no adjustments to make, no compromises to reach.
His lips parted, and he plundered the moist recesses of her mouth, hauling her against him until she could feel the strength of his arousal. She could feel her breasts swell and her nipples peak at the intimate contact. Deep inside she could feel the rush of heat that signaled the building of her body’s ultimate response.
Antoinette dug her fingers into Sam’s hair, trying to find a way to bring him closer. She began to pray the kiss that was to be a goodbye would never end.
It was Sam who pushed her away, Sam who stepped back and shook off the slender arms around his neck. It was Sam, breathing hard, who found his way to the front door and closed it without a sound.
It was Antoinette who stood and watched him go, wishing that life would learn to be kind.
Chapter 6
The soft knit shirt was the same vivid green as the sunlit fields of the Emerald Isle. Antoinette pulled it over her head and nodded with approval at her image in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Her pleated skirt was the same color as her shirt, and the effect was exactly right for this Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day. Just to be sure everyone got the point, she pulled her brush through her hair and tied it back from her forehead with a ribbon of the same green.
It was only when she tried unsuccessfully for the third time to fasten tiny emeralds in her earlobes that she realized she was nervous. She wasn’t trembling; it was just that her fingers refused to coordinate. Each one was working independently of the others.
It had been two weeks since she had seen Sam Long, two weeks of alternating periods of acceptance and sadness. He had not called; she had not asked about him when she happened to run into Joshua. Then two days ago Joshua had stopped her in the hall while she was visiting Mr. Fauvier, who had been admitted by court order to the City Hospital Psychiatric Unit. Joshua and Maggie were having a party before the annual Irish Channel St. Patrick’s Day parade. They wanted her to come.
Antoinette had accepted without considering the potential consequences of her decision. It was only when Joshua had gone and she was already committed that she realized Sam would probably be at the party, too. By then it was too late to manufacture an excuse. Or perhaps it was just that her pride wouldn’t let her. After all, she and Sam hadn’t done any more than exchange a few kisses. There was no reason to let that stop her from accepting an invitation for what promised to be a fun afternoon.
Now she stopped for a moment, forcing herself to relax completely. This time when she tried to insert the earrings, they went in easily. She wasn’t about to let Sam Long shake her self-control.
The drive to Joshua and Maggie’s gave Antoinette time to rehearse what she would say to Sam if he was there. She would ask him about Laurie, whom she hadn’t seen since the hypnosis session, and she would ask him about the Omega Oil case. She would be friendly, but not too friendly, warm, but not warm enough to make him think she wanted to give their relationship another try. Except for a mutual friendship with the Martanes, she and Sam didn’t travel in the same circles. But New Orleans was a small enough city that she was bound to run into him someday. She might as well get that first meeting over with when she could prepare for it.
The streets of the Irish Channel were already crowded with cars. Antoinette found a parking spot several blocks past Joshua’s house. As she walked back, she admired the tidy houses decorated with green streamers and balloons, along with the natural decorations of lavender wisteria and scarlet azaleas.
The Channel was one of the first sections of New Orleans to define and describe itself as a neighborhood, although there were those who argued that the neighborhood was more a state of mind than a section bounded by particular streets. The houses had been built for working men during the nineteenth century, many of whom were Irish immigrants. Today they belonged to working men and women of every nationality and color. Like almost any urban neighborhood, some streets were lined with houses on the verge of collapse, and others sported houses that anyone would be proud to own. There was an eclectic mix of architectural styles, but most of the houses had one thing in common. They were strong, solid examples of construction built to last, and even years of neglect had not diminished their essential character.
The Martane’s house was located on a street on its way back up. There was hardly a house for blocks on either side that had not at least received a new coat of paint. More common was partial or total renovation. Antoinette stood in front of the iron-rail fence that enclosed Maggie and Joshua’s yard and admired the changes they had made. The house was large, large enough to have been broken up into apartments before Maggie hired an architect to have it restored. Now it was a one-family dwelling again, a graceful, two-story blend of porches, balconies, wrought iron and New Orleans charm. Brightly colored annuals and azaleas set off the soft gray paint and rose-colored trim.
“Antoinette!” Maggie stepped onto the porch, Bridget perched comfortably on one hip.
“I was just admiring what you’ve done to this place.” Antoinette opened the gate and walked up the brick sidewalk.
“Has it been that long since you’ve been here?” Maggie leaned over and brushed a kiss across Antoinette’s cheek. Bridget’s blue eyes widened, and she grabbed a fistful of Antoinette’s hair before her mother could straighten. Maggie calmly extracted each strand. “No, Bridget. It’s to look at, not touch.”
“Come here, Bridget, and I’ll let you play with it all you want,” Antoinette promised. Without a moment of hesitation, Bridget extended her arms, and Antoinette settled her against her own hip. “She looks like you,” Antoinette told Maggie. “Every time I see her, she looks more and more like you.” Both Martane females had the same chin-length brown curls, the same huge blue eyes and the same heart-shaped faces. Today they were even dressed alike in kelly green dresses with large round buttons pinned on the bodices proclaiming Kiss Me, I’m Irish.
“If she looks like me, that’s a compliment,” Maggie said with a grin. “She’s obviously the most gorgeous child ever to set foot on this planet.”
“Agreed,” Antoinette said solemnly.
“Get down,” Bridget announced, pointing to the porch floor. “Get down, now.”
Antoinette stooped and set the little girl on the porch, watching her toddle into the house. “She’s so big already. They grow so fast.”
“I’m with her every day, and the changes still happen too fast,” Maggie said as Antoinette stood. “I’m glad I run the hospital day-care center, or I’d be one of those women who just has to have a new baby every two years like clockwork.”
“And you’re immune now?”
“Actually, I’m pregnant now,” Maggie admitted. “But I don’t plan any more than one or two—” she hesitated “—or, at the most, three kids.”
Antoinette laughed and hugged her in congratulations, and then the two women, arms around each other’s waists, strolled into the house.
Inside, the living and dining rooms were full of people Antoinette knew by sight from the work she had done with patients at City Hospital. A quick census assured her that Sam Long was not one of them. Skeeter was there, however, tending bar, and Maggie guided Antoinette toward him, making sure that Antoinette’s request for Irish coffee was given top priority.
Antoinette leaned against the counter and watched Skeeter combine a generous shot of Irish whiskey, strong black coffee and thick sweetened cream. He was wearing a white shirt printed with shamrocks and long strands of green beads. On top of his thick black hair was a green felt derby.
“Shall I tell you again how expertly you handled the situation at Tadlows?” Skeeter asked, handing her the brimming mug. “Someone who should know says you saved the guy’s life.”
“Joshua’s always been one of my biggest fans.” Antoinette licked the cream off the top of the drink and decided it was her favorite part.
“I heard it from Sam.”
Antoinette looked up and saw the frank assessment in Skeeter’s eyes. She examined her mug once again. “Obviously you’re one of the select few Sam talks to.”
“That’s right.”
“And obviously I’m not.”
“No, you’re one of those select few he talks about.”
The cream was gone. Antoinette took a big sip of the whiskey-laden coffee and felt its warmth spread through her whole body. Or was it Skeeter’s words that had affected her that way? “And what does Sam say when he talks about me?” she asked finally.
“How well do you know Sam?”
“How well does anyone?” she countered.
“I’ve known him since we were children. He doesn’t have to spell things out for me to understand what he’s saying.”
Antoinette set her mug on the counter and met Skeeter’s eyes. “What do you understand?”
“That you’ve got a hell of a time ahead of you and so does he.”
“We have nothing ahead of us. Sam’s made that quite clear.”
“I believe Joshua once made that same thing quite clear to Maggie.” Skeeter pulled a long strand of green pearls from around his neck and leaned on the counter to drop them over Antoinette’s head. Then he kissed her cheek. “Best of luck, babe.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but before she could, he was serving drinks to other partygoers. A recording of Irish harp and penny whistle accented the conversations buzzing through the downstairs, and Antoinette drifted from group to group, introducing herself to people she didn’t know and greeting those she did. It was a friendly crowd, growing friendlier still with the consumption of alcohol in the combined traditions of Ireland and New Orleans. Joshua came over for a hug and smiled with pride when she congratulated him on the impending addition to his family.
It was only when she had tired of adult conversation and the nostalgic smell of cigarette smoke that Antoinette decided to investigate the backyard, where she knew Bridget and some of the other children invited to the party were playing. The day was sunny and clear, cool enough to enjoy, warm enough to hint at subtropical temperatures still to come.
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