The Taking (6 page)

“ ‘It is half past midnight and I just returned from Mr. Tradd’s and I am exhilarated! I did as F said. I planted my left foot in front of his house and spun around nine times. I scooped up a handful of dirt where my foot had been and threw it at his front door, then ran like the wind to my landau waiting up the street. Such a thrill! I was so pleased with myself and so aroused that even though I did not have F to satisfy me in the carriage, I did so myself. Ah, to feel so alive when all I have longed for is death... it is a strange, unpleasant mystery.”’

Regan snapped the journal shut, discomfort rushing her. “We shouldn’t be reading this.” It was voyeuristic, to be speaking this woman’s thoughts out loud over cups of wine.

“She’s dead!” Chris protested. “What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know. But I feel like reading this out loud, together, is sort of like making fun of her. And she was clearly struggling through some difficult times.”

When all I have longedforis death...
not the words of a happy woman, and Regan didn’t feel right reading about her pain.

“She’s bat-shit crazy is what you mean.”

Maybe. “Struggling,” Regan repeated. “It’s like poking around in someone’s head. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“She was a rich white woman having premarital sex with a black man and dabbling in voodoo in 1878, and yet she was writing it down in a journal for anyone to find. So I don’t think you should feel guilty about reading it.”

“You think she’s talking about voodoo?”

“It sounds like it to me—spells and dirt tossing. Maybe her paramour was Haitian.”

“He could be. I can’t say I know that much about voodoo.” Regan carefully set the journal in her lap and took another sip of her drink, telling herself the heat in her cheeks was from the wine, not from the memory of the one time she’d made contact with anyone in the voodoo realm. “Did I tell you I asked Jen to find a voodoo priest for my fund-raiser?”

“Oh, really? That’s cool. Is he going to do divinations and make mojo bags or something?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t booked one yet. There was one in particular that came highly recommended and Jen is having trouble making contact with him.” That was stretching the truth. It was Regan who had suggested Felix Leblanc to Jen Dengler, their friend and Regan’s event planner.

She wasn’t sure why she had mentioned his name to Jen, but when they were planning the fund-raiser for the Save Our Cemeteries organization that Regan worked for, they had decided on a quintessential New Orleans theme. They were having zydeco and jazz music, Cajun and Creole food, Mardi Gras decorations, and a voodoo priest. Which had immediately made her think of Felix.

“Isn’t the party in two weeks? He’s probably already booked.”

“Probably.” But Regan had to try, because she wanted to see him again, if for no other reason than to tell him thank-you. It had been his asking to see her ring and her removing it, something he probably wouldn’t even remember, that had given her the courage to leave Beau. She was curious to see if Felix would intuitively know that her marriage was over.

Not that she believed he had told her anything other than vague pronouncements. She didn’t.

If she were brutally honest, she’d admit she had been attracted to him that night, and a small part of her wanted to see if that had been a weird anomaly or if she would see him again and come to the same conclusion—that he was hot, and she wanted to have sex with him. Not that she would ever act on it, but she was intrigued.

“Hit me,” she said to Chris, holding out her empty cup.

“So ...” he said, as he picked up the bottle and poured. “How are you doing? Is Beau-Beau the bastard behaving himself?”

She shrugged. “If calling me a greedy bitch is behaving, then yes.”

“How can you be greedy?” Chris refilled his own cup. “You’re the one who has all the money! What an asshole.”

“That would be accurate.” But sitting on her own balcony, of her own house, it didn’t matter nearly as much. Their divorce probably wouldn’t be final for months because of Beau’s stalling. They had been legally separated since January 1, and he had fought and been as petty as humanly possible through the whole process, but money was good for a lot of things and eventually they would get it settled. Regan had hired one of Beau’s chief rivals for her attorney, and he had gone for the jugular.

Thank God she had listened to her father and had Beau sign a prenup before their wedding.

“He wanted a lump-sum settlement for all the money he said he’d spent on me over the year of our marriage and six-month engagement. But since I paid for our condo with cash, I’m offering that to him free and clear. My lawyer says the judge can’t argue with my generosity.”

“He doesn’t even deserve that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe not. But I don’t care. I just want out.” The wine was warming her from the inside out and she had a happy little buzz going. “He sucks.”

Chris laughed. “Oh, my God, I love hearing that come out of your mouth. That’s totally worth the nine-ninety-nine this wine cost me. Why did you ever marry the putz in the first place?”

“I don’t know.” It was a question she had asked herself many times. Regan looked into her wine cup. No answers in the pink fizz. “I was twenty-eight, ready to settle down, have a family. He was charming, had a successful career, my family loved him... he treated me well when we were dating. It was just easy, I guess, and I thought I was in love with him.”

“I always knew he was an asshole.” Chris studied her over his glass. “You know if you had stayed, eventually he would have gotten physical. Mental abuse almost always turns to physical.”

Regan shuddered, both fear and relief riding up her spine. “That’s part of the reason why I left—fear of how far it would go. Though I don’t know that he would have ever gone there. It really was more just that I couldn’t be what he wanted and I was so damn tired of trying to please him. I’ve wondered a lot why he ever married me ... he really didn’t seem to like me the way I am.”

There was a pause while they both reflected, then Chris waved his hand in dismissal. “Well, you’re everything I want, and you’re an amazing friend. And thank God you did leave, because these chairs needed a home. Think of all the awesome parties we are going to throw in this house. Wait until Mardi Gras next year, we’ll blow the roof off this place.”

Glad he had lightened the mood again, Regan grinned. “I would kind of like to keep the roof. But a party would be fun.” Sinking back in her chair, legs stretched out, she sighed in contentment. “If I wind up old and alone in this massive house, will you take pity on me and move in with me?”

“Only if the football team is here too.”

“Deal.”

She raised her cup to his and they bumped them together, wine sloshing out and splashing their fingers. Regan laughed. “I’m loving life right this minute.”

It was the first time in a long, long while she could say that and mean it.