Mimosa Grove Page 7

  He frowned. “Of course I do. An assignment is an assignment, and you know that. It’s my job.”

  She didn’t know what form it might take, but she knew something bad was going to happen if he persisted.

  “But couldn’t you pass on it if you wanted to?”

  His frown deepened—his dissatisfaction transferring itself to his voice.

  “But I don’t want to.”

  Laurel felt the same way she’d felt the day her mother had died, but she didn’t know why.

  “Dad, I think something bad is going to happen.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Laurel. Don’t you ever stop?”

  His anger was expected, but it was the derisive tone in his voice that hurt most of all.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said softly. “Have a nice day.” Then she quietly laid the phone back in the cradle and convinced herself she’d been imagining things. Her hands were shaking, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Well, that was a mistake.”

  Marie walked into the old library just as Laurel was hanging up the phone.

  “You talkin’ to me, sweet child?”

  Laurel turned around, then stood for a moment, looking at the love and approval on the old woman’s face. Calling her father might have been a mistake, but coming here was not.

  She smiled through tears. “No, ma’am, but I should have been. It would have made the morning much better.”

  “You come with me. I’ll take that frown off your face for sure,” Marie said. “I got your breakfast all ready. Mamárie will make you better and that’s a fact.”

  “Mamárie?”

  Marie looked slightly embarrassed, but she still reached up to caress the side of Laurel’s face.

  “I never had me a daughter like Marcella did, but when she was little, your mama, Phoebe, used to call me Mamárie. You know, Mama Marie, only she said it short, like babies often do. I sure miss Miz Marcella… and her little Phoebe, too. It’s gonna be real nice having you here. Almost like old times.”

  Laurel’s eyes filled with tears as she gave Marie a quick hug.

  “I haven’t had anyone to call Mama since I was twelve.”

  Marie could tell that something had disturbed Laurel’s morning, but she was determined she would be the one to put it right.

  “Now you do. Come to the kitchen with me. My grits is gettin’ cold.”

  “I like your grits,” Laurel said as she gave the old woman a last fierce hug.

  “’Course you do,” Marie said as she hugged her back. “You might have been raised up north, but your soul is southern, just like your people. Stands to reason your tummy would be, too.”

  Laurel laughed.

  By the time they sat down to eat, the bad feelings she’d had from her conversation with her father had disappeared. They shared the meal and the table, talking about everything and nothing, and once they’d done the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, the morning was half gone. Marie took off her apron, changed her shoes and began fussing with her hair.

  “Yesterday Tula sent word by her nephew that she’d be comin’ here this mornin’. We need groceries, so I’m gonna ride into Bayou Jean with her. Anything you want me to pick up for you?” Marie asked.

  “No, but wait a minute and I’ll get you some money.”

  Marie waved her away. “Shoot, honey, you don’t have to do that. I always get what we need. The store sends the bill to the bank. They pay the bills for Mimosa Grove, and that’s the way it works.”

  Laurel shook her head, realizing that she had a lot to learn about how things were set up around here. Then she remembered there was something she’d been meaning to discuss with Marie.

  “I’ve been wanting to see about getting someone to come out and redo the landscaping. It’s a bit overgrown. What do you think?”

  Marie nodded. “Yes, Miz Marcella fussed some about it during her last years but didn’t have the heart to tackle it.”

  “So do you think we could get some help?”

  “Oh, sure,” Marie said. “I’ll ask Tula. She always know who needs a little extra money round here.” Then she glanced at the clock and added, “I won’t be long. When I get back, I’ll fix us a late lunch.”

  Laurel frowned. “Absolutely not. You have fun with your friend. Eat lunch in town if you want. I’ll find something to snack on, then help you fix supper tonight.”

  Marie frowned. “You not supposed to wait on me.”

  Laurel ignored Marie’s nervous look. “Maybe I want to,” she said, then saw an old blue sedan coming toward the house. “Looks like your ride is here. Go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Within minutes, Marie was gone, and for the first time, Laurel was alone at Mimosa Grove. She’d seen a good deal of the grounds outside, but had yet to explore all of the mansion itself. She’d been through the entire downstairs, and her favorite room was the library. It was a dark-paneled room with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed top to bottom with books that would take a lifetime to read.

  But she had vague memories of the top floor of the home, as well as a half dozen secluded cubbyholes that had once been full of dusty trunks and boxes she had wanted to explore, only her mother wouldn’t let her. She wondered if it was all still there, then knew there was only one way to find out.

  She started up the stairs, and although she’d been here almost four days now, this was the first time she’d ventured up past the second floor. As she climbed, she couldn’t help but notice the dust on the carpet runners and the occasional spiderweb between the spindles on the stair rail, and she made a mental note to get some day help for Marie, even if it was only a couple of times a week. Laurel didn’t want to give Marie the impression that she thought she was too old to do her job, because she’d already seen how important the place was to her, but if she was going to live here, the spiders were going to have to go.

  The rain from last night’s storm was already mixing with the heat of the day, making the air feel like the inside of a sauna, so the higher Laurel climbed, the hotter it became. She was almost at the top of the stairs when she realized she was starting to get cold. Instinctively, she stopped, acknowledging the presence she sensed.

  “I’m just looking,” she said softly.

  The air moved against Laurel’s cheek, as if someone near her had sighed. The air shifted again, and between one breath and the next, heat slammed against Laurel’s face like a slap. Whatever entity had been on the stairs had bowed to the inevitable and moved on. Still, she waited, trying to absorb the difference in this feeling from what she’d felt out in the grove. It took her a few moments to realize the energy she’d felt just now had seemed male. Confrontational. Like the man of the house. She frowned. From what she knew, the women in this family had been the powerful ones. Then she shrugged off the thought and told herself that if she wasn’t careful, she would turn out just as her father constantly predicted. She had no intention of morphing into some old maid psychic who had a dozen cats, or, in this case, a peacock with attitude.

  Shaking off the feeling of unease, she reached the third-floor landing and found herself staring down a long, narrow hallway. She frowned. This wasn’t what she remembered. Where was the big room with all the trunks and boxes? But there was an interesting aspect of the floor that she didn’t remember. There were a good dozen portraits of women hanging along the east wall. Laurel moved toward them and soon realized that she was seeing the progression of her ancestors, from her grandmother, Marcella, whose portrait was at the head of the line, all the way down the hall to the last, which in reality had been the first.

  The name engraved on the small copper plate on the frame was Chantelle LeDeux. Laurel stepped back, squinting slightly in the dimmer light for her first glimpse of the infamous woman.

  She was more than slightly surprised by what she saw. Unlike Laurel, who was taller than average, the woman appeared small, almost tiny. Her hands lay folded in her lap and appeared hardly larger than a child’s. H
er dress was ornate and low cut, revealing small, rounded breasts, and her beaded slippers, barely visible from beneath the hem of her gown, looked like a child’s shoes.

  But it was her face and the color of her hair that were startling to Laurel. Like Laurel’s, her hair was a dark, fiery red, and they shared large, expressive blue eyes and wide mouths. Chantelle’s nose was slightly smaller than Laurel’s, but it still had the same shape—slim and straight, without a hint of foolish tilt.

  Laurel took a slow breath and started to trace the shape of the name with the tips of her fingers when she heard the sound of a car engine pulling up at the front of the house. She hurried toward a window to look out, but it was so dirty and the view so blurred that all she could see was the shadowy figure of a man getting out of a truck.

  “Rats,” she muttered, then gave the portraits a last, lingering look and hurried back down the stairs.

  The knocking was constant and measured. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Laurel cried as she started down the last flight.

  Seconds later, she was at the door.

  ***

  The distinct crack of a gunshot brought Justin upright in his bed. He hit the floor running, pulling on his jeans as he went. As he ran, the loud thump of his heartbeat against his eardrums irritated the dull ache at the back of his neck, and he was vaguely aware of a pain in his knee, compliments of his search for Rachelle. He yanked the front door open and ran out onto the porch, only to find his neighbor, Claude Shiffler, with a dead snake dangling over the barrel of a shotgun.

  “What in—”

  Claude grinned as he raised the gun barrel.

  “Big sucker, ain’t he, Justin?”

  Justin shoved a shaky hand through his hair as he groaned with relief.

  “Damn it, Claude. Next time, try knocking. It would be a hell of a lot easier on my heart.”

  Claude’s grin widened. “Didn’t mean to startle you none. But this big cottonmouth was between me and the house, and I didn’t figure the fine state of Louisiana was going to mind the existence of one less snake.”

  Justin eyed the large water moccasin, or at least what was left of it, then sighed. From the angle of the sun in the sky, it must be close to noon.

  “Looks like you nailed him right in the head… and parts south.”

  Claude tossed the snake into the back of his pickup truck, then stowed his shotgun behind the seat.

  “I’ll toss him out down the road,” he said, and started toward the porch. It wasn’t until he was coming up the steps that he realized Justin had been asleep. “Dang it, Justin. I forgot you might still be in bed after last night’s search and all. Real sorry I woke you.”

  Justin shrugged. “No matter, Claude. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “No need,” Claude said as he took a long envelope out of his back pocket, then handed it to Justin. “I was just stoppin’ by to drop this off.”

  “What is it?” Justin asked as he took the envelope.

  “Two thousand dollars. Wanted you to invest it for me.”

  Justin frowned. He knew Claude’s situation. Two thousand dollars to the Shiffler family was a whole lot of money.

  “Now, Claude, you understand that it might take a while for any investment to pay off.”

  Claude nodded. “Don’t matter. My twins are only five. I just want to be able to give them a good education when they’re ready to go to college. Don’t want them havin’ to live like me, trying to raise a family on a roofer’s pay.”

  “I understand. Do you have any particular stocks in mind?”

  Claude grinned. “Hell no. I don’t know nothin’ about that stuff. Your judgment will be good enough for me.”

  “Thanks,” Justin said, and shook Claude’s hand. “I’ll try to take good care of you. When I get your portfolio set up, I’ll send you the information.”

  “Whatever,” Claude said. “Once again, I’m real sorry about waking you up, but it’s sure good to know your sister’s baby is safe. I heard you was the one who found her. Is that so?”

  Goose bumps broke out on Justin’s skin as he relived last night’s terror.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Man, you sure were lucky,” Claude said.

  “It wasn’t luck. It was divine providence, my friend. Did you know Miz Marcella’s granddaughter is living at Mimosa Grove?”

  Claude’s eyes rounded with surprise.

  “For sure?”

  Justin nodded.

  “Does she have the sight?”

  “If it hadn’t been for her, we would have lost Rachelle for certain. Which reminds me… it’s a good thing you came by, because I intend to go thank her in person.”

  Claude nodded. “Isn’t that somethin’? Reckon she’s Phoebe’s girl, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reckon she’ll stay?” Claude asked.

  “If we’re lucky,” Justin added.

  “Well, I’ll be seein’ you,” Claude said, and headed back to his truck as Justin retreated into the house.

  He put the envelope with Claude’s money in the desk drawer of his office, then started toward the kitchen. The coffee would be brewed and ready to drink by the time he got out of the shower. After that, it was off to Mimosa Grove.

  Thirty minutes later, he had showered and shaved, downed two cups of coffee and pocketed Claude’s money to be deposited in the bank in Bayou Jean.

  He drove out of the drive, heading down the road that led to the blacktop that would take him to Mimosa Grove, but his thoughts were as scattered as his neighbor’s guinea hens that were pecking in the road. He honked as he slowed down, giving them time to get out of his way without thought for why the Gunthers let them roam. Out here, people and animals pretty much did as they pleased.

  As he moved past the hens, his thoughts returned to last night and the rescue—and the disjointed sound of a voice coming to him from miles away, guiding him to his niece just in the nick of time. He thought of Marcella and tried to picture what her granddaughter might be like, then thrust the thought away and concentrated on his driving. His body still ached from the rigors of last night’s search, and his mind continued to wander. He was well aware that he could have spent the day sleeping, and when he took a curve too fast and came close to running off into the ditch, he wondered if he should have stayed in bed.

  Finally he neared his destination. When he came to the Mimosa Grove mailbox, he tapped the brakes and took the turn off the highway. Even though he’d driven this way many times before, as soon as he drove onto the grounds of the old estate, he always felt as if he’d taken a step back in time.

  Justin pulled up in front of the old three-story mansion and killed the engine. Rarely did any sounds of civilization ever reach this far back off the road. As the silence and the heat of the day quickly seeped into his consciousness, he knew that unless he moved, and moved quickly, he was likely to fall asleep where he sat. With a weary sigh, he opened the door and got out.

  His steps were measured as he walked up the steps of Mimosa Grove and then under the shade of the veranda. Even as he was walking toward the door, it seemed impossible to believe that Marcella would not be here. He’d been at her funeral, but this was the first time he’d come to her home since she’d passed. The woman had been larger than life. Thinking of this place without her seemed strange.

  A large peacock hovered at the end of the porch, as if trying to decide whether to attack or retreat. Not sure of the bird’s attitude, he began knocking on the door, hoping to be inside before the peacock made up its mind. When it started toward him, he knocked a little harder and tried a friendly hello, hoping the familiarity of his voice would deter what was coming.

  “Hey, Elvis. How you doin’, big boy?” Justin murmured.

  He winced as the bird fanned its tail, then uttered an ear-piercing shriek. At the same moment, the door swung inward. He was still smiling when he turned with Marie’s name on his lips.

  But it wasn’t Marie who me
t him at the door.

  He stared at the woman in the doorway, then wiped a hand across his face, certain that when he looked again, she would be gone. But she was still there, and he would have sworn he heard her breathing.

  “Sweet Mother of God,” he whispered, convinced he was losing his mind.

  It was then the thought hit him that he might never have left home, or that he hadn’t talked to Claude, or seen a dead snake. He hadn’t showered and shaved, or driven the fifteen miles between his place and this one. He was still in his bed, sleeping. He knew, because this was the woman from his dreams.

  Accepting the explanation, he moved forward.

  “I’ve been missing you,” he said softly, and took her in his arms.

  ***

  Laurel’s shock at seeing this man on her doorstep quickly turned into acceptance, then joy. The fates had been kind to her after all. But before she could speak, he took her in his arms and then kicked the door shut behind him. She heard him sigh, then felt the warmth of his breath against her neck. It was straight out of her dreams. But was she dreaming? Hadn’t she been upstairs only moments before? Surely she hadn’t imagined the chill, or felt the temporary disapproval of the specter on the staircase?

  Then Justin’s mouth centered on her lips, and questions disappeared. All she could remember was how he made her come apart in his arms, how lonely she’d been without him. Whether he was real or not, she didn’t want this to end. She slid her arms around his neck and gave him back kiss for lonely kiss.

  All the aches and pains, all the weariness that had been dogging Justin’s footsteps that morning, were gone in a heartbeat.

  “Ah, chère… where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

  The softly whispered words sent chills down Laurel’s spine. He’d missed her? But how? He’d been in her dream, not she in his.

  Then he put his hands on her breasts, cupping the fullness as if measuring them for fit. At that point she sighed, giving herself up to the inevitable as an intense longing surged through her. She wanted this—even needed it. He’d become an addiction she didn’t want to kick. If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake up.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she said softly, then kissed him again.