Mimosa Grove (6 page)

“Come to me,
bébé.
Jump to Uncle Justin. You can do it.”

The sound of his voice sent a shiver of recognition sliding through Laurel’s consciousness, nearly shattering her concentration. But she made herself focus on the child. She felt her fear, sensed her hesitation, then urged her forward.

You can do it, Rachelle. Jump, as if you were playing in your own backyard and it was your own little wading pool. He will catch you, and then you can go home to your mommy and daddy.

Rachelle heard her uncle’s voice, but it was the voice in her head that gave her the courage she needed. Without further hesitation, she jumped off the stump, falling directly into Justin Bouvier’s outstretched arms.

At the moment of impact, Justin wrapped his arms around her and struggled with the urge to weep. They’d been looking for her for so long, and he’d been so afraid that the end to this day would be one of tragedy. Instead, their precious little girl was alive and well.

“That’s my good girl,” Justin said softly, clutching her close against his chest as he headed back toward the anchored boat.

And as he turned, the searchlight momentarily wiped the shadows from his face. In that moment, Laurel saw him through Rachelle’s eyes and heard herself moan in disbelief.

The chin was just the least little bit square. The nose was strong, and once upon a time, might have been broken, because there was a tiny bump just below the bridge. His hair was seal black and slicked down upon his head from the rain, and she knew, although she could not see, that his eyes were as black as the night. Through Rachelle’s tiny hands, she could feel the muscles in his back as they stretched and flexed while getting her safely to the boat.

But she’d seen him before and knew well the power in his body as he’d thrust repeatedly into the valley between her legs. She knew the cut of his cheek, the taste of his lips, the softness of his breath as his mouth moved upon her skin. And she knew the gut-wrenching sound of his groan when he came.

It seemed impossible, but it was the man from her dreams.

Unaware of the drama being played out back at Mimosa Grove, Justin lifted Rachelle into the boat and then climbed in with her.

At the same moment, Laurel Scanlon dropped to the stairs in a faint. That scared Harper in a way nothing else could have done. Unaware of the rescue Laurel had witnessed, he read the unconsciousness as death.

“Justin! Justin! This is Harper! Can you hear me? What’s happening? Over.”

There were a few moments of silence; then he heard a brief bout of static as Justin keyed his own radio.

“This is Justin. I found her. She’s alive. You find Cheryl Ann and tell her that I’m bringing her baby home. Over and out.”

Harper leaned back against the stairwell, then dropped his head.

“Praise God,” he said softly, then reached down and lifted the little pink jacket from Laurel’s clenched fist.

He looked down at Marie, then at the woman she was cradling.

“Is she all right?”

Marie nodded. “She will be.”

Harper stared for a moment, then lifted his hat and combed a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know how she does it, and I wouldn’t admit to many that I’d ever seen it happen, you understand. But tonight I thank God for the blood that runs in this woman’s veins.”

“Yes,” Marie said. “I will tell her so. Later.”

Harper hesitated, then pointed down at Laurel.

“Want me to help you get her up to her bed or something?”

Marie sighed. “It would be better for her if you would. I am no longer as strong as I once was.”

Harper pointed at Marie’s flashlight.

“With the power still out, I’m gonna need some light to negotiate these steps.”

Marie aimed the flashlight as he lifted Laurel out of her arms. Together, they started up the stairs. A few moments later he laid Laurel in her bed, gave her shoulder a brief pat. Slightly embarrassed by the tender gesture, he faked a cough, then readjusted his rain-soaked hat into a different position before looking away.

“You gonna be all right here?” he asked.

Marie glanced toward the bed, then sighed, unaware that her shoulders slumped wearily with the sound.

“Yes. We will be fine.”

Suddenly anxious to leave this place where magic happened, Harper nodded.

“I’ll let myself out and lock the door as I go. No need you goin’ back down those dark stairs just to see me out.”

Marie nodded her thanks. She could hear Harper’s receding footsteps as she pulled a rocking chair up beside Laurel’s bed, then sat herself down. She heard the police car start up, then heard it drive away, and still she sat, rocking slowly as she kept watch.

It was nearing dawn by the time Justin pulled up in front of his home and got out. The storm had finally passed, leaving the air with a fresh, rain-washed scent and the ground soft beneath his feet. The aftermath of the search was finally starting to sink in as he started toward the house, his feet dragging with every step.

He kept picturing the joy on his little sister’s face and his brother-in-law’s tear-filled eyes, both of them too moved to speak as they tore Rachelle from his arms, then held her close in a desperate embrace. They’d tried to thank him, but he hadn’t been able to listen. Not now, not when all their emotions were too raw. He wanted to fall on his knees and thank God for the woman at Mimosa Grove, but he knew that if he went down, he would be too weak to get up. And there was the fact that he didn’t even know her name. So he’d gotten back in his truck and taken himself home with the promise that before the sun went down on this day, he would know the name and the face of the woman who’d saved his family from tragedy.

Back in D.C. that same night, Peter McNamara was going through his own brand of drama—one just as deadly, but one he was determined to survive. Even though he’d grown accustomed to the luxuries afforded U.S. citizens, he wasn’t a fool. He’d forgotten none of his Spartan upbringing, or what he’d been trained to do under the old Soviet regime. Despite the government’s outrage toward him, which was being displayed through the media, he knew there was no paper trail linking him to dirty money. Everything had been done through telephone instructions, then later through the Internet, and bounced off so many other stations that it was impossible to tell where it had originated or ended. The monies were always paid directly to a numbered Swiss bank account. No one he’d done business with had ever seen him, so there were no witnesses to testify against him—except Trigger, the general’s son. Trigger didn’t know it, but even though Peter had believed himself untouchable, he’d still left a back door through which to exit, while implicating Trigger as the man to arrest—and the only man who’d betrayed his country.

Unless the prosecution knew something he didn’t or Trigger had panicked and talked, most of their case was being based on the fact that the military had discovered their files had been hacked into, and somehow they’d learned he was a Russian spy who’d been living under an alias in the United States of America. He figured they’d put two and two together and were trying to make it add up to five to fit the scenario.

He figured his best bet was to persuade his lawyer to set up a meeting with the federal prosecutor. He didn’t have a genius IQ for nothing. He figured he could explain and negotiate, and make a far better case for himself than anyone he could hire.

After a phone call to his lawyer, he went to bed with an easier spirit. Tomorrow he would talk to the prosecution and be out of prison in time for dinner.

It said something for Peter’s state of mind that he believed his situation could be solved so easily.

And so he slept without dreaming, certain that his plan would not fail, while Justin Bouvier sat on his front porch, waiting for daylight to meet the woman who’d saved his niece.

L
aurel woke up the next morning feeling restless. She’d dreamed of the rescue over and over in the night—seeing the face of Rachelle’s rescuer had been startling, then confusing. It was most certainly the man from her dreams, and she’d seen him through the little girl’s eyes, so she hadn’t been imagining him there. The police chief had called him Justin. Now she had a name to go with the face. But she didn’t know what to do next. Should she force the issue and go in search of him, or wait and let the fates that had brought them together in sleep finish the job in their own time? When nothing brilliant occurred to her that would make sense of the latest chaos in her life, she dragged herself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

After showering and getting dressed, she did something very out of character. When she went downstairs, instead of going to breakfast, she went to the library to call her father.

Robert Scanlon had overslept. It was so unlike him that even as he was finishing his first cup of coffee, he was still rattled by the fact.

Estelle was bringing a plate of toasted English muffins and a small crystal dish filled with strawberry preserves into the breakfast room as he was getting up from the table.

He glanced at the short, stocky woman without really noticing she’d recently colored her salt-and-pepper hair a light brown, applied both mascara and lipstick, and was wearing nice shoes with short, but sensible heels instead of her normal flat-soled Hush Puppies.

Robert eyed the pools of melting butter on the toasted muffin halves and manfully ignored the pangs of hunger.

“Estelle, I don’t have time for that,” he said, and began stuffing the files he’d been reading back into his briefcase.

Estelle took a freshly ironed napkin from a sideboard and laid it beside his plate.

“Now, Mr. Robert, you know you won’t take care of yourself at work. You eat something or it will be dinnertime before you stop long enough to eat again.”

Before Robert could argue, the phone rang. Estelle jumped, then bolted toward the phone. Robert Scanlon had no idea that she had a new admirer, nor was she going to tell him. She’d worked for him for more than fifteen years, and not once had he inquired as to her personal life or health.

“You’re probably right about eating,” he said, then waved her away from the phone. “And I’ll get that. It’s bound to be someone from the office wondering where I’m at.”

Disappointed, Estelle left the room, praying it wasn’t her friend, Charlie. She didn’t want to have to explain to her boss about the personal calls she got when none of the family was at home.

Luckily for Estelle, it wasn’t Charlie. As for Robert, he’d guessed wrong about the caller, too. It wasn’t his secretary. It was Laurel.

“Good morning, Dad. I called your office, but they said you weren’t there yet. Are you ill?”

Robert was surprisingly touched by her concern. He didn’t know it, but his voice softened as he answered.

“No, dear, I’m fine. I just overslept.”

Laurel frowned. “Are you sure? You never over-sleep.”

Still off kilter from her call, he popped off before he thought and unintentionally resurrected their antipathy.

“Yes, Laurel, I’m sure,” he said. “How is Mimosa Grove? As dilapidated as ever, I assume.”

Laurel resisted the urge to snap back. Just once, she wished he could be positive about something.

“It’s very beautiful down here, Dad, although we had quite an event during the storm last night. A little girl was lost, but the searchers finally found her.”

“That’s good,” Robert said. “I’m sure her parents are very grateful.”

Laurel thought about telling him her part in the recovery, then changed her mind. There was no reason to assume he’d changed his opinion of having a daughter with psychic abilities.

“Yes, I’m sure they are,” she said. “Is everything okay there? I miss seeing Estelle’s monthly make-overs.”

“What makeovers?”

Laurel laughed. “Her hair? Her makeup? Dad…for such a brilliant lawyer, you are horribly unobservant. Estelle is a fervent
Oprah
watcher. She saw a program six months ago that was about getting out of a life rut and trying new things.”

Robert grunted. He didn’t like to be accused of missing the point on anything.

“I’m sure I would have noticed if anything was that out of the ordinary,” he muttered.

Laurel laughed. “So what color is her hair this week? Is she wearing makeup?”

Robert frowned. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m not in the habit of staring at the help.”

Laurel sighed. “She’s not help. She’s Estelle.” She didn’t bother to add that, until Marie, Estelle was the only mother figure Laurel had grown up with.

Uncomfortable with the personal turn the conversation had taken, Robert glanced at his watch.

“Laurel, it was good to talk to you, but I’m late for work. I’ve got a big case coming up. You probably heard about it on television.”

“No. I haven’t been watching any television since I’ve been here,” Laurel said. “What’s up?”

“Remember Peter McNamara of McNamara Galleries?”

“Yes, of course.” Then she gasped. “Are you saying he’s involved in the case you’ll be trying?”

“No. I’m saying, he
is
the case.”

“Oh, my…whatever is he supposed to have done?”

“He was arrested for selling military secrets, but that’s not the kicker. And this is a fact that’s already made the news, so I’m not divulging any confidential info. He’s not really Peter McNamara. His real name is Dimitri Chorkin. He’s a Soviet plant, left over from the Cold War.”

Laurel was hearing his voice, but she’d lost the train of thought to a growing unease. The more he talked, the more convinced she became that her father was in some sort of peril.

“Dad.”

He kept talking, talking, talking.

“Dad.”

“…so they’ve confiscated everything in the downtown gallery and…”

“Daddy!”

Robert flinched. “What?”

Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick to her stomach.

“Do you have to take that case?”

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. Her 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.