Mimosa Grove (5 page)

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m getting everything wet.”

Marie made a clucking sound with her tongue as she began tugging and pulling at Laurel’s clothes.

“Take these off right here, baby girl.”

When Laurel hesitated, Marie scolded her again.

“There ain’t nothin’ under those clothes I never saw before, and you gonna catch your death if you don’t get yourself dry. Lord, Lord, honey, you worried me right out of my mind. I was afraid you’d gone and gotten yourself lost in there.”

Laurel began pulling at the sopping spandex, which was all but glued to her skin.

“I did get lost,” she said, shivering as her teeth began to chatter.

Marie kept shaking her head as she helped Laurel peel off the wet clothes and shoes.

“It’s good you find your way out,” she said. “It’s ’bout dark as night out there now, and it ain’t even seven o’clock.”

“But I didn’t,” Laurel whispered.

Marie pulled an afghan from the arms of an ancient rocking chair and threw it around Laurel’s shoulders, wrapping and patting until it had covered Laurel’s nudity all the way to the tops of her knees.

“There now,” Marie muttered, then realized what Laurel had just said and looked up with a frown. “What you mean…you didn’t? You standin’ here big as day, ain’t you?”

“I was lost. When it started to rain, I began to run. Then she told me I was going the wrong way.”

Marie frowned. “She who? Ain’t supposed to be anyone else in the grove.”

“I didn’t see anyone else. I just heard her voice…in my head. She told me to put the wind at my back, so I did. That’s how I got out. That’s how I found my way home.”

Marie’s expression blanked. She took a deep breath, then stared at Laurel before she began to nod.

“What?” Laurel asked.

“She likes you.”

Laurel pulled the soft, well-washed blue afghan tighter around her shoulders.

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember the day you arrived? Remember the feelin’ you had on the stairs?”

The skin on the back of Laurel’s neck began to crawl. It was all she could do to answer.

“Yes.”

“That was her. She don’t welcome just everybody into this house.” Then she patted Laurel’s back and then took her by the hand. “Come with me, baby girl. We gonna get you all warm and dry, and then we’ll have us some supper. Yep. You’re gonna be all right now. Don’t ever have to worry ’bout anything again. She likes you. She’ll take good care of you.”

Laurel paused. “For Pete’s sake, Marie. Quit talking in riddles. Who likes me? Who’s going to take care of me? Are you trying to tell me that my grandmother’s spirit is still in this house?”

“Lord no, honey,” Marie said. “Your grandmama was ready to go. She met her Maker with a clear conscience and His name on her lips. She’s with her Etienne again and got no need to stay in this place.”

“Then what are you trying to tell me?”

Marie looked at Laurel in disbelief. “Why, honey, I thought you knew. It’s Chantelle LeDeux.”

Laurel stared at Marie as if she’d just lost her mind.

“But didn’t she run away from here almost two hundred years ago?”

Marie shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

Laurel frowned. “Then why would her spirit stay in a place where she hadn’t wanted to be?”

Marie shrugged again. “Maybe because she all guilty for running away and leavin’ her husband and her babies. Maybe she’s doomed to spend eternity here at Mimosa Grove because she didn’t stay and care for it in life. Who knows? I’m just the housekeeper round here. You’re the one who’s supposed to know all that kind of stuff. Come on with you, now. You need to get you a bath before the power goes out.”

Laurel followed the old woman upstairs, letting her fuss and scold, because she knew it was her way of showing that she cared. Later, after they’d shared bowls of soup and cold sandwiches by candlelight while the storm still raged beyond the walls, Laurel gave up trying to read and went to bed, hoping that power and rationality would both return with daylight and the passing of the storm. And hoping that somehow she would reconnect with her dream lover, who’d been noticeably absent since her arrival in Louisiana.

Parish police chief Harper Fonteneau and his men had been searching for the little girl for hours, but with no luck. When it started to rain, their hopes dropped. Whatever clues might have led them to four-year-old Rachelle Moutan’s location were being washed into the river that connected with the Atchafalaya Bay. Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan were pale and quiet as the dead, which bothered Harper even more than if they’d been screaming and cursing his name. But losing a child in the bayou country was dangerous in broad daylight. It was now almost midnight, it had been raining for hours, and he was at the point of praying they’d at least find her body before the gators did.

While little Rachelle’s parents clung to each other in desperate silence, her uncle, Justin Bouvier, had been manic—almost driven to find her himself. Upon his arrival three hours earlier, he’d taken to the bayous in a shallow boat with an outboard motor for power. And with a two-way radio for communication, he’d covered a large portion of the waterways on his own, leaving the others to search higher ground, where they believed the little girl to be.

It wasn’t until a few minutes ago that one of his deputies had bemoaned the fact that Marcella Campion had passed. If she’d still been alive, they were certain she could have given them a direction in which to search, if not an exact location. It was then that Harper had remembered the woman he’d accidentally insulted in Bayou Jean.

“Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. “I forgot she was here.”

“Who you talkin’ about, Harper?” one of the deputies asked.

“The granddaughter! Miz Marcella’s granddaughter is at Mimosa Grove.”

“She got the sight like her grandmama?”

“I don’t know, but I’m damn sure gonna find out,” Harper said, and ran toward the lost child’s parents. “You got anything here that belongs to Rachelle?”

Tommy only shook his head and started to cry, but Cheryl Ann had a different answer.

“Her jacket,” she said, and ran toward their car. “I brought it in case the mosquitoes got too bad before we got home from the picnic.” Moments later she thrust it into Harper’s hands. “Are you gonna use the dogs? Maybe it’s not too wet for them to track her, right, Harper?”

“No, darlin’,” Harper said. “Not the dogs. They couldn’t get a scent in this rain. I’m takin’ this jacket to Mimosa Grove.”

“That won’t do any good. Miz Marcella is dead…like my baby.” At that, she started to wail.

“Her granddaughter is at Mimosa Grove. I don’t know if she’s got the sight, but I’m gonna find out.”

L
aurel was dreaming about Christmas and a flashing string of lights that kept falling off the Christmas tree when she realized that the flashing lights were really outside and not just in her dreams. She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the window just as the doors of a police car opened and two shadowy figures dashed through the rain toward the house. Without giving herself time to think of why they might be there, she grabbed her robe from the back of a chair and put it on as she ran.

She could hear them pounding on the door before she reached the top of the stairs. As she started down, Marie appeared out of nowhere carrying a flashlight and a baseball bat.

“Marie! What’s going on?” Laurel cried.

“Don’t know, but I’m gonna find out,” Marie said. “Be careful comin’ down the stairs. The power is out.” Then she yelled through the door, “Who is it? Who’s knockin’ on the door?”

“It’s me. Harper Fonteneau!” the police chief shouted back. “Let me in, Marie. It’s an emergency.”

Marie set the bat aside and then opened the door, shining her flashlight right in his eyes.

“What wrong with you, Harper? Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”

Harper flinched as the lights blinded him, then pushed his way past Marie and into the foyer. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the stairwell and turned to look. It was the woman from town, standing midway up the stairs.

“Ma’am,” Harper said, “I need to talk to you.”

“You wait a minute!” Marie yelled, and grabbed Harper by the arm as he started up the stairs.

Harper pulled a small pink jacket from inside his coat.

“You see this? It belongs to Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan’s little girl, Rachelle. She’s been missing more than six hours in this storm. We need help, Marie.” He waved the jacket toward Laurel. “Can she do it? Is she like Marcella?”

“What’s wrong?” Laurel asked.

Harper ran up the stairs as Laurel was coming down. Impulsively, he thrust the jacket in her hands.

“Please…please, lady. Can you see her? Can you tell us where she is?”

All she saw was a tiny pink jacket with the name Barbie embroidered on the front and then the room went dark. She fell backward onto the stairs with the jacket still clutched in her hands. She didn’t see Marie rush toward her or feel the police chief’s hands as he caught her just before her head hit the stair rail.

“Mommy…I want my mommy.”

The small, high-pitched voice that came out of Laurel’s mouth raised goose bumps on Harper Fonteneau’s arms.

“Holy Mother of God,” he said softly, and made the sign of the cross as he stared down at the woman on the stairs.

“Where are you?” he asked. “Where are you, Rachelle?”

“I’m afraid,” Laurel cried in that same little singsong voice. “The gators are gonna eat me up.”

Then she started to weep. At that point, Harper began to shake. He didn’t want to go tell Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan that their baby girl was dead. He didn’t want to have to recover her in bits and pieces floating in the bayous.

“Sweet Jesus…no,” he muttered, and stifled the urge to throw up.

Laurel flinched, then threw her arms above her head as if covering her face.

“Daddy…Daddy…the water is comin’ over the stump.”

Harper gasped. Wherever the child was, she was in danger of drowning, which had to mean she was somewhere in the bayous. This wasn’t good, because most of the search had been conducted on dry land. He frowned, trying to remember which searchers had been assigned to the waterways, then remembered that Rachelle’s own uncle, Justin Bouvier, had gone there on his own. He turned to the deputy who’d accompanied him into the house.

“Give me your radio,” he said, pointing to the handheld two-way the deputy had on his belt. As soon as he had it, he keyed it up. “Justin…this is Chief Fonteneau. Do you read me? Over.”

There was a crackle of static; then a faint voice broke the silence there on the stairs.

“I read you, Harper. Any news? Over.”

“I’m at the Grove,” he said. “I need you to listen and listen close.”

Justin swiped at the rain beating down on his face. As he did, a large chunk of a rotting tree came sweeping through the arm of the bayou in which he’d been searching. It hit his fishing boat, causing it to lurch suddenly to the left. His heart skipped a beat as he tightened his hold on the steering arm of the outboard motor, then let the accelerator idle down as he pressed the radio tight against his ear, straining to hear above the storm.

Harper held the radio close to Laurel’s mouth and began to feed her questions.

“Rachelle…can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

Harper shuddered. It was too damned eerie hearing that voice come out of this woman’s mouth.

But Justin didn’t have the privilege of knowing where the voice came from. All he knew was that it sounded like his niece’s voice.

“Rachelle! Rachelle! Are you there?”

When there was no answer, it dawned on him that Harper had not released the key on the radio, which meant no one could hear him talking. Panicked, he grabbed a piece of canvas from the bottom of the boat and then ducked under it, using it as a buffer between him and the rain. Even though the rain was still pelting down, thanks to the heavy canvas, the exterior sounds had been muted. He could hear Harper’s voice and what sounded like Rachelle’s. And yet, it wasn’t Rachelle. If Marcella Campion was still living, he would have known what was happening. But he’d been to her funeral. He’d watched them carry her casket into the family crypt. So who was at Mimosa Grove? Desperate for answers and willing to try anything, he focused on the faint voices coming to him through the storm. He heard Harper’s voice, asking another question.

“Rachelle…can you tell me where you are?”

Laurel shuddered, then wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was freezing.

“In the rain. I’m in the rain.”

“What do you see? Can you tell me what you see?”

“It’s dark. I can’t see nothin’ but the dark.”

“Is there still lightning?” Harper asked.

“Yes. I’m scared. It’s too bright. It hurts my eyes.”

Harper looked down. The woman held Rachelle’s jacket in a wad beneath her chin, as if trying to absorb it.

“Yes, I know it’s bright…and it’s scary…but the next time lightning comes, I need you to keep your eyes open. I need you to look around and tell me what you see.”

Seconds later, Laurel screamed, but she didn’t hide her face. Harper watched her eyes widen and would have sworn that he was looking into the eyes of a frightened child and not the woman lying prostrate on the stairs before him.

“Tell me, Rachelle…tell me what you see.”

“A big cypress tree that’s broke in half, but still growing and…and…there’s a little house on long wooden legs. It looks broken, like the tree.”

Justin’s heart stuttered to a stop and then jump-started itself as his pulse leaped. That sounded like Marcus Sweeny’s old fishing shack, and it wasn’t far away. He threw the canvas off his shoulders, checked his compass to make certain he was going in the right direction, readjusted the big searchlight mounted on the bow of his boat, then accelerated carefully.

The wind was at his back now as he moved cautiously through the inky darkness. The rain continued to fall, adding to the misery and difficulties he was facing, but he kept thinking of Rachelle out alone in the storm and knew he would do anything to get her back. He kept the radio close to his ear, listening for more clues as he drew closer to the location of the fishing shack.

Harper’s hands were shaking as Marie slipped past him, only to take a seat on the stairs so she could cradle Laurel’s head in her lap.

“She wearin’ out,” Marie warned as she eyed the pallor of Laurel’s skin and the frantic tic at the corner of her right eye. Even though she understood what was happening and had assisted her old mistress, Marcella, in the same manner over the years, she was still superstitious enough to be made uneasy by the supernatural.

Harper nodded, then lifted the radio. “Justin…it’s Harper. Where are you? Over.”

Justin waited for a shaft of lightning to illuminate more than the small tunnel of light that the searchlight emitted. When it came, he could tell he was about a quarter of a mile from his destination.

“About ten minutes from the location,” he said. “Over.”

“Stay tuned. I’m going to question her more. Over.”

Justin had to ask. “Who? Who are you talking to?”

“Marcella’s granddaughter. Over.”

The skin crawled on the back of Justin’s neck. Like everyone else in Bayou Jean, he’d known Marcella’s daughter, Phoebe. What he hadn’t known was that she’d had a daughter, or that she was now at Mimosa Grove. Even though he’d grown up knowing that the women of Mimosa Grove had gifts beyond the norm, it was unbelievable to think that she was able to tap in on a lost child miles away from where she was.

“Come on, lady,” Justin whispered, as he took a chance and accelerated through the night. “Guide me to our little angel before she actually becomes one.”

Harper put the radio back to Laurel’s mouth.

“Help is coming,” Harper said. “Your uncle Justin is coming to find you. Tell me if you see a light.”

Laurel lay without moving, but it was her silence that brought their fear to a frantic peak. If she wasn’t answering, did that mean they were going to be too late?

“Rachelle…tell me! Tell me what you see.”

A soft, almost nonexistent moan slipped from between Laurel’s lips, and then she gasped.

“The water…it’s over the stump. My shoes are wet. Mommy gonna be mad at me.”

Harper swallowed around the knot in his throat. God help them all. The water was rising. He spoke quickly into the radio, knowing his panic was evident from the tremor in his voice.

“Justin! You’ve got to hurry. I think she’s standing on a stump or a bunch of logs…she says the water is over her feet.”

The moment Justin heard this, he gunned the engine, despite knowing full well the dangers of running blind in the dark. But if he was too late to save Rachelle, it would be far easier to die than to go back and face his sister without her baby girl.

And while he was racing through the bayou, Laurel suddenly jerked, then sat straight up. She was staring past Harper’s shoulder so intently that he turned to look, half expecting to see a ghost of some kind awaiting him at the foot of the stairs. But when she stood abruptly and started waving her hands, Harper knew their prayers had been answered.

“I see the light! I see the light!” Laurel cried.

“Where is it?” Harper asked.

“There,” Laurel said, pointing over Harper’s right shoulder toward the front door of Mimosa Grove.

“You’re on her right, Justin! She sees you! She sees you!”

Justin swerved immediately, just missing a large growth of cypress knees jutting up from the bayou.

“God help me,” he whispered as he peered through the intense downpour, seeing nothing silhouetted in the light but swamp and rain.

“Help me…help me!” Laurel cried, and started waving and jumping up and down.

Within seconds, the spotlight on the bow of Justin’s fishing boat swept past her, but he’d seen the motion. He corrected his direction, and then he saw her—looking even tinier in the dark, but alive and moving just the same.

“I see her! I see her!” Justin yelled, then stuffed the radio into a waterproof bag in the floor of the boat and gunned the motor.

As he drew closer, it appeared as if Rachelle was standing on water. The image made him think of the story in the Bible where Jesus had walked on water; then he remembered hearing her say that she was standing on a stump.

He idled the boat as close to the little girl as he could get, but each time he tried to reach for her, the rapid flow of the water would pull his boat away. If she’d been a little older, or if he had not been alone, retrieving her from the submerged stump would have been easier. Each time he came toward her, she was too blinded by the searchlight to see what he was trying to do.

Then, after several futile tries, he realized she was trying to walk to him. If she stepped off that stump and into the swiftly moving flood waters, she would be gone and there would be nothing he could do to save her.

“Hang on,
bébé.
Stay there! Don’t move!” he yelled. “Uncle Justin will come to you.”

All the time that Laurel had been clutching the jacket, she’d been so locked into Rachelle Moutan’s fear that she’d been unable to voice her own thoughts. And even though she’d been aware of the other voice on Harper Fonteneau’s radio, she’d been unable to connect to him in any way.

Through Rachelle’s eyes, she’d seen the first glimmer of the searchlight as the boat had come through the storm. She’d felt the acceleration of the little girl’s heartbeat. The sound of her sobs had torn through Laurel’s heart as surely as if they’d been her own. Then she’d heard the man shouting, telling the little girl to stay there. She’d felt the child’s urge to move, and she’d added her own silent plea to make her stay still.

The light on the boat was in her eyes now. She could hear the sound of the engine blending with the wind and the rain. The smell of gasoline scorched the insides of her nostrils as the man turned the boat sideways, trying to get close enough to snatch the child from the stump.

She felt Rachelle’s hesitation again, and again she silently told her to wait for help to come to her. Once she felt the child touching her own face, as if in disbelief that she was hearing voices from within, but Laurel couldn’t lessen her connection to the child for fear she would come to harm. So she waited, watching through Rachelle’s eyes as the light centered on the stump, watching as a shadowy figure suddenly went over the side of the boat and started swimming through the swiftly moving waters toward her.

He was close now. She could hear the sound of his labored breathing as he fought the current to get to her. Suddenly he loomed, a large and imposing silhouette, separated from the storm by the searchlight at his back. Laurel watched him reach for the child, heard him shouting—pleading with Rachelle to jump.