La Fleur de Love: The Series: Books 1 - 4

by Leger, Lori

  After Neil left, Jackson looked around at his home, filled with the sterile, plastic, ultra-contemporary furniture and accessories Chloe had chosen. He hated it, and she knew he hated it. Hell, knowing what he knew now, she probably hated it too, and chose it just to make him suffer.

  How the hell had he managed to throw away fifteen years of his life with that lunatic? He had to hand it to her—she had fooled him. She was that good. The irony of the situation suddenly struck him. It started with a low chuckle, and built in a slow crescendo to uncontrollable laughter. After five minutes of wondering if he had completely lost his mind, he finally calmed down and sat at the dining room table with his cup of coffee.

  He glanced at the bag of items he’d removed from Chloe’s car, opened it, and began to sort through them. He flipped through a stack of letters and saw there was one from a doctor there in Lake Coburn. Curious, he opened it. The letter, dated a week earlier, was from an Obstetrician’s office congratulating her on her pregnancy and urging her to call his office to schedule her first pre-natal check up with him. The doctor also stressed the importance of pre-natal vitamins to insure the health of the fetus.

  The letter fell from Jackson’s hands to the floor. Elbows on knees, he let his hands support the weight of his head, taking deep gulps of breath until a wave of nausea passed. After all those years of waiting and wanting a child, Chloe was pregnant. Jackson wondered when she planned to tell him about the pregnancy. Considering what he’d just discovered in the letter, he wondered if she even planned to tell him. He supposed he’d never know.

  Overwhelmed by the senseless loss, and so alone in his misery, he lethargically reached for the phone to call Uncle Bill. As soon as he picked up the handset it rang. He took a deep breath and barely croaked out a hoarse hello. A too-damn-perky woman on the other end of the line began speaking in an irritating sing song voice.

  “This is the Family Planning Clinic of Beaumont and we are trying to reach Chloe Broussard about her missed appointment. We don’t approve of ‘no shows’ but we do understand that sometimes things happen that are beyond our patient’s control. If she is there we need to know if she wants to reschedule the procedure.”

  Jackson’s breath froze as he made the connection. Nausea plus pregnancy plus an appointment at a clinic of this type equaled to one thing. No. She wouldn’t. Would she? Then he remembered the letter. The hell she wouldn’t.

  He cleared his throat, needing to know for sure. “I’m sorry she missed her appointment, ma’am, but there’s no need to reschedule the abortion.” He held his breath, stilling clinging to the hope this woman wouldn’t confirm his suspicion.

  She hesitated briefly before continuing. “Oh. Has she decided to go through with the pregnancy? If that’s the case, I’ll remove her from the doctor’s schedule.”

  Jackson swallowed the build-up of bile in order to answer, his voice steely with anger. “The bitch is dead.” He ended the call, sat staring at the phone several seconds before letting it fall to the floor.

  He covered his face. Chloe had been pregnant, and didn’t want the child. His child. Or maybe not, considering the contents of the letter. Regardless, he’d have wanted the child, would have treated it as his own, showered it with love, making up for its horrible mother, protected it from her. But maybe once she’d had a child, she would have changed? Her condition—he clipped the thought short, remembering there was no condition. An act, all these years, a horrendous, cruel act on her part to keep him emotionally attached and sympathetic, even with the absence of love. She’d been incapable of love, obviously.

  Jackson focused on the scene in the truck with his wife, recalling the few minutes before the accident. Her irrational anger at something so trivial had seemed normal at the time. Now, of course, he knew the reason behind it.

  It had all started with her long sigh of impatient suffering. “What the hell are you doing, Jackson?”

  As usual, he’d kept his voice low and reserved. He’d always endeavored to be the sedative influence during Chloe’s bouts of unreasonable behavior. More often than not, it proved to be the calm before the storm. “The light is out on that side. I’m letting people exit.”

  “That’s their problem. It won’t kill them to wait.”

  “It won’t kill us to be kind, Chloe.”

  She’d faced him then, her face twisted in rage. “I have things to do.”

  He’d turned to his wife as he let another vehicle turn onto the highway in front of them. “I’m sure they all do, too.”

  She’d glanced impatiently at her phone. “I couldn’t care less about anyone else.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt you to try.”

  She’d whipped her head around. “Did you say something, asshole?”

  Jackson kept quiet as he let his foot off the brake and inched forward slowly.

  “It’s about damn time,” she’d huffed, facing her window. But, his foot hitting the brakes had her whipping her head forward once more. “What now?”

  He’d nodded toward the black SUV at the intersection. “That’s Toby and Giselle. They’re on their way to a party.” He’d lifted his hand, grinning at his friend, Toby’s enthusiastic wave of gratitude.

  Chloe had jerked her head toward him in agitation. “I told you I have things to do, Jackson. Let’s go!” The last two words had come out in a screech of uncontrolled rage.

  He’d pulled out after the black SUV and followed them back toward the interstate, all the while enduring a continuous diatribe of insults from his dear wife.

  Jackson stood slowly. An abortion. She had to drive to Beaumont for an abortion, and he’d been holding her up. She must have been frantic she’d miss her appointment. She’d missed it, all right. But for a reason totally beyond his control.

  He walked over to the latest of many studio portraits taken of Chloe and picked up the frame. He studied the features of his dead wife; from her expensive, high-end haircut, her two hour make-up application, to the perfectly manicured nails. She spent more money monthly on her appearance than most people did on home mortgages. He should know, he’d paid for it for years. All that pretty on the outside had done nothing to improve her inside. What he’d mistaken for a medical condition had proven to be nothing more than a spiteful streak of evilness that made her the cold hearted bitch she was.

  Jackson pitched the frame across the room, gleamed some satisfaction as it landed on the opposite wall and shattered. How he wished he could get his hands on her skinny little ass just for a moment. Just to tell her how he felt about her. To let her know he’d survived her hatefulness without letting it turn him.

  He stood there, gasping for deep breath to keep from screaming, staring at the house that had never felt like a home. Chloe had damn well made sure of that. He picked up his keys, and stormed out, heading to the U-Haul business two streets over. When he returned thirty minutes later, his truck bed was loaded down with moving boxes and crates.

  Jackson worked like a man possessed, stopping just long enough to call the local Salvation Army. He told them he had a houseful of furniture and clothes to donate that he would put to the curb tonight. Two men arrived within the hour and began to fill the truck with furniture and boxes containing Chloe’s things. By eight p.m. he’d removed all traces of her. Not a single item remained to show that she’d even set foot in the structure, much less lived there for nearly eleven years.

  He poured himself a highball glass of whiskey, dropped into the one chair he’d kept, a remnant from his college days he’d stubbornly refused to part with. He drank steadily for another hour, then made his way to the guest room with the stripped down queen-sized mattress and box spring, Throwing back the last swallow, he fell onto the bed, and descended into a deep, dreamless, abyss of drunken slumber.

  Jackson awoke promptly at six a.m. the next morning. Once he’d showered and shaved, he called Carrie. Her first thought was for him, and it made him smile.

  “Hey, Jack, how are you feeling this morning?”
>
  Jackson sipped at his cup of coffee. “I’m okay. How was her night?”

  “It was rough. I wish Sam was here with me.”

  “Will I do? I’ll be heading there, shortly.”

  “Don’t you have to make funeral arrangements?”

  “Nope, but at some point I’ll need to buy a house full of furniture.”

  Carrie inhaled sharply. “What the hell’s going on, Jack?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Jackson glanced up at the soft whooshing of elevator doors opening. Carrie stood there, arms crossed, and foot tapping. He ignored her look of impatience and brushed past her to look in on Giselle.

  “Well” he said, as they exited the room again, “at least she’s not curled up in the fetal position. That’s what I’d do.”

  “She tried. Broken ribs wouldn’t allow. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and some breakfast. You look like crap.”

  “Well, thanks a heap, Carrie.”

  “Anytime. When’s the last time you ate anything?”

  “Breakfast…yesterday.”

  She harrumphed. “That’s what I thought. Let’s get you some sustenance.”

  They stood in the breakfast line at the hospital’s cafeteria, sliding their trays along the metal rail. Jackson placed a pastry in his tray. Carrie removed it, placing it back on the shelf.

  He reached out for it. “I wanted that.”

  She slapped at his hand. “You haven’t eaten in twenty four hours. You need protein in your system, not this crap. You know better than that.”

  Jackson opened his mouth to protest until he saw the telltale lift of her brow, a sure-fire-dare for him to disobey.

  Carrie filled his tray with bacon, eggs, whole wheat toast, and a cup of fresh fruit. She dropped containers of juice and milk in his tray. “We’ll need a carafe of coffee at our table,” she told the cashier. She passed the woman her debit card.

  Jackson grabbed Carrie’s card and dropped it in her purse, then handed his card to the cashier.

  “Pushy,” Carrie said.

  “That’s funny, coming from you,” he snorted.

  They emptied their trays onto their table while someone brought the coffee. Carrie poured two cups and pushed one toward Jackson. “Sooo,” she drawled. “Why are you buying furniture today instead of making funeral arrangements for your wife?”

  He coughed on his sip of juice. “Jesus, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  She pulled back the lid on a container of creamer. “Answer the question.”

  He paused several moments after taking another sip of juice then cleared his throat. “Chloe left a letter with our lawyer. She said she didn’t want any kind of funeral service, and she wanted to be cremated.”

  “Oh.” She looked over at him with narrowed eyes. “Please tell me you’re not going to keep her in an urn on your mantle. That’s so damn creepy.”

  “I don’t have a mantle. I thought I’d keep her at the office where you could visit with her every day,” he said dryly.

  She dropped her fork, and glared at him. “Even with no loss of love between she and I, that is so not funny.”

  He grinned tightly at her. “She wanted them sent to her mother in California.”

  Carrie’s mouth dropped in shock. “To the woman who was sorry for your loss but wouldn’t attend her funeral. Really?”

  Jackson shrugged. “She did me a favor.” He felt his friend’s gaze on him. “Long past time one of them did.”

  “Come on, Jack. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re holding back from me. This is not about funeral arrangements, is it? What’s going on, here?”

  He placed his fork on the tray and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and met her curious gaze. “It’s not about funeral arrangements.”

  “What else did she say in that letter?”

  “She said that she had been on the pill the entire time we’d been together. She never wanted a child. Anyone’s child.”

  “That can’t be true. What about the depression when she got her period every month?” Carrie reminded him.

  He pushed back in his chair. “You remember that quack doctor that tried to tell me she was putting on an act?” He waited for Carrie’s nod. “It seems I owe him an apology.”

  Her face turned pale. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You must be—I—I don’t know what to say,” she stammered. “I can’t even imagine how you must feel. I’m so sorry.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Don’t cry over her, Carrie, she’s not worth it.”

  “She’s not, but you are. All the years you wasted on that spiteful, conniving…” She swore then released s deep sigh. “I shouldn’t say that. I know you still loved her.”

  “I put up with her. But love? Not for a long time.”

  She stared at him for a minute in silence. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Nothing that should ever be repeated.”

  Carrie shook her head in disgust. “I’d give my right arm to go one round with that skinny tramp.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “Aw, thanks hon, it means a lot that you’d be willing to whip her ass for me.”

  “It’s not fair, Jack. You’re a good man, and one day, you’ll make a wonderful father.”

  He shook salt on his eggs. “Aren’t you skipping a step?”

  Carrie supported her chin on her clasped hands. “I think God has something special planned for you. I really do.”

  He dropped his fork in his plate and rested his elbows on the table to gaze at her. “I sure as hell hope you’re right, Carr. It’d be nice to actually look forward to going home at the end of the day.”

  She nodded in understanding. “It happened for me after eighteen years. It’ll happen for you, too.”

  He straightened and cleared his throat.

  “So, what’s the deal with the furniture?”

  He told her how he had emptied his house of everything that reminded him of his wife.

  “So you purged your home of Chloe.”

  “You could say that. Now I can buy some decent furniture.”

  “God, she had horrible taste in furniture, didn’t she?”

  He nodded, refilling his coffee cup. “So, how’s Giselle? Does she hate me any worse today than she did yesterday?”

  “She doesn’t hate you. Maybe when she sees her girls, it’ll be better.”

  “Do they know?”

  “No, and they need to be told. I don’t know what to do. I hate to take too much of this on myself when they have a mother, but she’s still so out of it,” she murmured.

  “Do you have a photo of the girls here?”

  “No, I have plenty at home. Do you think that would help? I could have Sam bring some over.”

  Jackson stood up and fished his truck keys out of his pocket. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes or so.” He ran to catch the elevator before the doors closed.

  Giselle turned her head at the sound of a light knock on her door. Awake and subdued for the moment, she faced the wall again when Jackson stepped inside. “I don’t want to see anybody,” she said.

  “I thought you may want to have this with you. Giselle, look at me.”

  She turned to him, focused on the photo of her girls She reached out with both hands. “My babies!” She pulled the photo close, as silent tears trailed down her bruised cheeks to fall onto the glass covering the photo. She glanced past Jackson to Carrie. “Do they know?”

  Carrie sniffed and cleared her throat. “No sweetie. I didn’t want to do anything without talking to you first.”

  “I’ll tell them, but I want to do it at home. Do you think the doctor will release me soon?”

  Jackson stepped forward. “What’s her doctor’s name?”

  “Dr. Allemande - I saw her in the hall a few minutes ago.”

  “I’ll find her.”

&nbs
p; Giselle didn’t acknowledge Jackson’s exit. After several minutes had passed, she turned to Carrie. “Why is Jackson here? Is Chloe in the hospital, too?”

  “No, hon. Chloe died in the wreck. He’s here because he wants to help.”

  “I didn’t know,” Giselle whispered. “We saw them just before the accident, you know.”

  Jackson re-entered the room and froze at her agonizing admission, afraid to make his presence known. The sound of Giselle’s voice, heartbroken and tortured, droned on, as she explained about the malfunctioning light at the Civic Center. He smiled as she told Carrie how he’d let her and Toby cut in front of them in the long queue of traffic.

  “You know,” he heard her say, “If he hadn’t, Toby and I would have missed the accident,” Giselle murmured.

  Jackson’s breath froze as he heard Carrie’s distressed comeback.

  “Oh, honey, there’s no way of knowing that.”

  “Think about it,” he heard Giselle say, her voice lifeless and void of feeling. “Jackson let us out and Toby’s dead. This may have happened because of him.”

  Jackson’s heart plummeted to his toes. Miserable and unable to face anyone, he backed silently out of the room, and then caught the elevator to the lobby. He walked outside to his truck and pulled out his cell phone to call Carrie.

  “Hey, I wanted to tell you that I found her doctor. She’ll be in her room to discuss her release within a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, but where are you?”

  “In my truck. I’m leaving.”

  “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

  He paused for a moment. “I don’t think she wants to see me. She really does hate me more today than she did yesterday.” He waited through her prolonged pause then sighed. “I heard what she said.”

  “She didn’t mean that.”

  He wiped roughly at his eyes. “That’s not how it sounded.”

  “Jack—”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” He disconnected, dropped the phone in his pocket.

  Jackson sat in his truck, wondering what the hell to do. He felt stranded, with no place he could go. He didn’t want to go home, now that he remembered how it echoed with emptiness this morning. He couldn’t face it yet, not until there was at least the prospect of having furniture again. He opened his phone and redialed Carrie’s number.