by Tami Hoag
“Don't.” Laurel softened the order with a tentative smile and reached out to touch the hand Savannah had knotted into a tight fist on the white coverlet. “I don't want to imagine it; I lived it. Besides, it wasn't Wes's fault our marriage didn't work out.”
“Wasn't his—!”
Laurel cut off what was sure to be another tirade defaming her ex-husband. Wesley claimed he hadn't left her, but that she had driven him away, that she had crushed their young marriage with the weight of her obsession for The Case. That was probably true. Laurel didn't try to deny it. Savannah automatically took her side, ever ready to battle for her baby sister, but Laurel knew she wasn't deserving of support in this argument. She didn't have a case against Wes, despite Savannah's vehemence. All she had was a solid chunk of remorse and guilt, but that can of worms didn't need to be opened tonight.
“Hush,” she said, squeezing Savannah's fingers. “I appreciate the support, Sister. Really, I do. But don't let's fight about it tonight. It's late.”
Savannah's expression softened, and she opened her hand and twined her fingers with Laurel's. “You need to get some sleep.” She reached up with her other hand and with a forefinger traced one of the dark crescents stress and extreme fatigue had painted beneath Laurel's eyes.
“What about you?” Laurel asked. “Don't you need sleep, too?”
“Me?” She made an attempt at a wry smile, but it came nowhere near her eyes, where old ghosts haunted the cool blue depths. “I'm a creature of the night. Didn't you know that?”
Laurel said nothing as old pain surfaced like oil inside her to mingle with the new.
With a sigh Savannah rose, tugged down the hem of her robe with one hand and with the other pushed a lock of wild long hair behind her ear.
“I mean it, you know,” she murmured. “If Wesley Brooks showed up here now, I'd cut his fucking balls off and stuff 'em in his ears.” She cocked her fingers like pistols and pointed them at Laurel. “And then I'd get mean.”
Laurel managed a weak chuckle. God, how Vivian would blanch to hear language like that from one of her daughters. Daughters she had raised to be debutantes. Sparkling, soft-spoken belles who never cursed and nearly swooned in the face of vulgarity. Vivian had expected sorority princesses, but God knew Savannah would eat dirt and die before she pledged to Chi-O, and she doubtless lay awake nights dreaming up ways to shock the Junior League. Laurel had been too busy to pledge, consumed by her need to get her law degree and throw herself into the task of seeing justice done.
“Would you prosecute me?” Savannah asked as she reached for the lamp switch.
“Be kind of hard to do, seeing how I don't have a job anymore.”
“I'm sorry, Baby.” Savannah clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into moonlight and shadows once again. “I wasn't thinking. You shouldn't be thinking about it, either. You're home now. Get some sleep.”
Laurel sighed and pushed her overgrown bangs back off her forehead, watching as Savannah made her way to the door with her lazy, naturally seductive gait, her robe shimmering like quicksilver. “'Night, Sister.”
“Sweet dreams.”
She would have settled for no dreams, Laurel thought as she listened to the door latch and her sister's footsteps retreat down the hall. But no dreams meant no sleep. She checked the glowing dial of the old alarm clock on the stand. Three-thirty. She wouldn't sleep again tonight no matter how badly her body needed to. Her mind wouldn't allow the possibility of another rerun of the dream. The knowledge brought a sheen of tears to her eyes. She was so tired—physically tired, emotionally exhausted, tired of feeling out of control.
With that thought came the memory of Jack Boudreaux, and a wave of shame washed over her, leaving goose bumps in its wake. She'd made an ass of herself. If she was lucky, he was too drunk to remember by now, and the next time she saw him she could pretend it never happened.
There wouldn't be a next time if she could help it. She knew instinctively she would never be able to handle a man like Jack Boudreaux. His raw sexuality would overwhelm her. She would never be in control—of him or the relationship or herself.
Not that she was interested in him.
Tossing the coverlet and sheet aside, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, went to the French doors, and pulled them open. The night was comfortably warm, fragrant with the scents of spring, hinting at the humidity that would descend like a wet woolen blanket in another few weeks. The magnolia tree near the corner of the house still had a few blossoms, creamy waxy white and as big as dinner plates set among the broad, leathery, dark green leaves.
She had climbed that tree as a child, determined to find out what the experience was all about. Tree climbing was forbidden at Beauvoir, the Chandler family plantation that lay just a few miles down the road from Belle Rivière. Tree climbing was not something “nice girls” did—or so said Vivian. Laurel shook her head at that as she wandered out onto the balcony. Nice girls. Good families.
“Things like that don't happen in good families. . . .”
“Help us, Laurel! Help us. . . .”
The past and the present twined in her mind like vines, twisting, clinging vines attaching their sharp tendrils to her brain. She brought her hands up to clamp over her ears, as if that might shut out the voices that existed only in her head. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, fighting furiously to hold back the tears that gathered in her eyes and congealed into a solid lump in her throat.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit . . .”
She chanted the word like a mantra as she paced the balcony outside her room. Back and forth, back and forth, her small bare feet slapping softly on the old wood. Weakness surged through her like a tide, and she fought the urge to sink down against the wall and sob. The tears choked her. The weakness sapped the stability from her knees and made her curl in on herself like a stooped old woman or a child with a bellyache. The memories bombarded her in a ferocious, relentless cannonade—the children in Scott County, Savannah and their past. “Nice girls.” “Good families.” “Be a good girl, Laurel.” “Don't say anything, Laurel.” “Make us all proud, Laurel.” “Help us, Laurel. . . .”
No longer able to fight it, she turned and pressed herself against the side of the old house, pressed her face against it, not even caring that the edges of the weathered old bricks bit into her cheek. She clung there like a jumper who had suddenly remembered her terror of heights.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered as the despair cracked through her armor and the tears squeezed past the tightly closed barriers of her eyelids. “Oh, God, please, please . . .”
“Help us, Laurel! Please, please, please . . .”
Her fingertips, then her knuckles scraped the brick as her fingers folded into fists. She sobbed silently for a moment, releasing a small measure of the inner tension, then swallowed it back, gagging on the need to cry even as she ruthlessly denied herself the privilege. She pushed herself away from the building and turned toward the balcony, swiping the tears from her face with the heels of her hands.
Dammit, she wouldn't do this. She was stronger than this. She had come here to take control of her life again, not to fall apart twice in one night.
Using anger to burn away the other emotions, she turned and slammed her fist against one of the many smooth white columns that supported the roof of the balcony, welcoming the stinging pain that sang up her arm.
“Weak—stupid—coward—”
She spat out the insults, her fury turning inward. She kicked herself mentally for her failures as she kicked the column with her bare foot. The pain burst through her like a jolt of electricity, shorting out everything else, breaking the thread of tension that had been thickening and tightening inside her.
Gulping air, she bent over the balustrade, her fingers wrapping tightly around the black wrought-iron rail. In the wake of the pain flowed calm. Her muscles trembled, relaxing as the calm shimmered through her. Her heartbeat slowed to a steady bass-drum thump, thump, thump.
/> “Sweet heaven, I have to do something,” she muttered. “I can't go on like this.”
That truth had precipitated her leaving the Ashland Heights Clinic. Her stay there had been peaceful, but not productive. Dr. Pritchard had been more interested in digging up the past than in helping her fix her miserable present. She didn't see the point. What was done was done. She couldn't go back and fix it no matter how badly she wanted to. What she needed to do was push it behind her, rise above it. Move forward. Do something. Do what?
Her job was gone. The fallout from The Case had fallen directly on her. She had been stripped of power, profession, credibility. She had no idea what would become of her, what she would ultimately do or be. Her job had been her identity. Without it she was lost.
“I've got to do something,” she said again, looking around, as if an answer might appear to her somewhere down the dark corridor of the balcony or in the trees or the garden below.
Belle Rivière had been built in the 1830s by a local merchant to placate his homesick young wife who had grown up in the Vieux Carré in New Orleans. The house was designed to emulate the elegant splendor of the French Quarter, right down to the beautiful courtyard garden with its fountain, and brick walls trimmed with lacy black wrought-iron filigree. The garden Laurel had spent two days trying to put to rights only to have Jack Boudreaux's dog—allegedly his dog—uproot her efforts. Damn hound.
Damn man.
The garden had been maintained sporadically over the years. Laurel remembered it as a place of marvelous beauty during her childhood when old Antoine Thibodeaux had tended it for Aunt Caroline. As lush and green as Eden, spray billowing from the fountain, elegant statues of Greek women carrying urns of exotic plants. Antoine had long since gone to his eternal rest, and Caroline's latest gardener had long since gone to New Orleans to be a female impersonator on Bourbon Street. Caroline, absorbed in her latest business venture, an antiques shop, hadn't bothered to hire anyone new.
Laurel had seen it as the perfect project for her, physically, psychologically, metaphorically. Clear away the old debris, prune off the dead branches, rejuvenate the soil, plant new with a hopeful eye to the future. Resurrection, rebirth, a fresh start.
She stared down at the mess Huey the Hound had left and heaved a sigh. Young plants torn up by the roots. She knew the feeling. . . .
“Where are you taking Daddy's things, Mama?”
“To the Goodwill in Lafayette,” Vivian Chandler said, not sparing a glance at her ten-year-old daughter.
She stood beside the bed that had been her husband's, smartly dressed in a spring green shift with a strand of pearls at her throat. She looked cool and sophisticated, as always, like a model from out of a fashion magazine, her ash blond hair combed just so, pale pink lipstick on. She propped her perfectly manicured hands on her hips and tapped the toe of one white pump against the rug imaptiently as she supervised the proceedings. Tansy Jonas, the latest in a string of flighty young maids, hauled load after load of suits and shirts and slacks out of the closet to be sorted into piles.
“Of course, we'll have to take some of it to the church,” Vivian said absently as she considered the armload of dress shirts weighing down poor Tansy. Tansy wasn't more than fifteen, Laurel reckoned, and thin as a willow sapling. The girl seemed to weave beneath the burden of silk and fine cotton cloth, her black eyes going wider and wider in her round dark face.
“It's expected,” Vivian went on, inspecting the state of collars and cuffs, oblivious to Tansy's discomfort. “The Chandlers having always been the leading family hereabouts, it's our duty to contribute to the less fortunate in the community. Why, just the other day, Ridilia Montrose was asking me if I hadn't donated Jefferson's things,” she said, frowning prettily. “As if she thought I wasn't going to. She's got a lot of nerve, and I would have told her so if I weren't a lady. Imagine her looking down on me when everybody in town knows they nearly went bankrupt! And what a shame that would have been, because that daughter of hers has teeth like a mule, and it's going to cost a fortune to fix them.”
She selected a pair of striped shirts, impervious to the pleading look on the maid's face, and tossed them into one of several piles on the bed. “I told her I just hadn't been up to sorting through Jefferson's things. Why, the mere thought of it had me on the verge of one of my spells. I can see, though, that I can't put it off a second longer, or there'll be tongues wagging all over town. I swear, that Ridilia isn't any better than she has to be.”
Continuing in the same breath, she said, “Tansy, put the rest of those on the chair.”
“Yas'm,” Tansy murmured with relief, staggering away under the weight of the load.
“I'll sort through your father's things,” Vivian said to Laurel. “Never mind that it could send me into a tailspin. I'll donate to the church, but I'll die before I see no-account trash walking around Bayou Breaux in Jefferson's silk suits. They're going to Lafayette, and Ridilia Montrose can go to blazes.”
Laurel scooted off the seat of the blue velvet armchair before the maid could bury her alive. She didn't like this at all. Seeing all of Daddy's things pulled out of his neat closet and strewn around his room caused a hollow, churning feeling in her tummy. She had played in his closet more times than she could count, sneaking in there with her Barbie dolls, pretending his big shoes were cars or boats or space ships. It had been her secret place for when she wanted to be all alone. It smelled of leather and cedar and Daddy. She had sat cross-legged on the floor and felt the legs of his neatly hung pants brush across the top of her head, and pretended they were vines and that she was inside a secret cave in the jungle and that his belts were snakes. Now it was all being torn apart to be given to strangers in another town.
Chewing on a thumbnail, she sidled along the big mahogany bureau, her eyes on her mother. Vivian didn't look bothered at all by what she was doing, unless being cross counted. Laurel didn't think it did. It only meant that her mother would rather have been doing something else, not that this job made her sad. She said it might give her a spell, though, and that was a million times worse than just plain sad. It scared Laurel something terrible when her mother went into one of her blue spells—crying all the time, hardly ever getting out of her nightclothes, shutting herself up in her rooms—the way she had done when Daddy died.
Laurel secretly feared she was going to have the same kind of spells. She had felt that bad when Daddy died. She hadn't wanted to see anybody. And she had cried and cried. She had cried so hard, she thought she might just turn herself inside out the way Daddy had always teased her she would. She and Savannah had cried together. She had slipped into her sister's room through the door in the closet because Mama had told her more than once that she was a big girl now and had to sleep alone. She and Savannah had hid under the covers and cried in their pillows until they almost choked.
Ties came out of the closet next, a whole long rack of them that had hung on the clothes pole. The ties drooped down off the rack, nearly to Tansy's feet. The maid struggled to hold it up high, skinny arms over her head so as to give her employer a good look at the strips of silk. Laurel spotted the blue one with the big bug-eyed bass painted on it and almost giggled as she remembered her father wearing it. His lucky poker playing tie, he had always said with a wink and a grin. Vivian snatched it off the rack and threw it on the Lafayette pile.
“But Mama,” Laurel said, her heart sinking abruptly, “that was Daddy's favorite!”
“I've always hated the sight of that tie,” Vivian grumbled, talking more to herself than to Laurel. “I thought I'd die of embarrassment every time Jefferson put it on. To think of a man in his position going around in a necktie the likes of that!”
Laurel stepped alongside the bed and reached a hand out to brush her fingertips over the painted bass. “But Mama—”
“Laurel, leave that be,” she snapped. “Don't you have schoolwork?”
“No, Mama,” she murmured, inching back from the bed, staring longingly after
the bass tie as her mother tossed three more on top of it.
“Can't you see I'm busy here?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She backed into the corner by the dresser again and pretended to be invisible for a while. She didn't want to be sent to her room. She wanted to be in here with Daddy's things—only she didn't want Mama and dumb old moony-eyed Tansy here rooting through everything.
She wiggled one foot over on its side and back, over and back, over and back, the way Mama always scolded her for on account of it would scuff up her shoes. Laurel didn't care. Mama was too busy throwing out Daddy's things to notice. Laurel wouldn't have cared anyway, because tears were filling up her eyes and she needed something to concentrate on so she wouldn't start to cry and get scolded for that. So she twisted her foot over and back, over and back, and chewed on her thumbnail even though there wasn't much left to chew on.
The fingers of her left hand moved along the top of the bureau, brushing against the edge of Daddy's jewelry case. Because it made her tummy hurt to watch Mama and Tansy, she turned and looked at the heavy wooden box with its fancy inlaid top and shiny brass latch. She stroked her small hand over its smooth surface and thought of Daddy, so big, so strong, always with a smile for her and a stick of Juicy Fruit gum in his pocket.
One big, fat tear teetered over the edge of her eyelashes and rolled down her cheek to splash on the polished bureau. Another followed. She couldn't think of Daddy's being gone forever. She missed him so much already. He was strength and safety and love. He didn't care if she scuffed up her shoes, and he always hugged her when she cried. Laurel couldn't bear the idea of losing him. She didn't want him gone to heaven with the angels the way Reverend Monroe had told her. Maybe that was selfish, and she felt bad about that, but not bad enough to give up her daddy.
Her small fingers fumbled with the latch, and she lifted the lid on the jewelry box. The box was lined with red velvet and filled with man things. Daddy's money clip, the two big chunky rings he never wore, his tie tacks and cuff links and some Indian-head pennies.