This book is dedicated to
Jimmie, my very own old soul, whose love brings so much joy into my life
And to
Marilyn Henderson, the most talented weaver of words ever born
Chapter 1
The rumbling of voices died down and the conference room grew quiet. One-by-one, the curators joined the queue and selected an envelope from the stack. Mary held her breath as she reached the head of the line, then closed her eyes and picked an envelope from those left on the table.
As much as she hated it, the selection process was fair. Each assignment went into an identical envelope, which was shuffled into a large stack. Even management didn't know which envelope held the local jobs.
This late in the season, Markis Bros. Estate Surveyors held on to inventory assignments which they normally farmed out to smaller firms. It was a case of either keeping the out-of-town jobs or laying off half their curators. Although she didn't like the idea of spending Christmas away from home, it was certainly better than standing in the unemployment line.
Echoes of dismay rippled across the room as most curators learned they would spend the holidays out of town, and Mary wondered if her recent spell of good luck would hold.
Unable to stand the suspense, she tore open the envelope and read the slip. She could hardly believe her eyes. She'd done it! She'd picked a local assignment! For the first time in six years, she'd get to spend Christmas with her only sister, instead of at a hotel.
She cast a furtive glance around the room, trying to tell from the solemn faces who'd snagged the other local job. Once the locations were announced, everyone would want to trade. She knew she had a reputation as a sucker for a good sob story; more than likely somebody would come up with one she couldn't refuse. Rather than risk having her good nature used against her, she gathered her gear and headed for the door.
A hand on her arm stopped her retreat. She bit back a sigh when she recognized the freckled fingers. They could only belong to one person--Tony Parker. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. She looked up and found herself staring into a pair of puppy-dog eyes surrounded by a sea of freckles. He probably wanted to call in his marker. So much for a fast getaway. She pasted a false smile on her face and detached her arm.
"Hello, Mary," he said. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just need to catch up on my paperwork, that's all."
"You didn't by any chance get a local assignment, did you?"
She rubbed her forehead nervously. Great. His girlfriend must have gotten the other one. "What makes you think I got it?" she hedged.
"Good try, Mary, but not good enough. I know you got the other assignment because I've already checked with everyone else. You wouldn't, by any chance, want to trade? As a kind of favor to me. You know, like to pay me back for taking that Philadelphia job when your sister nearly died in the car wreck. Of course, you don't have to..."
She considered lying, but didn't have the heart. She did owe him a favor. A big one. He'd been the only person who would trade assignments with her during her darkest hour. A sigh escaped before she could stop it. Oh well, what was one more Christmas away from home when you'd already spent the last six that way?
She gazed at Tony's anxious expression. "Let me guess. You and Cathy want to spend Christmas together, right?"
He grinned and flushed. "Yeah, she wants me to meet her parents. They're planning to come to Boston to meet me."
"Sounds serious."
"It is. Can you keep a secret? I bought her an engagement ring for Christmas. I haven't even told my family yet, so please, don't say anything. I'd really appreciate it if you'd swap with me."
Her reservations faded as she stared at his eager young face. Right now he looked twelve instead of twenty-four. She could tell he was nervous and resisted the temptation to make him squirm. "Anything for the course of true love, Tony." She smiled and held out the envelope. "Here, take it before I change my mind."
His eyes lit up and he relaxed his shoulders. A trembling hand snatched the proffered manila envelope and substituted his own in its place.
"Thanks, Mary. You're the greatest," he whispered as he made an about-face and dashed into the other room.
She watched him go with mixed emotions. Well, at least somebody would have a wonderful Christmas. Suddenly depressed, she headed back to her office and sat down, ignoring the Yuletide music playing on her radio. So what if someone else she knew was going to tie the knot? Why should she feel sad? Her life was great. She had a wonderful relationship with her only sister, lots of friends, and a terrific job that allowed her to pursue her passions in life.
For her, the chance to visit historical homes and handle valuable antiques made working for Markis Bros. a joy--not just something she did to pay her bills. An uncanny ability to correctly evaluate antiques, and a passion for history ensured her place among the elite of her profession, constantly in demand.
What on earth was wrong with her? She loved her job and nothing made her happier than puttering around some old house or building, meticulously writing down exact details of everything in sight. For her, leaving for an assignment was like starting out on a treasure hunt. Even though an occasional job involved exquisite antiques, she was just as thrilled to delve into the relics of people's lives. Not kings and queens, but normal, every-day people, who lived their lives in obscurity but managed to leave some kind of legacy to their heirs. It was like turning back the pages of time and discovering what life was really like through the eyes of someone else.
Old love letters spoke of courtship rituals where men had wooed the hand of a maiden with charm and chivalry. Tattered and faded embroidered tablecloths brought back an age when embroidery was an art passed by women from generation to generation. How could today's history books offer the diversity and wealth of information her work brought, when all they did was present facts in such a dry, straightforward manner? Her job took her deep into the lives and loves of people from the past. By the time she finished inventorying their possessions, she sometimes felt as if she knew them as well as her closest associates. Her job might be demanding at times, and traveling could be downright awful, but it was never dull.
Even with the overwhelming demands of work, she still found time for an active social life. Whenever she was home, outings with male and female friends filled her spare time. She was perfectly happy with the way things were. At least until now.
At thirty-five, she was hardly an old maid on the shelf. She knew the opposite sex found her willowy figure attractive, to say nothing of her green eyes and thick, red-gold hair. Unlike most redheads, she hadn't been blessed with an abundance of freckles, and her fair skin seldom burned, even when she spent hours on the beach soaking up rays of summer sunshine.
Although she wasn't seriously involved with anyone, she wasn't in the least depressed about being single. She'd had two proposals, but declined them when her instincts told her to wait. A husband and a family would be wonderful, but if that didn't happen, she was content with life the way it was.
The clock on the wall chimed, filling her office with the music of chattering birds. A whimsical gift from her boss, he'd insisted that she hang it in her office "to remind her to take her nose out of a reference book once in a while and pay attention to mother nature's beauty." Her dismal mood evaporated and she straightened her shoulders. Her five minutes of "poor me" were up. It was time to get back to work.
Her gaze strayed to Tony's manila envelope. Last year she'd spent Christmas in a drafty old house in upstate New York. She couldn't be that unlucky again. She took a deep breath and withdrew the stack of papers.
It was an old plantation house in central Louisiana, about a hundred miles north of Baton Rouge. This assignment might not be too bad, af
ter all. She'd always wanted the chance to work on a plantation. If nothing else, at least she wouldn't have to put up with snow and ice for a couple of weeks.
Hopefully, if there was a local bed and breakfast, she could stay there, instead of a hotel. With any luck, she might be able to get the owner to give her some tips about what it took to successfully run the business. Although she loved her job, she'd always dreamed of owning her own bed and breakfast, and had already saved enough money for a down payment. Maybe this time she'd find the right location.
Her daydream over, she focused her attention once more on the matter at hand. This assignment would be a joint inventory with their chief competitor, Brannon Enterprises. A friendly rivalry existed between the two firms, and she'd already worked with them on several large jobs. If she was lucky, she'd be teamed up with someone who shared her passion for antiques. She had little time or patience for curators who did only the minimum to get the job done. They were the ones who gave her profession a bad name, and she had no qualms about telling them so. Unfortunately, whenever she spoke up, any working relationship quickly dissolved into a tedious test of wills. Luckily, she'd yet to come across anyone whose will or knowledge was greater than hers.
She rifled through the attachments and breathed a sigh of relief when she located the "Judgement of Possession", the only document issued once the estate had been legally transferred to the new owners by the court. Without it, she'd be forced to wade through a ton of red tape and make several court appearances.
Either the contents of this plantation were worth a fortune, or the heirs had more money than sense. Hiring two firms instead of one didn't come cheap, especially these two. Another thought struck her and she smiled. Maybe the heirs didn't trust each other. That would explain why they wanted two appraisals. One company could keep an eye on the other. Her spirits lifted and she chuckled quietly. This job was going to be interesting, one way or another.
Chapter 2
Mary muttered under her breath as she tried to dodge the potholes that pitted the narrow bayou road. Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? She tried to recall the directions Mrs. Martine had given her, and could have sworn this was the right highway. The plantation was supposed to be some twenty-five miles outside of town. She glanced down at the odometer. Ten miles left to go. No need to worry just yet.
Her thoughts wandered back to the meeting she'd had earlier that morning with Mr. and Mrs. Martine in their stately, three-storied mansion. She'd expected a much older couple, and the fact that Mrs. Martine was very close to her own age came as a surprise.
Nicole Martine was a well groomed, striking woman in her late thirties with raven-black hair, fair skin, and penetrating blue eyes. Her voice, with its distinct Southern drawl, was deep and rich. She'd greeted Mary with a smile, but even though her manners had been perfect, Mary got the distinct impression that the woman didn't care that much for her.
Philippe Martine, although polite, came across as a pathetic, beaten-down husk of a man with stooped shoulders and a stubby red nose. He seemed a lot older than his wife, but since he'd kept his face buried in his whiskey glass, it was hard to tell. The only noticeable thing about him was the fact that during the twenty minutes she'd been at their house, he'd refilled his whiskey glass three times. No water, no club soda, just straight booze.
The meeting ended when Nicole extended an invitation to stay in the plantation until the appraisal was complete. Evidently a small staff still lived there and had been told to expect both curators. From what Mrs. Martine said, the other curator had already arrived.
After voicing the invitation, Nicole said goodbye, summoned the maid, and asked her to escort Mary to the front door. There was no further conversation, just the slam of a heavy oak door behind Mary as she stepped onto the porch.
Puzzled by Nicole's behavior, Mary covered the short distance to her car and sped away. She revisited the scene over and over in her mind, trying to figure out if she could have said or done anything to cause such an abrupt dismissal. She eventually came to the conclusion that she hadn't said or done anything to insult Mrs. Martine. The woman, for some unknown reason, had simply taken a dislike to her. It was as simple as that. A sigh escaped her lips as she realized that sometimes you just had to accept a situation the way it was and move on.
She wondered what the three elderly people still living at the plantation were like. Hopefully they wouldn't take an instant dislike to her. It would be nice if they turned out to be pleasant. Breakfast conversations with the staff always made a job more interesting. Sometimes they were able to fill in personal details about the owners that the files couldn't answer.
Her car suddenly veered to the right and she decided she'd better keep her attention on the highway and not worry about the plantation staff. Besides, as soon as she found the house, her questions would be answered.
Some twenty minutes later, after passing swamp after swamp, her anxiety deepened. So far, the only living things she'd seen were snakes and turtles. Not exactly ideal travel companions. There were no cars or houses, just ugly cypress trees, lily pads, and bayous. Surely she should've found the plantation by now. She decided to stop and check her map, but when she rounded another hairpin turn, a large silhouette loomed in the distance. That had to be it. Her anxiety dissipated and the first tingles of excitement stirred within her.
The swamps gradually gave way to dry land. Overgrown, untended flowerbeds lined both sides of the long driveway leading to the plantation. As she neared the house, she felt as if she was coming home. Her gaze lingered along the flowerbeds, searching for rose bushes she remembered growing in certain spots.
What on earth was wrong with her? There was no way she could know anything about this place, other than what was in the file. She'd never even been in Louisiana before. She wished she knew someone who was willing to sell one of these beautiful homes at a bargain price, but that wasn't about to happen. Plantation homes, even those that needed repair, seldom sold for under three hundred thousand dollars. All of which meant that owning one was forever out of her reach.
An old wooden shed stood to the right of the house and she parked the car on a bed of gravel in front of it. Her luggage could wait. She wanted a good look at the plantation before it got dark. Small stones and twigs crunched underneath her crepe-soled shoes as she picked her way through gravel and dormant Azalea bushes to the front of the house.
Her first impression was one of deep sorrow. The plantation must have been a beauty in its prime, but now it was old and neglected. Worn and weary, the two-story structure stood like a withered old man who'd been beaten down and no longer had the strength to fight back. Thick vines covered most of the windows, where hand–carved shutters had either been removed or rotted out. The expansive porch sagged, as if no one cared enough to repair the boards that were broken and loose. The little paint remaining was dirty and cracked, and two rotten beams framed the doorway.
Tears misted her eyes. The poor old house didn't deserve the fate that had befallen it. Even the beautiful yellow rose bushes Jean-Pierre planted along the porch were gone.
She caught herself abruptly. Shutters, yellow roses? How in the world did she know about hand-carved shutters and yellow roses? And who was Jean-Pierre?
Footsteps echoed behind her. Someone was walking up the drive. The steps halted and a deep, masculine voice said, "It's a real shame the way this house has been neglected."
The voice sounded familiar, triggering a rush of panic that flooded her entire being. Oh God, surely it wasn't him. Her heart pounded and blood soared through her veins. She spun around, nearly falling in her rush.
It was Jack! He towered above her 5'6" frame by some four or five inches. Muscled arms strained against the dark blue sweater that hugged his torso. Thick strands of dark brown hair stuck out from underneath his Stetson hat and framed a long, lean face accentuated by a Roman nose and steel-gray eyes. His lips eased into a grin as he tipped his fingers to his hat in a mock salute.
> Deep in her mind, a memory stirred, tried to surface, and she resolutely crushed it down. Whatever happened between them five years ago was best forgotten.
He cleared his throat and she realized she'd been staring with her mouth open. Embarrassed, she squared her shoulders and smoothed imaginary wrinkles on her skirt. "It ought to be a crime to neglect a beautiful house like this," she mumbled, ignoring the grin on his face. "I'll bet it was something to see in its day."
"Sure was," he replied.
She heard the odd inflection in his voice and looked up. Was he laughing at her? Had he remembered her embarrassing behavior the last time they worked together?
His glance met hers and he shook his head, as if answering her unspoken question. "I mean, it must have been beautiful. If you look closely, you can still see some of the original workmanship hiding behind those awful vines."
She took a deep breath and extended her hand. "Hello, Jack."
He raised bushy eyebrows and his lips curled into a smile. "Hello, Mary. Long time, no see. How are you?"
His grip was warm and firm; her fingers tingled at his touch. Confused, she forced her lips to move. "It's good to see you again. When did you get here?"
His grin widened. "I took a cab from the airport house last night. However, if I'd known how far out this plantation actually is, I would've rented a car."
She recalled her few moments of panic. "It's not exactly on the beaten path. I almost wish I had taken a cab." Memories of bumpy rides in a closed carriage flashed across her mind. She shuddered slightly and wished she'd brought her jacket out of the car. This was absurd. Her imagination was getting totally out of hand.
She narrowed her eyes and focused on the front of the house. A slight movement behind the curtains caught her eye, and she wondered who stood behind them, watching their every move. "It's getting cold out here. We'd better go inside. Besides, somebody keeps peeping at us from behind the curtains."
Blue Moon Page 1