Midnight Bayou

Manet Hall 2002

The heat had pumped in from the south. It seemed to Declan that even the air sweat. Mornings and evenings, when it was bearable, he worked outside. Afternoons, he sought the cooler regions of the house.

It wasn't as efficient, dragging his tools in and out, but he was making progress. That was the name of the game.

He didn't call Lena-he figured she needed to simmer and settle. But he thought of her, constantly.

He thought of her as he nailed boards, when he studied paint samples, when he installed paddle fans.

And he thought of her when he woke, in the middle of the night, to find himself curled on the grass by the edge of the pond, Lucian's watch clutched in his fist and his face damp with tears.

He tried to put the sleepwalking out of his mind in the daylight. But he couldn't put her out.

One more day, he ordered himself as he wiped sweat off his face. Then he was going into town, banging on her door. If he had to push her into a corner to force her to talk to him, that's what he'd do.

Remy's wedding was coming up fast. Which meant, not only was he going to watch his best friend get married, but … his parents were coming to town.

He was ridiculously grateful they'd declined his offer for them to stay with him. Everyone would be a hell of a lot happier with them tucked into a nice hotel suite.

Regardless, he was determined to finish the galleries, and one of the spare bedrooms. In that way, the house would look impressive when they came down the drive, and he could prove he'd had the room he'd offered them.

His mother would look to be sure. That was a given.

He backed down the ladder, grabbed the cooler, and gulped cold water. Then poured the rest over his head. Refreshed, he walked across the lawn, then turned back to look.

Dripping, already starting to steam, he felt the smile spread across his face.

"Not bad," he said aloud. "Not half bad for a Yankee amateur.”

He'd finished the dual staircases. The sweep of them curved up opposite sides of the second-floor gallery. The elegance of them negated all the nicks, cuts, scrapes, and the hours of labor.

They would be, he realized, his pride and joy.

Now all he needed was to bribe the painters to work in this heat wave. Or pray for a break in the weather.

Either way, he wasn't going to wait until he'd finished the rear of the house. He wanted the front painted, wanted to stand as he was standing now, and see it gleam in bridal white.

To please himself, he strode back, walked slowly up the right-hand stairs, crossed the gallery, and walked slowly down the left. It gave him such a kick he did it again.

Then he dug through his toolbox for his cell phone and called Lena.

He had to share his excitement with her. What did it matter if he was a day ahead of schedule?

The phone was ringing in her apartment when he glanced over and saw Lilibeth crossing his lawn. He pressed END, got to his feet, and put the phone back in his toolbox.

"I swear, this heat's just wilting.”

She beamed at him, fluttering her lashes as she waved a hand in front of her face. He noted the bracelets she wore were Odette's.

"And it's barely noon. Look at you," she said in a slow purr.

She sauntered straight to him, trailed a fingertip down his bare chest. "You're all wet.”

"Impromptu shower." Instinctively, he took a step back so her finger no longer touched his skin. "What can I do for you, Miss Simone?"

"You can start by calling me Lilibeth. After all, you're a good friend of my mama's-and my little girl's, aren't you?”

She wandered away a bit, let her eyes widen as she scanned the house. "I just can't hardly believe what you've done with this big, old place. You must be awfully clever, Declan." She said flirtatiously, "I can call you Declan, can't I?”

"Sure. You don't have to be so clever," he said. "You just have to have plenty of time.”

And money, she thought. Plenty of money. "Oh now, don't you be modest. It's just a miracle what you're doing here. I hope it wouldn't be putting you out too much to show me some of the inside. And I surely could use something cold. Just walking over here from home's left me parched.”

He didn't want her in his house. More than distaste, there was a kind of primitive dread. But whatever else she was, she was Lena's mother, and his own had drummed manners into his bones.

"Of course. I've got some tea.”

"Can't think of anything that would be more welcome.”

She followed him to the door, was pleased when he opened it for her and stepped back for her to enter ahead of him. She let her body brush his, just the faintest suggestion, then walked into the foyer and let out a gasp.

She didn't have to feign the shock, or her wonder as she gazed around the grand entrance. She'd been inside before. Remy and Declan weren't the first to get liquored up and break into Manet Hall.

She'd never liked it much. The place had given her the creeps with its shadows and dust, its cobwebs and faded glamour.

But now it was full of light and polish. Glossy floors, glossy walls. She didn't think much of the old furniture, not for looks anyway. But she had no doubt the price tags had been heavy.

Old money bought or kept old things. It was a concept that baffled her when there was so much new and glittery in the world.

"My lord, sugar, this is a showplace. Just a showplace," she repeated and wandered into the parlor.

She might've preferred the city, where the action was, but she could see that a woman could live like a queen in such a place. And bring the action in, at her whim.

"Goodness, did I say you were clever? Why, you're just a genius. Everything's so beautiful and fresh." She turned back to him. "You must be awful proud.”

"It's coming along. Kitchen's back this way. We can get you that cold drink.”

"That would be lovely, but don't you hurry me along now." She slid a proprietary hand onto his arm, clung there as she walked down the hall. "I'm just fascinated by what you've done with this place. Mama said you'd only started on it a few months ago.”

"You can get a lot done if you stick to the plan.”

And since he seemed to be stuck with her, for the time being, he banked down on the desire to get her out again. Instead, as she turned into the library, made purring noises, he took the opportunity to study her.

He couldn't see Lena in her. There were, he supposed, some physical similarities. But where Lena had that compact, bombshell body, Lilibeth's had been whittled down with time and abuse to nearly gaunt.

Showing it off in tiny red shorts and a tight tank top only made her appear cheap and pathetic-a worn-out Kewpie doll painted up for one last night at the carnival. He felt a stir of sympathy for a woman who sought approval and attention by trying to showcase a sexuality she'd already lost.

She'd used a heavy hand with makeup, and the heat hadn't been kind. Her face seemed sallow and false under all the borrowed color. Her hair had frizzed, and graying roots were streaking through it.

By the time he got her into the kitchen, he found her too pitiful to resent.

"Have a seat," he told her. "I'll get you that drink.”

And she mistook the kindness in his voice for attraction.

"A kitchen like this …" She slid into a chair. It was cool here, and she tipped back her head to let the air reach her throat-and to watch him. "Don't you go and tell me you cook, too. Why, if that's so, sugar, I'm just going to have to cut Lena out and marry you my own self.”

"Sorry." The mention of Lena tightened him up again. But his back was to her, and she didn't see his face. "I don't cook.”

"Well, a girl can make allowances." She lapped her tongue over her lips. He had a good, strong build to go along with those deep pockets. And she was starting to itch for a man.

"You wouldn't have anything a little stronger than that tea, would you, honey?”

"Would you rather a beer?”

She'd rather a good glass of whiskey, but she nodded. "That'd be just fine. You gonna join me?”

"I'll stick with tea. I've got work to do yet today.”

"Too hot to work." She stretched back, looking at him under her lashes. "Days like this, you just wanna soak in a cool tub, then lie on down in a dim room with a fan blowing over your skin.”

She accepted the glass of beer he'd poured her, and sipped. "What do you do to beat the heat, honey?”

"Pour cold water over my head. How's Miss Odette?”

Lilibeth's lips pursed. "Oh, she's fine. House is hot as hell in the morning with her baking. Gotta save her pennies. I've been helping out, best I can, but thing's are tight. Declan …”

She ran her finger down the condensation on the glass, drank some more. "I wanted to apologize for that scene over at the house the other day. Lena and I, well, we just rub each other wrong half the time. I guess I can't deny I didn't do right by her when she was a little thing. But I'm trying to make it up to her.”

She widened her eyes until they stung and watered cooperatively. "I've changed. I've come to a point in my life when I realize what's important. And that's family. You know what I mean. You've got family.”

"Yes, I've got family.”

"And now you're down here, you must miss them, and they miss you. Whatever troubles you might have between you, you'd put them aside and support each other. No matter what, ain't that right?”

"Yes.”

She dabbed delicately at her tears. "I need Lena to see that's all I want. She doesn't trust me yet, and I can't blame her. I was hoping maybe you could help convince her to give me a chance."

She slid her hand across the table, skimmed it over the back of his. "I'd sure appreciate it if you did. I feel so alone. Woman in my situation, she needs a friend. A strong man in her corner. If I knew I had you on my side, it would help so much.”

"If there have to be sides, I'm on Lena's. Either way, I can't step between family-and if I was stupid enough to try it, she wouldn't listen to me anyway.”

"Maybe the two of you aren't as close as I assumed.”

"It's always risky to make assumptions," he returned equably.

She took another swallow of beer. "You're sleeping with her, aren't you?”

"I'm not going to discuss that with you.”

"Why not?" Lilibeth ran the chilly glass between her breasts, then, laughing, rose. "You shy, honey? Don't you be shy with Lilibeth. We could be friends, you and me." She skirted the table, leaned in behind him. "Very good friends," she added as her arms twined down and her teeth nipped at his ear.

"Miss Simone, you're putting me in the awkward position of asking you to get your hands off me.”

"You are shy." With a chuckle that blew warm breath and beer over his cheek, she trailed her hands down toward his lap.

He clamped a hand over her wrists, jerked them up again. "You're embarrassing yourself." He twisted so he could lever out of the chair and onto his feet to face her. "That's your business. But you're using me to take a shot at Lena, and that's mine.”

Angry color spotted her cheeks. "Maybe you think you're too good for me.”

"There's no maybe about it. Get out and we'll forget this happened.”

She wanted to scream at him, to strike out. But she still had her wits about her. She hadn't had enough beer to dull them, and the hit of coke she'd had before walking over had been miserly. Playing it out, she sank into a chair, dropped her head on her folded arms and sobbed.

"I don't know what to do. I'm just so alone. I'm just so scared. I need help. I thought-I thought if I let you have me, you'd help me. I just don't know what to do!”

She lifted her head, and the two tears she'd managed to squeeze out tracked through her makeup. "I'm in such awful trouble.”

He went to the sink, ran the water cold, then got a glass. "What kind of trouble?”

"I owe some money. That's why I left Houston, and I'm afraid they'll find me. Hurt me. Maybe Lena, too. I don't want them to hurt my baby.”

He set the water in front of her. "How much money?”

He saw it, the quick glint of satisfaction in her eyes before she lowered them. "Five thousand dollars. It wasn't my fault. Really, it wasn't my fault. I trusted the wrong people. A man," she said wearily. "And he ran off with the money and left me owing. If I don't find a way to pay it back, they're going to track me down and do something to me. Something to Mama and Lena.”

He sat back down, looked at her intently. "You're a liar. You want to try to soak me for a quick five K so you can score some drugs and get out of town. You figure me for an easy mark, but you figure wrong. If it wasn't for Lena, I'd give you a couple hundred to send you along. But you see, Lilibeth, there is Lena. She wouldn't like it.”

She hurled the water in his face. He barely blinked. "Fuck you.”

"I thought we already established that wasn't an option.”

"Think you're so smart, don't you? So important because you come from money." She pushed to her feet. "Big, fancy, highfalutin family. I found out all about you, Declan Fitzgerald. Let me ask you just what that big, fancy, highfalutin family's going to think when they hear you're heating the sheets with a Cajun swamp whore?”

The phrase had something clutching in his gut, in the back of his throat, in his head. Her face changed in front of his eyes, became fuller, older. Colder.

Josephine.

"Get out." He wasn't sure, not entirely, if he spoke to the flesh-and-blood woman or to the ghost. His hands shook as he gripped the edge of the table.

"All those fine doctors and lawyers and Indian chiefs up there in Boston, how are they gonna like the idea of their golden boy hooking up with some bastard child from the bayou? No money, no pedigree. Runs a second-rate bar and has a grandmama who sews for other people to earn extra pennies. Gonna cut you right out of the will, sugar. Leave you high and dry with this big white elephant of a house on your hands. Especially when I tell them you slept with her mama, too.”

His legs were weak as water, but he stood on them. "Get out of my house before I hurt you.”

"Your type doesn't lay hands on a woman. Don't think I don't know the difference." Riding on coke and confidence, she tossed back her hair. "You wanna keep plugging your wick into my girl, and you wanna keep your family out of it, you'll write me a check, cher. You'll write it quick, fast and in a hurry. And we're going to make it ten thousand now, because you hurt my feelings.”

"Your feeling's aren't worth a buck and a half to me, Lilibeth.”

"They will be, after I have a little chat with your mama.”

"My mother will chew you up and spit you out." He walked to the counter, yanked open a drawer and took out a pad. Scrawled a number on it. "Here, that's her number. Call her. You can use my phone, as long as I can listen in. It'll be a real pleasure to hear her slice you to bloodless pieces.”

"I need money!”

"You won't get it here." Out of patience, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door. "I can make a lot more trouble for you than you can for me. Believe it," he said, and shut the door in her face.

He had to sit down until he had his legs under him again. He felt ill, physically ill. Something had happened when she'd raged at him over Lena. The face that had become her face was one he'd seen in his dreams.

The face belonged to the house, or to the part of it that slammed doors, that wished him away.

That wished him harm.

No doubt now, he told himself, that Lena's mother now wished him harm as well.

He rose, went to the phone. One positive result of the ugly incident was it had made him appreciate his own mother.

He dialed, and felt cleaner at the familiar sound of her voice.

"Hi, Ma.”

"Declan? What are you doing calling in the middle of the day? What's wrong? You had an accident.”

"No, I-was "All those horrible tools. You've cut off a hand.”

"I still have two, and all other assigned parts. I just called to tell you I love you.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. "You've just learned you have a terminal disease and have six months to live.”

Now he laughed. "Got me. I'm a dead man and want to make contact with my family so I get a really cool wake.”

"Do you want Uncle Jimmy to sing `Danny Boy`?”

"I really don't. I'd as soon rest in peace.”

"So noted. What is it, really, Declan?”

"I want to tell you about the woman I'm in love with and want to marry.”

This pause was even longer. "Is this a joke?”

"No. Got a couple minutes?”

"I think I can rearrange my schedule for this.”

"Okay." He walked over, picked up his iced tea. The ice had melted, but he glugged it down anyway. "Her name's Angelina Simone, and she's beautiful, fascinating, frustrating, hardheaded and perfect. She's just perfect, Ma.”

"When do I meet her?”

"Remy's wedding. There's this one minor glitch –other than the one where she isn't ready to say yes.”

"I'm sure you can overcome that minor detail. What's the glitch?”

He sat down again and told her about Lilibeth.

By the time he got off the phone, he felt lighter. Going with impulse, he went upstairs to clean up and change. He was going to confront Lena a bit ahead of schedule.

Declan detoured by Remy's office on the way to Et Trois. The wedding was approaching quickly, and his duties as best man included coordinating the bachelor party. Though he figured the big picture was clear enough-enough booze to float a battleship, and a strip club –there were some finer details to work out.

When reception buzzed through to Remy's office, he heard his friend's almost frantic "Send him right in.”

The minute he opened the office door, he saw why.

Effie, tears streaking down her cheeks, sat in one of the visitor chairs with Remy crouched at her feet. Though Remy kept mopping at the tears, kept trying to comfort, he shot Declan a look of sheer male panic.

In a testament to friendship, Declan resisted the urge to back out and run. Instead he closed the door, crossed over and rubbed Effie's shoulder.

"Sweetheart, I told you I'd tell him you were dumping him for me.”

Effie merely looked up, then covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

"Okay, bad joke." Declan scrubbed now-sweaty palms over his jeans. "What's wrong?”

"Problem with the wedding venue," Remy began, and Effie let out a wail.

"There is no wedding venue." She snatched Remy's handkerchief, buried her face in it. "They had … they had a kitchen fire, and the fire department came, and they … they … Oh what're we going to do!”

"Smoke and water damage," Remy explained to Declan. "Over and above the fire damage. They're not going to be able to put it back together in time.”

"It's my fault.”

Mirroring Remy, Declan crouched. "Okay, honey, why'd you start the fire?”

It made her laugh-for a split second. "I wanted to use that old plantation house. It's romantic and so lovely. Remy said it'll all be easier booking a hotel ballroom, but no, I just had to have my way. And now look. We've got less than three weeks, and we're … We're just sunk, that's all."

"No, we're not, honey. We'll find another place. Pleure pas, chhre." Remy kissed the tip of her nose. "Worse comes to worst, we'll have the wedding, then we'll have our party later. We'll have us a real fais do-do, after the honeymoon.”

"Where are we going to get married? City Hall?”

"I don't care where we get married." Now he kissed her fingers. "Long as we do.”

She sniffled, sighed, leaned into him. "I'm sorry. I'm being silly and selfish. You're right. It doesn't matter where or how.”

"Sure it does." Declan's statement had them both staring at him, Effie with tears still swirling, Remy with baffled frustration. "You can't let a little fire screw up your plans. Use my place.”

"What do you mean, your place?" Remy demanded.

"The Hall. Sure as hell big enough. Ballroom needs some work, but there's time. I have to strong-arm some painters, but I finished the entrance this morning. Gardens are in really good shape, kitchen's done, parlors, library. Lots of rough spots yet, but people won't care about that. They'll get the house, the grounds, the ghosts. They'll talk about it for years.”

"Do you mean it?" Effie snagged Declan's hands before Remy could speak.

"Sure I do. We can pull it off.”

"Dec," Remy began, but Effie rolled right over him.

"Oh God. Oh, I love you." She threw her arms around Declan's neck. "You're the most wonderful man in the world. An angel," she said and kissed him. "A saint.”

"Do you mind?" Declan said to Remy. "We'd like to be alone.”

Laughing, Effie spun to her feet. "Oh, I shouldn't let you do this. You'll have all those strangers roaming around your house, trooping all over your lawn. But I'm going to let you because I'm desperate, and it's so perfect. I swear, I swear you won't have to do any of the work. I'll take care of everything. I'm going to owe you till my dying day.”

"Giving me your firstborn son will be payment enough.”

Remy sat on the edge of the desk and shook his head. "I say I'll marry you anywhere, anytime, all he does is give you a broken-down house and he's the one gets kissed.”

"I already got you." But she turned, wrapped her arms around Remy and, with a sigh, rested her head on his shoulder. "I want it to be beautiful, Remy. I want it to be special. It means a lot to me.”

"I know it does. So it means a lot to me, too. We'll have us some party, won't we?”

"We will." She gave him one last squeeze, then whirled away. The sad, sobbing woman was replaced by a dervish. "Can I go out now?" she asked Declan. "I need to get my mother and my sister, and we'll go out right now and start figuring it all out.”

"Go ahead.”

"Thank you." She kissed his cheek. "Thank you." Then the other. "Thank you." Then his mouth with a long, drawn-out smack. "Remy, you come on out soon as you can. Oh, Dec?" She was pulling out her cell phone as she headed for the door. "My bride colors are rose and blue. You don't mind if we have the house painted those colors, do you?”

His mouth dropped open as she shut the door behind her. "She was kidding, right?”

"Probably." Knowing his girl, and the pack she ran with, Remy blew out a breath. "Cher, you don't know what you just got yourself into. You made my girl happy, and I'm grateful, but I gotta tell you, you're in for a couple weeks of pure insanity.”

"I couldn't stand seeing her crying like that. Besides, it makes sense." Rose and blue, he thought. How much trouble could they get into with nice, harmless colors like rose and blue? "Anyway," he added, rubbing a hand over his sinking heart. "I've been through wedding plans before.”

"You haven't met her mother before.”

Declan shifted his feet. "Is she scary?”

"Pretty scary.”

"Hold me.”

Good deeds put him in a good mood. When he walked into Et Trois, he was ready for a cold one, a self-congratulatory pat on the back. And Lena.

She was behind the bar, pulling a draft and chatting up one of her regulars. He watched her gaze wash over, then land on him. Stay on him as he walked up, flipped up the pass-through.

She had time to slide the foaming mug across the bar to waiting hands, start to turn before he lifted her off her feet and planted his lips on hers.

The scattering of applause and hoots had him grinning as he held her an inch off the floor. "Missed you.”

She rubbed her tingling lips together. "Your aim seemed good to me." She patted his cheek, gave him that quick, wicked gleam. "Now down, boy. I'm working here.”

"You're going to need someone to cover for you.”

"I'm busy, cher. Go on and sit down, I'll get you a beer.”

He just hitched her up, giving her legs a little swing so he could get his arm under them. He elbowed the door to the bar kitchen. "Lena needs you to cover for her," he called back, then nodded toward the pass-through. "Mind?" he asked the man sipping the draft.

"Sure thing.”

"Declan." She didn't struggle, bad for the image. "I'm running a business here.”

"And you do a damn good job of it. Thanks," he added when the man flipped up the pass-through. "It ought to run fine without you for a half hour." He nodded as his new friend hustled over and opened the door for him.

He carried her outside. They got a few glances as he walked down the sidewalk and turned into her courtyard.

"I don't like being pushed around, cher.”

"I'm not pushing you, I'm carrying you. Where's your spare key?" he asked as he climbed the stairs. When she said nothing, he shrugged. "Fine. We're going to get arrested for doing what I plan on doing out here on your gallery, but I'm game.”

"Under the pot, second from the left.”

"Good.”

To her shock, he shifted her, slinging her over his shoulder as he crouched down to retrieve the key. She continually underestimated his strength and, she admitted, her reaction to it.

"You've dropped a couple of pounds," he commented and unlocked her door. "Good.”

"I beg your pardon?" she said in her best frigid, southern-belle tone.

"I figure it's because you've been pining for me.”

"You're going to want to get a grip, cher.”

"Got one," he said and reached up to squeeze her butt as he kicked the door closed.

"I can't tell you how flattered I am that you'd take time out of your busy day to come into town for a quickie, but I-was "Excellent idea. It wasn't my first order of business, but why wait?" He hitched her more securely on his shoulder and headed for the bedroom.

"Declan, you're starting to seriously irritate me now. You'd better just put me down and-was She lost the rest-and the air in her lungs-when he flipped her onto the bed. He could see her eyes glittering dangerously behind her hair before she shoved it out of her face. And that, he thought, was perfect. He was in the mood for the fast and the physical, the sweaty and the sexy.

"What the hell's gotten into you? You come marching into my place like you own it, cart me off like I'm spoils of war. If you think I'm here to scratch your itch whenever it suits you, you're about to find out different.”

He merely grinned, yanked off a shoe and tossed it aside.

"Put that back on, or hobble out. Either way, I want you gone.”

He pulled off the other shoe, then his shirt. Her response to that was to scramble to her knees and spit out in Cajun so rapid and thick he caught only about every sixth word.

"Sorry," he said in mild tones as he unbuttoned his jeans. "That was a little quick for me. Did you say I was a pig who should fry in hell, or that I should go to hell and eat fried pig?”

He was ready when she leaped, and laughing as she swiped at him. It was time for a fast tumble, fast and violent, and her clawing nails and bared teeth added the perfect punch.

She slapped, cursed, kicked. Then bucked like a wild mare when he crushed her under him on the bed and covered her snarling mouth with his in a hot, hungry kiss.

"Not what you expect from me, is it?”

Breathless and randy, he tore at her shirt. "Given you too much of what you expect so far.”

"Stop it. Stop it now." Her heart sprinted under his rough hand. No, it wasn't what she expected from him, any more than her electrified response to his dominance was what she expected from herself.

"Look at me." He clamped her hands on either side of her head. "Tell me you don't want me, that you don't want this. Say it and mean it, and I'm gone.”

"Let go of my hands." Though her gaze remained steady, her voice shook. "You let go of my hands.”

He released one. "Say it." His muscles quivered. "You want, or you don't.”

She fisted a hand in his hair and dragged his mouth back to hers. "J'ai besoin.”

I need.

She used her teeth, gnawing restlessly at his lips. Used her legs, wrapping them around to chain him to her.

"Take me," she demanded. "Fast. Fast and rough.”

His hand shot beneath the short, snug skirt, tore away the thin panties beneath. Sweat already slicked his skin and hers as she arched to him.

"Hold on," he warned, and plunged into her.

She cried out as the explosive sensation ripped through her, cried out again as he drove deeper, harder. Filled, invaded, took until needs, frantic, outrageous needs swarmed through her. Her nails scored down his back, pinched into his hips.

De plus en plus. More and more, her mind screamed. "More," she managed. "I want more.”

So did he. He shoved her knees back, opened her and hammered himself inside her.

It burned. His lungs, his heart, his loins. The ferocious heat, the unspeakable pleasure of going wild with her hazed his vision until the world was drenched with it.

White sun beating through the windows, the brassy blast of a trumpet from the street, the mad squeak of springs as slick skin slapped rhythmically against slick skin.

And her eyes, dark and glossy as onyx, locked on his.

I love you. Endlessly.

He didn't know if he spoke, or if the words simply ran a desperate loop in his brain. But he saw her eyes change, watched emotion swirl into them, blind them.

He heard her sob for breath, felt her vise around him as she came. Helpless, half mad, he shattered. And poured into her.

Out of breath, out of his mind, he collapsed onto her. Beneath him she continued to quake, to quiver. And shudder, those aftershocks of eruption. Then she was still.

"Can't move yet," he mumbled. He felt hollowed out, light as a husk that could be happily blown apart by the slightest breeze.

"Don't need to.”

Her lips were against the side of his throat, and their movement there brought him an exquisite tenderness. A rainbow after the storm.

"Would you believe I came in to talk to you?”

"No.”

"Did. Figured we'd get to this after. Change of plans. I owe you a shirt and some underwear.”

"I've got more.”

He'd recovered just enough to prop on his elbows and look down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and glowing. Curls of damp hair clung to her temples, spilled over the rumpled spread.

He wanted to lap her up like a cat with cream.

"Pissing you off got me hot," he told her.

"Me too. Seems like. I wasn't going to do this with you again.”

"Weren't you?”

"No." She laid a hand on his cheek, amazed by the wave of tenderness. "I'd made up my mind about it. Then you come into my place, all sexy and good-looking, scoop me up that way. You mess with my mind, cher. You just go and unmake it for me, time and again.”

"You're everything I want.”

"And nothing that's good for you. Go on." She gave his shoulder a little push. "Get off me. Two of us are a sweaty mess.”

"We'll take a shower, then we'll talk. Talk," he repeated when she raised a brow. "Scout's honor." He held up two fingers.

"I've got to get back to work.”

"Angelina.”

"All right." She waved him away. It was, she knew, no use arguing with him. God knew why she found that mule-headed streak of his so appealing. "Go get yourself cleaned up. I'll call down and make sure everything's covered for the next little while.”

She stepped into the shower just as he got out. He imagined she'd timed it that way, to avoid the intimacy. Giving her room, he went to the kitchen, found the expected pitcher of tea, and poured two glasses.

When she came in, wearing that same sexy skirt and a fresh shirt, he offered her a glass.

She took it into the living room.

In the last few days, she'd resigned herself to what needed to be. Throughout, part of her had indeed pined for him. And every time she'd caught herself glancing toward the bar door, looking for him, or waking up in the night reaching for him, she'd cursed herself for being a weak fool.

Then she'd glanced at the door, and there he was. Her own soaring pleasure, depthless relief, had annoyed her even before he'd nipped at her pride by plucking her out of her own bar.

"Declan," she began. "I wasn't fair to you the other day. I wasn't in the mood to be fair.”

"If you're going to apologize for it, save it. I wanted to make you mad. I'd rather see you angry than sad. She makes you both.”

"I suppose she does. Mostly I hate knowing she's out there with Grandmama, knowing she'll hurt her again. I can't stop it, I can't fix it. That troubles me. But you shouldn't have been brought into it.”

"You didn't bring me into it. It happened." He angled his head. "Correct me if I'm wrong. You've got the impression that since I come from where and who I come from, I'm not equipped to handle the darker, the more difficult, the stickier aspects of life. Your life, in particular.”

"Cher, I'm not saying you're not tough. But this particular aspect of life, my life, is out of your scope. You wouldn't understand someone like her.”

"Since I've been so sheltered." He nodded. "She came to see me today.”

The healthy flush sex and heat had put in Lena's cheeks drained. "What do you mean?”

"Lilibeth paid me a call around noon. I debated whether to tell you about it or not, and decided that I'm not going to keep secrets from you, or tell lies. Not even to spare your feelings. She came by, invited herself in for a cold one. Then she tried to seduce me.”

"I'm sorry." Her lips felt stiff and ice cold as she formed the words. Her throat burned like fire. "It won't happen again; I'll see to it.”

"Shut up. Do I look like I need your protection? And save your outrage until I'm done," he told her. "When she reached for my zipper, I told her not to embarrass herself. Her next tack was to fling herself down on the kitchen table and cry.”

He eased down on the arm of Lena's sofa. The tone of conversation, he thought in some corner of his brain, didn't lend itself to lounging among all those soft, colorful pillows. "She didn't manage to work up many tears along with the noise, but I give her marks for effort. The story was how bad, mean people were after her. They'd hurt her, you, Miss Odette if she didn't give them five thousand dollars. Where could she turn, what could she do?”

Color rushed back into Lena's face, rode high on her cheekbones. "You gave her money? How could you believe-was "First a sheltered wimp, now a moron." He gave an exaggerated sigh and sipped his tea. "You're really pumping up the ego here, baby. I didn't give her a dime, and let her know, clearly, I wasn't going to be hosed. That irritated her into threatening to go to my family. Seems she's asked around about me and got the picture. She figured they'd be shocked and shamed by the idea of their fair– haired boy falling under your spell. For good measure, she'd tell them I'd fucked her, too.”

"She could do it." It was more than the cold now. The sickness roiled in her belly. "Declan, she's perfectly capable of-was "Didn't I tell you to wait until I was finished?" His voice didn't whip, didn't sting. It was simply implacable. "The cost doubled to ten thousand for this spot of blackmail. I don't think she was pleased with my response. I kicked her out. That's about it, so you can be outraged now if you want. Don't cry." He spoke roughly when her eyes filled. "She's not worth one tear from you."

"I'm mortified. Can't you understand?”

"Yes. Though we're both smart enough to know this had nothing to do with you, I understand. And I'm sorry for it, sorry to add to it.”

"It's not you. It's never been you." She wiped a tear from her lashes before it could fall. "That's what I've been trying to get through your head from the start.”

"It's not you, either, Lena. It's never been you. I looked at her. I looked close and hard, and there's nothing there that's part of you. Family's the luck of the draw, Lena. What you make of yourself, because of or despite it, that's where the spine and heart come in.”

"I'll never be rid of her, not all the way. No matter what I do.”

"No, you won't.”

"I'm sorry. No, damn it, I will say it," she snapped when his face tightened. "I'm sorry she came into your home. I'm sorry she touched on your family. I need to ask you not to say anything about this to my grandmama.”

"Why would I?”

She nodded, then rising, wandered the room. She loved this place because she'd made it herself. She respected her life for the same reasons. Now, because she cared for, because she respected the man who was so determined to be part of her life, she'd explain.

"She left me before I was two weeks old," she began. "Just went out one morning, got in her mama's car, and drove off. Dumped the car in Baton Rouge. I was three before she came back around.”

"Your father?”

She shrugged. "Depends on her mood. Once she told me it was a boy she loved and who loved her, but his parents tore them apart and sent him far away. Another time, she told me she was raped on the way home from school. Still another it was a rich, older man who was going to come back for both of us one day and set us up in a fine house.”

She turned back so she could face him. "I was about eighteen when I figured she told me the truth. She was high enough, careless enough, mean enough for it to be the truth. How the hell should she know, she said. There were plenty of them. What the hell did she care who planted me in her? One was the same as the other.

"She was whoring when she got pregnant with me. I heard talk when I was old enough to understand what the talk meant. When she got in trouble, she ran back to my grandparents. She was afraid of an abortion-afraid she'd die of it, then go to hell or some such thing. So she had me, and she left me. Those are the only two things in this world I owe her.”

She drew a breath, made herself sit again. "Anyway, she came back when I was three, made what would become her usual promises that she'd learned her lesson, she was sorry, she'd changed. She stayed around a few days, then took off again. That's a pattern that's repeated since. Sometimes she'd come back beat up from whatever bastard she'd taken up with most recently. Sometimes she'd come back sick, or just high. But Lilibeth, she always comes back.”

She fell silent, brooding over that single, unavoidable fact.

"It hurts when she does," Declan said quietly. "Hurts you, hurts Miss Odette.”

"She hurts everyone. It's her only talent. She was high when she showed up on my thirteenth birthday. We were having a fais do-do at the house, all the friends and family, and she stoned, with some lowlife. It got ugly pretty quick, and three of my uncles turned them off. I need a smoke," she said, and left the room.

She came back a moment later with a cigarette. "I had a boy I was seeing, crazy about that boy. I was sixteen, and she came back. She got him liquor and drugs and had sex with him. He was hardly older than I was, so it's hard to blame him for being an idiot. She thought it was funny when I stumbled over them out in the bayou. She laughed and laughed. Still, when I got this apartment, and she came back, I took her in. Better me than Grandmama, I thought. And maybe this time … Just maybe.

"But she turned tricks in my bed and brought her drugs into my home. She stole from me, and she left me again. From then I've been done with her. I'm done with her. And I'll never be done with her, Declan. Nothing I can do changes her being my mother.”

"And nothing she does can change who you are.

You're a testament to your own grit, Lena, and a credit to the people who raised you. She hates you for what you are.”

She stared at him. "She hates me," she whispered. "I've never been able to say that to anyone before. Why should saying such a thing, such an awful thing, help so much?”

"I won't say she can't hurt you any more, because she can. But maybe now she won't be able to hurt you as much, or for as long.”

Thoughtfully, she tapped out her cigarette. "I keep underestimating you.”

"That's okay. That way I can keep surprising you. How's this one? She's connected to Manet Hall.”

"What do you mean?”

"I don't know, exactly, and can't explain it. I just know she is. And I think maybe she was meant to come back now, to say what she said to me. One more link in the chain. And I think she's pretty well done around here, this time out. Call your grandmother, Lena. Don't let this woman put a wedge between you.”

"I've been thinking of it. I guess I will. Declan." She picked up her glass, set it down again. The useless gesture made him raise his eyebrows. "I was going to end things between us.”

"You could've tried.”

"I mean it. We'd both be better off if we stepped back a ways, tried to be friends of some sort.”

"We can be friends. I want our children to have parents who like each other.”

She threw up her hands. "I have to get back to work.”

"Okay. But listen, speaking of weddings, slight change of plans in Remy and Effie's. We're having the whole deal at my place.”

She rubbed her temple, tried to switch gears and moods as smoothly as he did. "In … with half finished rooms and tools and lumber, and-was "That's a very negative attitude, and not at all helpful, especially since I was going to ask you for a hand. How are you with a paintbrush?”

She let out a sigh. "Do you save everyone?”

"Just the ones who matter.”

Somewhere between Declan's leaving the Hall, and Effie's arrival, Lilibeth paid another call. She was riding on coke and insult. The lousy son of a bitch couldn't spare a few bucks for the mother of the woman he was screwing, she'd just help herself.

She'd cased the first floor when he'd led her back to the kitchen, and going in through the back, she arrowed straight to the library and the big rolltop desk she'd spotted.

People with money kept cash handy, in her experience. Moving quickly, she yanked open drawers, riffled through, then let out a shout when she found a neat pile of fifties. Those she stuffed into her pocket.

She figured the books he'd shelved and the ones yet in boxes were probably worth something. But they'd be heavy, and hard to sell. He'd likely have more cash, a few pieces of jewelry up in his bedroom.

She raced up the main stairs. The fact that he could come back at any time only added to the thrill of stealing.

A door slammed, had her falling straight to her knees. Just a draft, she told herself as she caught her breath, as the pulse in her throat began to pop. Big, drafty old house. In fact, she felt cold air whisk over her as she jumped to her feet again.

She touched a doorknob, yanked her hand away again. The knob was so cold it all but burned.

Didn't matter. What the fuck? His room was down the hall. She wasn't as stupid as people thought she was. Hadn't she watched the house over the last few days? Hadn't she seen him come out on the gallery from the room at the far corner?

Laughing out loud, the sound rolling back over her, she dashed down, streaked through the open door. She yanked open the top drawer of a dresser and hit pay dirt with the old carved box inside.

Gold cuff links-at least she assumed they were real gold. Silver ones, too, with some sort of fancy blue stone. Diamond studs, a gold watch. And in a box inside the box, a woman's ring of … ruby maybe, diamond and ruby, fashioned in interlocking hearts.

She set the box on the dresser, hunted through a couple more drawers until she found another wad of cash.

Paid anyway, didn't you, you bastard. Paid just fine.

She tossed the bills into the jewelry box, tucked the box under her arm.

Standing there, her breath whistling out in excitement, cocaine dancing in her blood, she debated the satisfaction of trashing the place. It would be satisfying-more payment. But it wasn't smart. And she was smart.

She needed time to turn the jewelry into cash, time to turn some of the cash into drugs. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. Best to leave things as they were.

She'd go out the other side, just in case her long-nosed mama was looking this way.

But when she stepped back into the hall, she found herself staring at the third– floor stairs.

What was up there? she wondered. Maybe something good. Maybe something she could come back for later. Something that would make her rich.

Her breath wasn't just whistling now, but wheezing. Her skin was ice cold. But she couldn't resist the urge to climb those stairs. She was alone in the house, wasn't she? All alone, and that made it her house.

It was her house.

Swallowing continually to wet her dry throat, she started up. Shivering.

Voices? How could she hear voices when there was no one there? But they stopped her, urged her to turn back. Something wrong here, something bad here. Time to go.

But it seemed hands pressed to her back, pushed her on until, with trembling fingers, she reached for the door.

She meant to ease it open, slowly-just take a peek. But at the touch of her hand, it swung violently open.

She saw the man and woman on the floor, heard the baby screaming in the crib. Saw the woman's eyes-staring and blind. And dead.

And the man, his hair gold in the dim light, turned to look at her.

Lilibeth tried to scream, but couldn't grab the air. As she opened her mouth, something pushed into her. For one horrifying moment it became her. Then it swept through her. Cold, vicious, furious.

Another figure formed in the room. Female, sturdy, in a long night robe.

Julian.

And in speechless terror, Lilibeth turned and ran.

Within twenty-four hours, Declan discovered he had more help on the house than he knew what to do with. Apparently everyone in Louisiana was invited to the wedding, and they were all willing to lend a hand.

He had painters, plumbers, carpenters and gofers. And though it occurred to him in the middle of the melee that if half that amount had pitched in to repair the original venue, the job would have been done in about twenty minutes, he decided to keep the thought to himself.

It seemed rude to voice it.

And he appreciated the labor, sincerely. Reminded himself of it whenever he felt certain pieces of the house slipping away from him into someone else's charge.

He'd been looking forward to screening in the lower rear gallery himself, but comforted himself that one good hurricane would demand rescreening.

He'd intended to sand and varnish the ballroom floors, but bucked up when he thought of all the other floors waiting for him throughout the house.

And he sure as hell didn't mind turning over the exterior painting to others. It was a hot, exacting and laborious job, and crossing it off his list left him free to tackle the downstairs powder room, and to hang the blown-glass chandelier he'd bought for the foyer, and to finish plans for the mud room. And …

Well, there was plenty to go around, he reflected.

Then there was the pure pleasure of watching Effie zip in and out on her lunch hour or after work. Even when she brought her mother in tow. Mrs. Renault was a spit-and-polished older version of her daughter with an eye like an eagle and a voice like a drill sergeant.

Remy was right, she was pretty scary. Declan hid from her, whenever possible and without shame.

On the second day of the full-out campaign, Declan strode toward the rear gallery to check progress. He was feeling pretty peppy from the tile he'd just set, was covered with ceramic dust from cutting it.

The noise level was amazing. Voices, radios, power tools. As much as he enjoyed people, he'd have given a thousand dollars for five minutes alone in his house.

"Jim Ready? I want those windows sparkling, you hear? How's it going to look in the wedding pictures if those windows are dull? Put your back into it, boy!”

The sound of Mrs. Renault's voice had Declan turning sharply on his heel and changing direction. He all but bowled over Odette.

"Hey, sorry. You all right? I didn't see you. I was running away.”

"You got a houseful.”

"You're right about that. If this place isn't fixed up enough to suit General Renault by D-Day, we're all going to be shot." He took her arm as he spoke and, thinking only of self-preservation, hustled her into the library. Shut the doors.

"Can I come live at your house?”

She smiled-a curve of lips that didn't reach her eyes. "You're such a good boy, Declan, doing all this for your friend.”

"I'm not doing much more right now than staying the hell out of the way.”

"And you'd rather all these people go back where they came from, and leave you be so you can play with your house.”

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, pushed his dusty hand through his dusty hair. "There'll still be plenty to do once they go. We're not touching the third floor or the servants' area, and only doing one other room on the second. Tell me what's wrong, Miss Odette?”

"I gotta work up to it." She set down the shopping bag she carried, then walked over to look at some of his books. There were still boxes of them to be shelved, but she saw what it would be. Towers of words, some old and worn, some fresh and new. Small treasures, deep colors.

"You got vision," she said at length. "You picture what you want, then you make it happen. That's a fine skill, cher.”

"Some people call it single-minded.”

"You're anything but. You've got a lot of channels in that head of yours. Working on one at a time till it's done shows character to me. I'm awful fond of you, Declan.”

"I'm awful fond of you, too. I wish you'd sit down, Miss Odette. You look tired." And troubled. "Why don't I get us a cold drink?”

"No, don't you trouble and risk getting shanghaied by Sarah Jane Renault. Now that's a single-minded individual, and I don't fault her for it.”

"She told me to get a haircut by the end of the week so I don't look shaggy or freshly shorn for the wedding." Sulking over it a little, Declan ran a testing hand through his hair. "And that she'll be putting fancy soaps, towels and so on in all the bathrooms the day before the wedding. I'm not to use them under penalty of death. And I'm to get more green plants inside the house. A house can't breathe without green plants.”

"She's just nervous, honey. Effie's her baby. Her youngest daughter." Odette pressed her lips together. "Declan, I'm shamed to say what I have to say to you, and I won't blame you if, after I'm done, you ask me not to come back in your home again.”

The words alarmed him, nearly as much as the pain in her eyes. "There's nothing you can say that would make you unwelcome in my home, Miss Odette. Who hurt you?”

"Oh, mon Dieu, if this spoils what I see between you and my Lena, I'll never forgive myself. My daughter stole from you," she blurted out. "She came in your house and took what was yours.”

With a heavy heart she reached into her bag, took out his carved box. "This was in her room. I knew it was yours even before I looked in and saw a set of cuff links with your initials. I don't know if it's all here, but that's all there was. If anything's missing-was "Let's just see. I want you to sit down now. I mean it.”

She nodded, sank into a chair.

He chained down his rage as he set the box on a table, opened it. He saw the ring box first, opened it, and felt the worst of the anger fade when the stones glittered up at him.

"Okay." He breathed out. "The most important thing's still here." As was, as far as he could see, everything else but the couple thousand in twenties he kept secured with the money clip that had been his great-grandfather's.

"It's all here.”

"You're not telling me the truth," Odette said dully.

"A little cash, that's all.”

"I need to know how much so I can pay it back.”

"Do you think I'd take money from you?" Some of the anger lashed out, made her wince. "Look at my face. Do you think I'd take money from you for this, for anything?”

Her lips wanted to quiver, so she pressed them into a firm line. "She's my responsibility.”

"The hell she is. Don't insult me again by talking about restitution.”

Despite her promise not to shed one in front of him, a tear spilled over. "I know what she is. And I know she'll never be what I hoped for, worked for, wished for from the moment I knew she was inside me. But she gave me Lena.”

She dug out a tissue, patted her cheeks. There would be no more tears. "I expected she'd steal from me before she took off again, but I didn't think she'd take from you. I never thought of it, and I'm sorry for that.”

"You want to look at my face again and see if I blame you?”

"No, you don't blame me. Oh, I want you for my Lena. I'm sitting here knowing my child stole from you, and all I can think is I want you for my baby.”

"Good thing, because I want me for her, too." He picked up the ring box, crossed over to her chair. "I bought this for her. Maybe you could put in a good word for me so when I give it to her, she takes it.”

Odette looked at the ring and sighed. "Suits her. Sure does suit her. She's got a good heart, Declan, but it's got scars on it. She's so strong. Sometimes I worry she's too strong, and she'll forget how to give. I'll have to tell her about this.”

"Yes.”

"And you'll have to figure out how to keep her from pulling away from you when she knows. That's what she'll want to do.”

"Don't worry. Where's Lilibeth?”

"Gone. I found this in her room this morning. She's barely come out of there since the day before. When I went in and found it, I put it away where she wouldn't find it. Then we had words about it. She packed up and left. She'll come back," she said in the same hollow tone he'd heard from Lena. "In a year or two. And we'll go through it once more."

"We'll deal with it when it happens." He leaned down, kissed her cheek. "I love you." When her eyes filled again, he took her hand. "Whether Lena's ready for it or not, we're family now. Family sticks.”

"When I meet your mama," Odette managed, "I'm gonna give her one big, rib– cracking hug.”

"That'll set her up. Why don't we take a look at what's happening around here, and you can protect me from General Renault.”

He didn't expect it to take long, and wasn't disappointed. About the time most of his free labor was packing up for the day, and Effie and her mother had him out in the back garden, Lena strode around the side of the house.

Since he was in the middle of the series of: uh-huhs, you-bets and no-problems that had become his litany of responses to the Renault women's wedding agenda, he decided the confrontation in Lena's eyes would be a relief.

"The railings and baluster will be wrapped in tulle and lace.”

"Uh-huh.”

"And we'll have baskets-white baskets-of flowers set out on the gallery there.”

"You bet.”

"The florist will need to start early on the day of the wedding, so you just scoot out of the way and make sure they have access to all the areas of the house I've got marked off on my chart here.”

"No problem. Lena." He reached out and clutched her hand. A drowning man grabbing a rope. "We're just talking about flower arrangements.”

"Flowers are the landscape of a wedding," Mrs. Renault declared, and made more notations on the clipboard she carried everywhere. "How are you, Lena?”

"I'm just fine, Miss Sarah Jane. Isn't this exciting? Counting right down to the big day. Effie, you must be half mad with the details.”

"I've passed half, working toward pure insanity.”

"It'll all be beautiful." She kept her smile bright, her voice light even as the dark heat coursed through her. "Those rhododendrons are going to be spectacular on your day." "The gardens are going to be a sight," Mrs. Renault agreed, and ran down her checklist again. "Pity, though, there wasn't time to put up an arbor, train some sweet peas up." She looked over the tops of her reading glasses at Declan with a faintly accusatory gleam.

"Maybe the Franks can rig something. Ah, can you excuse me a minute? There's something I need to show Lena.”

He escaped, pulling her toward the steps to the second-floor gallery. There was still some of General Renault's militia on the lower level. "They're like ants," he babbled. "Crawling out of the woodwork when you're not looking.”

"What're you talking about?”

"P. Everywhere. Watch that bucket. I think the ballroom's safe.”

"Feeling a little pressed, are you, cher?”

"I'm thinking of a nice vacation in Maui until this is over. I've got to say, I admire women.”

"Really." She glanced down at the ladders, the tarps, the debris of construction-and the two women picking their way through it with visions of tulle and lace in their heads. "Why is that?”

"You can be spitting mad, and still carry on a polite conversation about rhododendrons." He peeked through the ballroom doors, sighed. "All clear. Anyway, when most guys work up a head of steam, it spews. Well …" He stepped inside. "What do you think?”

The walls were a pale rose, the floor gold and gleaming.

"It's big.”

"It'll need to be for this little do. The General says we've got two-fifty coming. Otherwise, you can use the pocket doors to turn it into a couple of parlors.”

He crossed the floor, drew one of the big doors out of its slot. "Isn't this amazing?" He trailed his fingers over the carved wood reverently. "The craftsmanship in these. More than a hundred years ago. I hate hiding them. See how the pattern matches the ceiling medallions? Tibald did a hell of a job restoring those.”

She had worked up a head of steam since her conversation with her grandmother, but found it dispersing now as she watched his undiluted pleasure and pride.

"It's true love, isn't it? You and this house. Most men don't look at a woman the way you look at those doors.”

"I look at you that way.”

She had to turn away. "You make it damn hard to hold onto a mad. Tell me why you're not mad, Declan. Why aren't you mad she stole from you?”

"I am. And if I have occasion to see her again, she'll know it.”

"You should go to the police.”

"I thought about it. I might get some of the money back, but it would embarrass Miss Odette.”

"She's already embarrassed.”

"I know. Why add to it? I got back the things that mattered.”

The bitterness gushed through her anew. "She came in your house, she went through your things. She took from you.”

He lifted a brow at the tone of her voice. "Working up that steam again?”

"Goddamn it. Goddamn it, Declan, she violated your home. It's not like taking from me or Grandmama. How much did she take?”

"Couple thousand.”

The muscles in Lena's jaw tightened. "I'll have you a check tomorrow.”

"You know I'll tear it up. Put it away, Lena. I figure it was a cheap lesson. If you're going to live in the country, have a houseful of valuables and spare cash, you don't walk off and leave it unlocked and unattended.”

"She'd have broken a window.”

"Yeah. That's why I'm getting a couple of dogs. Always wanted a pack of dogs. I thought I'd go to the shelter after the wedding. Want to come with me?”

She just shook her head. "You lose two thousand dollars-and I bet it was more– to a thieving junkie, and your response is to buy some dogs.”

"Figured I'd get some fun out of it. How about it? They'll be your dogs, too.”

"Stop it, Declan.”

"Uh-uh." With a satisfied smirk on his face, he walked toward her. "Let's get us a couple mongrel puppies, Lena. They'll be good practice before the kids come along.”

"You get your own puppies." But he'd teased a smile out of her. "And run around after them when they pee on your rugs and chew on your shoes.”

"Maybe Rufus will teach them their manners. You're wearing my earrings," he said as he slipped his arms around her and glided into a dance.

"They're my earrings now.”

"You think of me when you put them on.”

"Maybe. Then I think how nice they look on me, and I forget all about you.”

"Well, then I'll have to find other ways to remind you.”

"A necklace." She skimmed her fingers up the nape of his neck, into his hair. "Couple of nice glittery bracelets.”

"I was thinking of a toe ring.”

She laughed, eased in closer so that she could rest her cheek on his. They were waltzing, and a tune was playing in her head. One she'd heard him hum or whistle countless times. She could smell his workday on him-the sweat, the dust-and under it the faint, faint drift of soap from his morning shower. His cheek was a little rough against hers as he'd neglected to shave.

If life were a fairy tale, she thought, they could stay just like this. Waltzing around and around on the satiny floor, while the sun slid down, the flowers rioted, and the lights from hundreds of tiny crystal prisms showered over them.

"I've got such feelings for you. More than I ever had for anyone, or wanted to. I don't know what to do with them.”

"Give them to me," he pleaded, turning his lips into her hair. "I'll take good care of them.”

She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. Hadn't meant to. Now, when she would have drawn back, he pulled her closer. So close, so tight, she couldn't get her breath.

Her head spun, and the music inside it soared. The strong scent of lilies rose up and almost smothered her.

"Do you hear it?" His hands trembled as he gripped her arms. "Violins.”

"I can't …" His voice sounded far off, and as she fought to focus on his face, another seemed to float over it. "I'm dizzy.”

"Let's sit down." He kept his hands on her arms, lowered them both to the floor. "You heard it, too. The music. You felt it, too.”

"Just hold on a minute." She had to regain her bearings. The room was empty but for the two of them. There was no music, no crystal light, no pots heaped with fragrant white lilies. Yet she had heard, seen, smelled. "I didn't know hallucinations were catching.”

"It's not hallucination. It's memory. Somehow, it's memory. They'd have danced here, Lucian and Abigail, like we were. Loved each other, like we do." When she shook her head, he swore. "All right, damn it, he loved her, the way I love you. And there's something still alive between them. Maybe something that needs to be finished, or just acknowledged. We're here, Lena.”

"Yes, we're here. And I'm not living someone else's life.”

"It's not like that.”

"It felt like that. And living someone else's life might just mean dying someone else's death. He drowned himself in that pond outside there, and she-was "She died in this house.”

Lena took a calming breath. "Depending on whose story you believe.”

"I know she did. Upstairs, in the nursery.

Something happened to her up there. And he never knew. He grieved himself to death not knowing. I need to find out for him. And for myself. I need you to help me.”

"What can I do?”

"Come to the nursery with me. We're closer now. Maybe you'll remember this time.”

"Declan." She took his face in her hands. "There's nothing for me to remember.”

"You hang witch bottles out in my tree, but sit here denying any possibility of reincarnation, which you brought into the mix in the first place.”

"That's not what I'm doing. There's nothing for me to remember because I'm not Abigail. You are.”

She might as well have slipped on a pair of brass knuckles and plowed her fist into his stomach. The shock of her words had him reeling.

"Get out. That's not possible.”

"Why not?”

"Because …" Flustered, oddly embarrassed, he pushed to his feet. "You're trying to say I was a girl?”

"I don't know why that's such a shock to your system. A lot of us get along just fine female."

"I don't. I'm not. I wasn't.”

"It makes the most sense, if any of this makes sense.”

"No sense. None. No way.”

"You're the one who keeps hearing the baby cry." She'd never seen him quite so flustered. "Mothers do, before anyone else. And you're drawn to that room upstairs, the way a mother would be to her baby. Even though the room scares you, you're pulled back. You said how you wandered through the servants' wing, how easy it was to find your way. She'd have known it, but why would Lucian?”

"It was his house." But he remembered how he'd imagined looking out the window, imagined seeing the two men riding toward the house. Why would he imagine seeing Lucian riding home if he'd been Lucian?

"A couple other things," Lena continued. "One telling one. That day when I came along and saw you walking toward the pond. Trancelike. You walked oddly. I couldn't figure out what it was about the way you walked that struck me. But now I know. You were walking the way a very pregnant woman walks. Waddling a bit," she said as he turned and gaped at her with something like horror. "A hand pressed to the small of your back. Small, careful steps.”

"Now you're saying I wasn't just a girl, but a pregnant girl?”

"Oh for heaven's sake, cher, some people believe you can come back as a poodle. What's so bad about a pregnant woman?”

"Because pregnant women go into labor at a certain point, then have to push several pounds of baby out of a very limited space.”

The horror on his face was comical, and enough to have her relaxing into the theory. "I don't think you'll have to repeat that performance in this life. Have you considered that if you look at this puzzle from this new angle, you might find the answers you want?”

He found himself wanting to rub at his crotch just to make sure everything was where it should be. Maybe work up a good, manly belch. "I like it better the other way.”

"Keep an open mind, cher. I've got to get to work.”

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." He dashed after her. "You're just going to drop this bombshell on me, then leave?”

"I've got to work for a living."

"Come back after closing. Stay.”

"I need to stay at Grandmama's for a night or two, till she's feeling steadier.”

"Okay. Okay." He let out a breath when they reached the main floor. "Let me try this." He spun her around, crushed his mouth to hers. Then took the kiss deep and dreamy.

"You didn't get any lesbian-type vibe from that, did you?" he asked when he drew back.

"Hmm." She touched her tongue to her top lip, pretended to consider. "No. I can attest that you're all man this time around. Now, shoo. You've got plenty to do the next few days to keep your mind occupied. This whole thing's waited a hundred years, it can wait till after Remy's wedding.”

"Come back and stay when Miss Odette's feeling better.”

"All right.”

"I love you, Lena.”

"I'm afraid you do," she whispered, and walked away.

Lena left the bar as early as she could manage, but it was still after one in the morning when she pulled up to the bayou house. The porch light was burning, and the moths seduced to death by it. She sat for a moment, listening to the music of the frogs and night birds, and the teasing whisper of a faint breeze.

This was the place of her girlhood. Perhaps the place of her heart. Though she'd made her life in the city, it was here she came when she was most happy, or most troubled. Here she came to think her deepest thoughts or dream her most secret dreams.

She'd let herself dream once-those innate female dreams of romance and a handsome man to love her, of home and children and Sunday mornings.

When had she stopped?

That sticky summer afternoon, she admitted. That hot, hazy day when she'd seen the boy she'd loved with all her wild heart and foolish youth coupling like an animal with her mother on a ragged blanket in the marsh.

The marsh that was hers, the boy that was hers. The mother that was hers.

It had sliced her life in two, she thought now. The time before, when there was still hope and innocent dreams and faith. And the time after, where there was only ambition, determination and a steely vow never, never to believe again.

The boy didn't matter now, she knew. She could barely see his face in her mind. Her mother didn't matter, not at the core of it. But the moment mattered.

Without it, who knew what direction her life would have taken? Oh, she and the boy would have parted ways soon enough. But it might've been with some sweetness, it might have left her with some soft memory of first loves.

But that stark vision of sex and betrayal had forged her. She'd understood then what it might have taken her years to learn otherwise. That a woman was smarter, safer, to drive the train herself. Men came, men went, and enjoying them was fine.

Loving them was suicide.

Suicide? she shook her head as she climbed out of the car. That was overly dramatic, wasn't it? Heartbreak wasn't death.

He'd died from it.

She all but heard the voice in her head. It hadn't been the knife wound, it hadn't been the pond that had killed Lucian Manet.

It had been a broken heart.

She let herself into the house and immediately saw the spill of light from Odette's room. Even as she approached, Lena heard the quick thump-thump of Rufus's tail on the floor.

She stepped to the doorway, cocked her head. Odette was sitting up in bed, a book open on her lap, the faithful dog curled on the floor.

"What are you doing up so late?”

"Waiting for my baby. I didn't think you'd be back for another hour or more.”

"Business was light enough to spare me.”

Odette patted the side of the bed in invitation. "You took off early because you were worried about me. You shouldn't.”

"You used to tell me worrying was your job." Lena lay down on top of the sheets, her head in the curve of her grandmother's arm. "Now it's mine, too. I'm sorry she hurt you.”

"Oh, baby, I think that must be her job. God knows she's good at it." Odette stroked Lena's hair. "I got you, though. I got my Lena.”

"I was thinking what it was like for you and Grandpapa to raise a baby after you'd already raised your own.”

"You were nothing but pure pleasure to both of us.”

"It made me think about how the Manets brought your grandmama back here when she was a baby. You remember her pretty well, don't you?”

"I remember her very well. You've the look of her. You've seen the old pictures, so you know that.”

"Did she ever say how the Hall should've been hers?”

"Never heard her say anything like. She was a happy woman, Lena. Maybe happier here than she would've been in the Hall, had things been different. She had a fine hand with baking, and that she passed to me. She told good stories, too. Sometimes when I'd come spend time with her, she'd make them up just like they were real. I think she could've been a writer if she'd wanted that for herself.”

"She m/'ve thought of her parents, and the Manets. No matter how happy she was here, she m/'ve thought of them.”

"I expect so. She used to take flowers to her papa's grave. Took them every year on her birthday.”

"Did she? You never told me that.”

"Said she owed him life-hers, her children, her grandchildren. She even laid flowers on the graves of Josephine and Henri Manet. Though she never stopped there to say a prayer. And she did one more thing on her birthday, every year until she died. She took flowers and tossed them into the river. And there she said a prayer.”

"For her mother, you think?”

"She never said, but that's what I think.”

"And do you think that's where Abigail is? In the river?”

"Some say.”

Lena raised her head. "I'm not asking some. I'm asking you.”

"I know sometimes I walk along the bank, and I feel an awful sadness. And I think, sometimes, old souls search for new life. And keep searching until it comes out right. What're you searching for?”

Lena laid her head down again, closed her eyes. "I thought I'd found it. Now I'm not so sure. He loves me, Grandmama.”

"I know he does.”

"If I love him back, everything changes.”

Odette smiled, leaned over to shut off the light. "It surely does," she murmured and continued to stroke Lena's hair. "It surely does.”

As host of Remy's bachelor party, Declan felt socially obligated to stay till the bitter end. The bitter end was some dingy, backstreet dive in the Quarter where the liquor burned holes in what was left of a man's stomach lining and the strippers were woefully past their prime.

Nobody seemed to care.

In the spirit of good-fellowship, Declan tucked a final dollar in the frayed garter on a flabby white thigh, then hauled a glassy-eyed Remy to his feet.

"Let's go, pal of mine.”

"Huh? What? Is it morning?”

"Close enough.”

As they stumbled out, arm in arm as much for necessity as friendship, Remy looked around. His head bopped like a puppet's on a jerked string.

"Wherez everybody?”

"Passed out, in jail, dead in an alley.”

"Oh. Wimps." Remy grinned his rubber grin. "You 'n me, Dec, we still got it.”

"I'm starting a course of antibiotics in the morning to get rid of it." He tripped and had to wrap both arms around Remy to keep from falling on his face. "Too much gravity. There's entirely too much gravity out here.”

"Let's go find us another naked woman.”

"I think we found all of them already. Time to go home, old buddy, old pal.”

"I'm getting married in three days." Remy held up four fingers to demonstrate. "No more carousing for Remy." He looked around. The streets were nearly deserted and oily with the light drizzle. "Do we have to bail anybody out?”

"Screw 'em.”

"Damn right. Where's my girl? Effie!" He shouted it, and the name echoed back, making Declan snort drunkenly.

"Stella!" Cracked up by his own wit, he sat down hard in a puddle. "Fuck it, Remy. Let's just sleep here.”

"Gotta go find my girl, gonna make sweet, sweet love to my Effie." "You couldn't get it up right now with a hydraulic pump.”

"Bet?" Remy fumbled for his zipper, and Declan had just enough brain cells left to stagger up and stop him.

"Put that thing away before you hurt yourself. Get us arrested for decent exposure.”

"'S okay. We're lawyers.”

"Speak for yourself. Find cabs. We must find cabs.”

"Cab to Effie. Where's my blushin' bride?”

"Home in bed, like every other good woman is at …" He lifted Remy's wrist, tried to focus on the watch. "Whatever o'clock in the morning. Lena, she's in bed. She thinks I'm a woman.”

"You must not be fucking her right then.”

"No, you ass. And remind me to punch you for that later. She thinks I'm Abigail.”

"You haven't been trying on her underwear or anything weird like that, have you, son?”

"I like the little black lace panties with the roses best. They slim down my hips.”

"Pretty sure you're joking. Wait." He stopped, leaned over the curb, hands braced on his knees. Then slowly straightened again. "False alarm. Not gonna puke.”

"There's good news. Cab!" Declan waved desperately when he saw one cruising. "In the name of God. You first," he said and all but shoved Remy inside before diving in after.

"Where do I live?" Remy demanded. "I used to know, but I forgot. Can I call Effie and ask her?”

Fortunately Declan remembered, and as Remy snoozed on his shoulder, he concentrated on remaining conscious until he fulfilled the last of his duties and got his friend home alive.

At the curb, he elbowed Remy and brought him up like an arrow from a bow. "What? Where? Sum bitch, I'm home. How 'bout that?”

"Can you make it from here?" Declan asked him.

"I can hold my liquor. All six gallons of it." Shifting, Remy caught Declan's face in his hand and kissed him hard on the mouth. "I love you, cher. But if you'd been Abigail, I'd've slipped you some tongue.”

"Ugh," was the best Declan could manage as Remy climbed out.

"You're the goddamnedest best friend I ever had, and that was the goddamnedest best bachelor's party in the history of bachelor's parties. I'm gonna go up, puke, and pass out now.”

"You do that. Wait till he gets in the door," Declan told the driver, and watched Remy waver, split in two. Both of them stumbled inside the building.

"Okay, the rest is his business. You know where the old Manet Hall is?”

The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror. "I guess I do.”

"I live there. Take me home, okay?”

"That's a long way out." The driver shifted, turned, eyed Declan up and down. "You got enough for the fare?”

"I got money. I got lotsa money." Declan pawed through his pockets, came up with bills, littered the cab with them. "I'm loaded.”

"You're telling me." With a shake of his head, the driver pulled away from the curb. "M/'ve been some party, buddy.”

"Tell me," Declan muttered, then slid face first on the backseat.

The next thing he knew, clearly, a Dixieland band was blasting in his head. He was still facedown, but the beach of Waikiki had ended up in his mouth and his tongue had grown a fine fur coat.

Some sadist was hammering spikes into his shoulder.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.”

"No point falling back on that now. Just roll over nice and slow, cher. Don't open your eyes yet.”

"I'm dying here. Call a priest.”

"Here now, Lena's got you." Gently and with great amusement, she eased him over, supported his head. "Just swallow this.”

He glugged, choked, felt something vile wash over the fur, through the sand and down his throat. In defense, he tried to push the glass away from his lips, and opened his eyes.

He'd go to his grave denying the sound that had come out of his mouth had in any way resembled a girlish scream.

Lena clucked her tongue. "I told you not to open your eyes.”

"What eyes? What eyes? They've been burned to cinders.”

"Drink the rest.”

"Go away, go very far away, and take your poison with you.”

"That's no way to talk to someone who's come to tend you on your deathbed.”

He slid back down, dragged a pillow over his face. "How'd you know I was dying?”

"Effie called.”

"When's Remy's funeral?”

"Fortunately, he's marrying a woman with a great deal of tolerance, understanding and humor. How many titty bars did y'all hit last night?”

"All of them. All the titty bars in all the land.”

"I suppose that explains why you have a pasty on your cheek.”

"I do not." But when he groped under the pillow, he felt the tassel. "Oh God. Have some mercy and just kill me.”

"Well, all right, honey." She applied just enough pressure to the pillow to have him flapping his hands and shoving up.

His face was flushed, his bloodshot eyes just a little wild. "That wasn't funny.”

"You had to see it from this side." And she laughed. He still wore his clothes, the wrinkled, liquor-spotted shirt half in, half out of his jeans. Another pasty peeked out of the shirt pocket. This one was pink and silver. His eyes were narrowed to a pained squint.

"You're going to feel better in a bit-not good but better. You get a shower and some food, on top of that potion I poured into you, you'll get the feeling back in your extremities in two, maybe three hours.”

Someone had shaved the fur off his tongue, he discovered. He wasn't sure it was an improvement. "What was in that stuff you gave me?”

"You don't want to know, but I laced it with four aspirin, so don't take any more for a while. I'm going to fix you a nice light omelette and some toast.”

"Why?”

"Because you look so pitiful." She started to kiss him, then jerked back, waving a hand between them. "Christ Jesus, do something about that breath, cher, before you kill someone with it.”

"Who asked you?”

"And make that a long shower. You smell like the barroom floor." She pushed to her feet. "How come nobody's around here today?”

"In anticipation of a hangover, I let it be known that anyone who came around this house before three in the afternoon would be executed without trial.”

She checked her watch. "Looks like you got a few hours yet.”

"If I have to get out of this bed, I'm getting a gun. I'll feel bad about killing you, but I'll do it.”

"I'll be in the kitchen." She cocked a brow. "Bring your gun, cher, and we'll see if you remember how to use it.”

"Is that a euphemism?" he called after her, then immediately regretted raising his voice. Holding his head to keep it in place, he eased creakily out of bed.

She chuckled all the way downstairs. Laughed harder when she heard a door slam. Bet he's sorry he did that, she thought, then stopped, looked back when she heard another two slams.

Ah well … she supposed he couldn't threaten ghosts with a gun.

"Make all the racket you want," she said as she headed back toward the kitchen. "You don't worry me any.”

The library doors shook as she passed them. She ignored them. If a surly, smelly man didn't chase her off, a mean-tempered ghost wouldn't.

He'd looked so damn cute, she thought as she hunted up the coffee beans. All pale and male and cross. And with that silly pasty plastered on his cheek.

Men just lost half their IQ when they had a look at a naked woman. Put a pack of them together with women willing to strip to music, and they had the common sense of a clump of broccoli.

She ground the beans, set coffee to brew. She was mixing eggs in a bowl when it occurred to her that it was the first time in her life she'd made breakfast for a man she hadn't slept with the night before.

Wasn't that an odd thing?

Odder still that she was humming in the kitchen of an annoyed, smelly, hungover man who'd snapped at her. Out of character, Lena. Just what's going on here?

She'd been so intrigued by Effie's cheerful amusement over Remy's condition. And here she was, feeling the same thing over Declan's.

She peered out the window at the garden that had been wild and abandoned only months before. It bloomed now, beautifully, with new sprigs, fresh green spearing out.

She'd gone and done it after all. Gone and let him sneak into her, right through the locks and bolts.

She was in love with him. And oh God, she didn't want to be-as much for his sake as for her own.

He'd blown the dust off those young dreams she'd so rigidly put away. The ones colored with love and hope and trust. They were so shiny now that they were staring her in the face. So shiny they blinded her.

And terrified her.

Marriage. The man wanted marriage, and she didn't believe in making promises unless you'd shed blood to keep them.

Would she? Could she?

"I think I'd want to," she said quietly. "I think I'd want to, for him.”

As she spoke, a cupboard door flew open. A thick blue mug shot out and smashed at her feet.

She leaped back, heart hammering as shards rained over her ankles. Grimly, she stared down at the blood seeping out of tiny nicks.

"Seems I already have. You don't want that, do you?" Bowl still clutched in her hand, she spun a circle. "You want anything but our being together. We'll see who wins in the end, won't we? We'll just see.”

Deliberately she reached down for one of the shards, then ran it over her thumb. As the blood welled, she held her hand up, let it drip. "I'm not weak, as he was. If I take love, if I promise love, I'll keep it.”

The sound of chimes had her bolting straight up. It was Declan's tune. The first ringing notes of it. Fear and wonder closed her throat, had her bobbling the bowl.

"Goddamn it, answer the door, will you?" His voice blasted downstairs, full of bitter annoyance. "Then murder whoever rang that idiot doorbell.”

Doorbell? She pushed her free hand through her hair. He'd installed a doorbell that played "After the Ball." Wasn't that just like him?

"You keep shouting at me," she called as she marched down the hall, "you're going to have worse than a hangover to deal with.”

"If you'd go away and let me die in peace, I wouldn't have to shout.”

"In about two shakes, I'm coming up there and wringing your neck. And after I wring your neck, I'm going to kick your ass.”

She wrenched open the door on the final threat, and found herself glaring at a very handsome couple. It took only one blink to clear the temper for her to see Declan's eyes looking curiously back at her out of the woman's face.

"I'm Colleen Fitzgerald." The woman, tidy, blond and lovely, held out an elegant hand. "And who are you? If that's my son's ass you're intending to kick, I'd like to know your name.”

"Mom?" Dripping from the shower, wearing nothing but ripped sweatpants, Declan rushed to the top of the stairs. "Hey! Mom, Dad." Despite the ravages of the hangover, he bolted down, threw one arm around each of them and squeezed. "I thought you were flying down tomorrow.”

"Change of plans. Are you just getting up?" Colleen demanded. "It's after one in the afternoon.”

"Bachelor party last night. Hard liquor, loose women.”

"Really?" Colleen said and eyed Lena.

"Oh, not this one. She came over to play Florence Nightingale. Colleen and Patrick Fitzgerald, Angelina Simone.”

"Good to meet you." Patrick, long, lanky, with his dark hair gorgeously silvered at the temples, sent Lena a generous smile. His blue eyes were bright and bold as he held out a hand.

Then they narrowed in concern as he saw her thumb. "You've hurt yourself.”

"It's nothing.”

"What'd you do? You're bleeding. Jesus, Lena." Panicked, Declan grabbed her wrist, all but plucked her off her feet and rushed her toward the kitchen.

"It's just a scratch. Stop it, Declan. Your parents. You're embarrassing me," she hissed.

"Shut up. Let me see how deep it is.”

Still in the doorway, Patrick turned to his wife. "She's the one?”

"He certainly thinks so." Colleen pursed her lips, stepped into the house. "Let's just see about all this.”

"Hell of a looker.”

"I've got eyes, Patrick." And she used them to take in the house as they followed Declan's hurried path.

It was more, a great deal more than she'd expected. Not that she doubted her son's taste. But she'd been led to believe the house was in serious, perhaps fatal, disrepair. And what she saw now were gracious rooms, charming details, glinting glass and wood.

And in the kitchen she saw her son, hovering over the hand of a very annoyed, very beautiful woman who looked perfectly capable of carrying out her earlier threat.

"I beg your pardon." Lena elbowed Declan aside and smiled coolly at his parents. "I dropped a cup, that's all. It's nice to meet both of you.”

Declan turned to root through cupboards. "You need some antiseptic and a bandage.”

"Oh, stop fussing. You'd think I cut my hand off. And if you don't watch yourself you'll step on the shards and be worse off than I am. I'm sorry your welcome's so disrupted," she said to his parents. "I'm just going to sweep up this mess, then I'll be on my way.”

"Where are you going?" Declan demanded. "You promised food.”

She wondered if he could hear her teeth grinding together. "Pour what's in that bowl into a skillet, turn on the burner and you'll have food." She yanked open the broom closet. "Why aren't you getting your parents coffee or a cold drink after their long trip? They raised you better than that.”

"We certainly did," Colleen agreed.

"Sorry. Seeing the woman I love bleeding all over the floor distracted me.”

"Declan." Though her voice was low, Lena's warning was loud and clear.

"Coffee sounds great," Patrick said cheerfully. "We came here straight from the airport. Wanted to see this place-and you, too, Dec," he added with a wink.

"Where's your luggage?”

"Had it sent to the hotel. Son, this place is enormous. A lot of space for one man.”

"Lena and I want four kids.”

She heaved the broken shards into the trash and rounded on him.

"Okay, three," he amended without a hitch in his stride. "But that's my final offer.”

"I've had enough of this." She shoved the broom and dustpan into his hands. "You clean up your own messes. I hope you enjoy your stay," she said stiffly to Colleen and Patrick. "I'm late for work.”

She strode out the back because it was closer, and fought off the towering urge to slam the door until the windows cracked.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Declan said with a huge grin. "Isn't she perfect?”

"You annoyed and embarrassed her," Colleen told him.

"Good. I tend to make more progress that way. Let me get the coffee, then I'll show you around.”

An hour later, Declan sat with his mother on the rear gallery while Patrick– who'd lost the debate-made sandwiches.

The worst of the hangover had receded. Declan imagined he had whatever mysterious potion Lena had given him to thank for it-and the pleasure of seeing her in the same room as his parents.

Jeez, he'd missed them, he thought. He'd had no idea how much he'd missed them until he'd seen them.

"So," he said at length, "are you going to tell me what you think?”

"Yes." But she continued to sit and look out over his gardens. "Warm, isn't it? Early in the year to be so warm, I'd think.”

"Actually, it's cooler today. You should've been here a couple days ago. You could've poached eggs out here.”

She heard the way he said it, with a kind of pride. "You were never a big fan of the cold. Even when we went skiing, you'd prefer rattling around the lodge to charging down the slopes.”

"Skiing's something people invented so they can pretend snow's fun."

"See if we invite you to Vermont this season." But her hand moved over, touched his. "The house is beautiful, Declan. Even what you haven't gotten to yet is beautiful, in its way. I liked to think your fiddling with tools and wood and so on was a nice little hobby. I preferred to think that. As long as you were a lawyer, it was probable you'd stay in Boston. You'd stay close. I dreaded seeing you go, so I made it hard on you. I'm not sorry. You're my baby," she said, and touched him in the deepest chamber of his heart.

"I don't have to be in Boston to be close.”

She shook her head. "You won't come swinging in the house unexpectedly. We won't run into you in restaurants or at parties or the theater. That's a wrench in me, one you'll understand when you have those three or four children.”

"I don't want you to be sad.”

"Well, of course I'm sad. Don't be a boob. I love you, don't I?”

"You keep saying so," he said playfully.

She looked at him, gray eyes steady on gray eyes. "Lucky for both of us, I love you enough to know when to let go. You found your place here. I won't deny I hoped you wouldn't, but since you have, I'm glad for you. Damn it.”

"Thanks." He leaned over, kissed her.

"Now, as for this woman …”

"Lena.”

"I know her name, Declan," Colleen said dryly. "As a potential mother-in-law, I'm entitled to refer to her as `this woman` until I get to know her a little better. As for this woman, she's nothing like what I'd imagined for you. Not when I imagined you climbing up the ranks in the law firm, buying a house close by and within easy access to the country club. Jessica would have suited my requirements as daughter-in-law quite well in that scenario. A good, challenging tennis partner who plays a decent hand of bridge and has the skill to chair the right committees.”

"Maybe you should adopt Jessica.”

"Be quiet, Declan." Colleen's voice was mild-and steel. Lena would have recognized the tone instantly. "I'm not finished. Jessica, however well suited for me, was very obviously not suited for you. You weren't happy, and I'd begun to see, and to worry about that just before you broke it off. I tried to convince myself it was just pre-wedding jitters, but I knew better.”

"It wouldn't have hurt for you to clue me in on that one.”

"Maybe not, but I was annoyed with you.”

"Tell me.”

"Don't sass, young man, especially when I'm about to be sentimental. You were always a happy child. Bright, clever, a smart tongue, but I respect that. You had, I'd call it, a bounce in your heart. And you lost it. I see you've gotten that back today. I saw it in your eyes again when you looked at Lena.”

He took Colleen's hand, rubbed it against his cheek. "You called her Lena.”

"Temporarily. I haven't made up my mind about her. And believe me, boy, she hasn't made hers up about your father and me, either. So, I'd advise you to stay out of it and let us get on with the job of doing so.”

She stretched out her legs. "Patrick? Did you have to hunt down the pig for those ham sandwiches?”

Declan grinned, gave the hand he held a big, noisy kiss. "I love you guys.”

"We love you, too." She squeezed his fingers, hard, then let them go. "God knows why.”

He dreamed of storms and pain. Of fear and joys.

Rain and wind lashed the windows, and the pain that whipped through him erupted in a sobbing scream.

Sweat and tears poured down his face-her face. Her face, her body. His pain.

The room was gold with gaslight and the snap and simmer of the fire in the grate. And as that storm raged outside, another spun through her. Through him.

Agony vised her belly with the next contraction. She was blind with it. Her cry against it was primal, and burned his throat with its passion.

Push, Abby! You have to push! You're almost there.

Tired, she was so tired, so weak. How could she live through such pain? But she grit her teeth. Almost mad. Everything she was, everything she had, focused on this one task, this one miracle.

Her child. Her child, Lucian's child, was fighting to come into the world. She bore down with all the strength she had left. Life depended on it. There's the head! Et la! Such hair! One more, Abby. One more, chhre.

She was laughing now. Better than screaming, even if the laugh was tinged with hysteria. She braced herself on her elbows, threw her head back as fresh, unspeakable pain rolled through her.

This one moment, this one act, was the greatest gift a woman could give. This gift, this child, would be held safe, would be cherished. Would be loved for all of her days.

And on the pain, with lightning flashing, on the roar of thunder, she pushed, pushed, pushed wailing life into the world.

A girl! You have a beautiful girl.

Pain was forgotten. The hours of sweat and blood and agony were nothing now in the brilliant flash of joy. Weeping from it, she held out her arms for the small wriggling baby who cried out in what sounded like triumph.

My rose. My beautiful Marie Rose. Tell Lucian. Oh, please bring Lucian to see our daughter.

They cleaned both mother and baby first, smiling at the mother's impatience and the child's irritable cries.

There were tears in Lucian's eyes when he came into the room. When he clasped her hand, his fingers trembled. When he looked at the child they'd created, his face filled with wonder.

She told him what she had vowed on the instant Marie Rose had been placed in her arms.

We'll keep her safe, Lucian. No matter what, we'll keep her safe and happy. She's ours. Promise me you'll love and care for her, always.

Of course. She's so beautiful, Abby. My beautiful girls. I love you.

Say the words. I need to hear you say the words.

Still holding Abigail's hand, Lucian laid a tender finger on his daughter's cheek. I'll love and I'll care for her, always. I swear it.

Patrick Fitzgerald took his wife's hand as they strolled through the Quarter. He knew their destination was Et Trois and their mission another look at Angelina Simone.

"You know, Colleen, this is very close to interference, and spying.”

"And your point is?”

He had to laugh. After nearly forty years of marriage, the woman could always make him laugh. He considered that, above all, a sign of a successful partnership.

"You realize she might not be there. Owning a bar doesn't mean you're in it all day, every day.”

"So, we'll get a look at her place of business, and have a drink. It's perfectly up front and respectable.”

"Yes, dear.”

He used that phrase, that tone, only when he was making fun of her. Colleen debated between giving him a good elbow shot in the ribs and laughing. Then did both.

The crowds, the noise, the heat and the somehow florid and decaying elegance of the city weren't things that appealed to her for more than a brief visit. She preferred the Old-World charm, and yes, the dignity, of Boston.

Certainly Boston had its seamier sides, but it wasn't so overt, so celebratory about it. Sex was meant to be fun and interesting-she wasn't a prude, for God's sake. But it was also meant to be private.

And still, the tragic wail of a tenor sax weeping on the air touched some chord in her.

If her son was determined to make his home here, she'd accept that. Maybe, with a bit more study and debate, she'd accept the woman.

"You'll have time and opportunity to grill her at the wedding tomorrow," Patrick pointed out.

Colleen only sighed at the minds of men. God bless them, they were simple creatures. Guileless, really. The first step, obviously, was to observe the girl in her own milieu.

She considered the neighborhood, the positioning of the bar, the level of traffic. She decided Lena had chosen wisely, and had taste and sense enough to let the exterior of the bar blend smoothly into the other establishments.

She liked the gallery over it, the pots of flowers-bright colors against the soft creams. It demonstrated taste and style, an appreciation for atmosphere.

She'd pried the information out of Declan that Lena lived above the bar, and wondered now if she should wheedle a visit upstairs to check out the living quarters.

She stepped inside Et Trois, made a good, objective study.

It was clean, which met with her approval. It was crowded but not jammed, which met with her business sense. Too early for the rowdy night crowd, Colleen judged, too late for the lunch shift.

The music coming out of the speakers was Cajun, she supposed, and she approved that as well. It was lively, but not so loud as to make simple conversation a chore.

A black man in a bright red shirt worked behind the bar. A good face, she decided, smooth hands. A young waitress-blond, perky, wearing jeans perhaps just a tad too tight-served one of the tables.

Colleen spotted what she decided were a number of tourists from their camera and shopping bags. Others she assumed were locals.

Whatever food had been or was being served put a hot, spicy scent over the air.

Lena stepped out of the kitchen. Their eyes met immediately and with instant acknowledgment. Colleen let her lips curve in a small, polite smile and walked to the bar with Patrick following.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Fitzgerald, Mr. Fitzgerald." An equally small, equally polite smile curved Lena's lips. "You've been taking in the Quarter?" she asked with a glance at the shopping bags Patrick carried.

"Colleen rarely passes a store without seeing something that needs to be bought.”

"That must be where Declan gets it. Can I show you a menu?”

"We've had lunch, thanks." Colleen slid onto a stool. "I'd love a martini, Stoli, very cold, dead dry, straight up, shaken. Three olives.”

"And for you, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

"Make it the same, and make it Patrick." He took the stool beside his wife. "You've got a nice place here. Live music?" he asked with a nod toward the stage area.

"Every night, nine o'clock." As she began to mix the martinis, she sent him a genuine smile. "You like to dance, you should come back. We'll get your feet moving. You enjoying your visit?”

"We're looking forward to the wedding," Colleen commented. "Remy's like family. And we're pleased to see Declan making such progress on the house."

"He's happy there.”

"Yes.”

Lena took out the two martini glasses she'd chilled during the mixing. "Be nicer for you if he'd be happy in Boston-and with the one he almost married.”

"Yes, it would, wouldn't it? But we can't choose other people's lives. Even our children's. And you certainly can't select the person they'll love. Are you in love with my son, Lena?”

Hands rock steady, Lena strained the martinis into the cold glasses. "That's something I'll talk to him about, when I'm ready. These are on the house," she added, sliding the olives in. "I hope they suit your tastes.”

"Thank you." Colleen picked up her glass, sipped. Raised an eyebrow. "It's excellent. I've always felt mixing the perfect martini is a kind of art, and have been surprised and disappointed that often those who own a bar or club or restaurant make or serve imperfect martinis.”

"Why do anything if you don't set out to do it right?”

"Exactly. It's a matter of pride, isn't it? In self, in one's work, one's life. Flaws are acceptable, even necessary to make us human and humble. But to serve a guest or customer less than the best one is capable of, strikes me as arrogant or sloppy. Often both.”

"I don't see the point in doing anything halfway," Lena said, and filled a bowl with fresh snack mix. "If I can't make a martini, fine, then I step back until I learn how it's done. Otherwise I'd disappoint myself and the person who was counting on me.”

"A good policy." Colleen sampled an olive. "Without high standards, we tend to settle for less than what makes us happy and productive, and can shortchange the people who matter to us.”

"When someone matters to me-and I'm careful about who does-I want the best for them. They may settle for less. But I won't.”

When Patrick leaned over, peered closely at Colleen's martini, she frowned at him. "What are you doing?”

"Trying to see what's in yours that isn't in mine."

It made Lena laugh, had her shoulders relaxing. "He's an awful lot like you, isn't he? Got his mama's eyes though. Sees right through you. Even when you don't want him to. He loves you both like crazy, and that says something to me. So I'm going to say something to you.”

She leaned a little closer. "I come from plain stock. Strong, but plain. My mother, she's a dead loss, and more of an embarrassment to me than I care to speak of. But my grandfather was a fine and decent man. My grandmama's as good as anybody, and better than most. I run this bar because I'm good at it-and I like it-and I don't waste my time on things I don't like.”

She swept her hair behind her ear, kept her gaze level on Colleen's. "I'm selfish and I'm stubborn, and I don't see a damn thing wrong with that. I don't care about his money, or yours, so let's just set that aside. He's the best man I ever met in my life, and I'm not good enough for him. I say that knowing I'm good enough for damn near anybody, but he's different. Turns out under that affable exterior that man's even more stubborn than I am, and I haven't figured out what to do about that quite yet. When I do, he'll be the first to know. I expect he'll fill you in on that particular outcome.

"Now." Unconsciously, Lena toyed with the key she wore around her neck. "Would you like another drink?”

"We'll just nurse these for a while," Colleen told her.

"Excuse me a minute. I see I have an order to fill." She moved down the bar to where her waitress waited with an empty tray.

"Well?" Patrick asked. "I believe she set you neatly in your place.”

"Yes." Well satisfied, Colleen took another sip of her martini. "She'll do.”

"I'm not nervous." Pale, jittery, Remy stood in the library while Declan attached the boutonniere of lily of the valley to his friend's tuxedo lapel.

"Maybe if you say that another dozen times, you'll believe it. Hold still, damn, Remy.”

"I'm holding still.”

"Sure, except for the mild seizure you seem to be having, you're steady as a rock.”

"I want to marry Effie. Want to live my life with her. This is the day we've both been looking forward to for months.”

"That's right. Today," Declan said in sober tones, "is the first day of the rest of your life.”

"I feel a little sick.”

"It's too late to puke," Declan said cheerfully. "You're down to the final fifteen. Want me to call your dad back in?”

"No. No, he'll have his hands full with Mama. How many people did you say were out there?”

"Couple hundred last I looked, and more coming.”

"Jesus. Jesus. Why didn't we elope? How's a man supposed to stand up in front of hundreds of people and change his life forever?”

"I think the tradition started so the groom couldn't run away. They'd go after him like a lynch mob.”

"That sure does settle me down, cher. How about you find me a couple fingers of bourbon?”

Declan merely strolled over to a painted cabinet and took out a bottle. "I figured you'd need a hit." He pulled out a tin of Altoids as well. "And these. Don't want to be breathing whiskey on the bride. She might be the one who runs.”

Declan started to pour, but when the door opened after a cursory knock and his mother marched in, he whipped bottle and glass behind his back.

"Don't you both look handsome! Declan, don't give him more than one shot of that whiskey you've got behind you, and make sure he chases it with mouthwash.”

"I got Altoids.”

"Fine." Smiling, she walked over and fussed with Remy's tie. "You're nervous because this is the most important day of your life. There'd be something wrong with you if you didn't have some shakes. I promise, they'll go away the minute you see Effie. She looks beautiful.”

Colleen framed Remy's face in her hands. "I'm very proud of you.”

"How about me?" Declan demanded. "I thought of the Altoids.”

"I'll get to you later. You're marrying the woman you love," Colleen went on. "You're surrounded by friends and family who love you both.

It's a beautiful day, and your brother– the one of your heart-has seen to it that you have a beautiful setting. Now you take a shot of that bourbon, then take a deep breath. Then get your butt out there and get married.”

"Yes, ma'am. I purely love you, Miss Colleen.”

"I know it. I love you, too, but I'm not going to kiss you and smear my lipstick. One drink, Declan. This boy goes out there tipsy, I'm holding you responsible.”

Later, Declan would think his mother was right, as usual. When he stood beside Remy, and Effie, frothy in white, stepped out on the gallery, Declan felt the nerves drain out of his friend– his brother. He saw the wide, wide grin stretch over Remy's face, heard his soft: "That's my girl.”

He found his own gaze traveling through the rows of people, meeting Lena's. And you're mine, he thought. This time around we're going to make it work.

So he stood in the spring garden, with the old white house rising over the green lawn, and watched his friends marry.

When they kissed, when they turned to be announced as husband and wife, cheers rang out, so much more liberating and celebratory than the applause Declan was more accustomed to.

He felt his own grin stretch, nearly as wide as Remy's.

The music started up almost immediately. Fiddles, washboards, accordions. When the photographer whittled down to just the bride and groom, Declan broke free and wove his way through the sea of people to Lena.

She wore red. Bright, poppy red that left her back bare but for an intriguing web of thin straps. Just above her heart, she'd pinned the enamel watch and gold wings Lucian had once given Abigail.

"I wondered if you'd ever wear it.”

"It's special," she said, "so I save it for special. It was a beautiful wedding, Declan. You did a fine job getting this place ready for it. You're a good friend.”

"I have lots of good qualities, which makes you a very lucky woman. I've missed you the last couple days.”

"We've both been busy."

"Stay tonight." He caught her hand, seeing denial and excuses in her eyes. "Angelina, stay tonight.”

"Maybe. You've got a lot of people you should be talking to.”

"They're all talking to each other. Where's Miss Odette?”

Lena scowled. "Your mother swept her off somewhere.”

"You want me to find them, cut Miss Odette loose?”

Pride stiffened her spine, her voice. "My grandmama can hold her own against your mama any day of the week.”

"Oh yeah?" Amused, Declan narrowed his eyes in challenge. "If they get physical, my money's on Colleen. She's got a wicked left. Why don't we get some champagne and go find them? See what round they're in.”

"If she hurts my grandmama's feelings-was "She would never do that." No longer amused, Declan gave her shoulders a little shake. "What do you take her for, Lena? If she went off with Miss Odette, it's because she'd like to get to know her.”

"I suppose that's why she dragged your daddy into my place. So she could get to know me better.”

"They were in your place?”

"My bar, yeah." Annoyed with herself for being annoyed, Lena reached out to take a flute from a waiter passing champagne. "She came in to check the place out, and me with it. So, she got her an eyeful, and a damn good martini. And I set her straight.”

He experienced the jittery male panic at the image of the two most important females in his life squaring off. "What the hell does that mean?”

"I said what I had to say, that's all. We understand each other fine now.”

"Why don't you bring me up to date so I can understand you fine, too?”

"This isn't the time or the place.”

"We're going to find the time and the place.”

Because she heard the temper in his voice, she shrugged. Then smiled and traced a finger down his cheek. "Now don't get all riled up, cher. We got us a party here. You and me, we can fight anytime.”

"Okay, we'll schedule it in for a little later." He caught her chin in his hand. "I can't figure out who you're selling short, Lena. Me, my family or yourself. Let me know when you've got the answer.”

He bent, brushed his lips over hers. "See you later.”

The reception moved into the ballroom, and still managed to spill onto the galleries, onto the lawn. For the first time in decades, the house filled with music and laughter. Racing children, crying babies, flirting couples and gossiping friends filled the great room, relaxed in the shade of white umbrellas at tables around the gardens or plopped down on the gallery.

Declan liked to imagine the house absorbing all that positive energy, even into the dark corners of the rooms he'd kept locked.

"Declan." Effie laid a hand on his arm. "May I have this dance?”

"Did somebody kill Remy?" He led her out on the floor. "I figure that's the only way he'd let you more than a foot away from him." He kissed her hand before taking her into his arms. "Can't blame him. When you've got the most beautiful woman in the room, you keep her close.”

"Oh, Declan." She laid her cheek on his. "If I wasn't madly in love with my husband, I'd make such a play for you.”

"If you ever get tired of him, let me know.”

"I want to thank you for everything you did to give me this perfect day. I know my mama, my sister and I drove you a little crazy the last couple weeks.”

"Has it only been a couple weeks?" He laughed. "It was worth every hour I hid in closets so none of you could find me.”

"I'm so happy. I'm so happy, and I love you. I love everybody today," she said with a laugh. "Everyone in the world, but today, next to Remy, I love you best of all so I want you to be happy.”

"I am.”

"Not enough." She turned her lips to his ear. "Declan, there's something in this house that's just not finished. I didn't think I believed in that sort of thing, but … I feel it. Whenever I'm here, I feel it. I feel it even today.”

He could feel the tremor move through her, rubbed his hand over her back to soothe it away. "You shouldn't think about it today. You shouldn't worry today.”

"I'm worried for you. Something … it isn't finished. Part of it, somehow part of it's my fault.”

"Yours?" He eased her back now so he could see her face, then circled her toward one of the corners. "What do you mean?”

"I wish I knew what I meant. I only know what I feel. Something I did, or didn't do for you. It doesn't make a bit of sense, but it's such a strong feeling. The feeling that I wasn't there for you when you needed me most. I guess I'm a little afraid something bad's going to happen again if it's not all made right. So, well, as silly as this sounds, I just want to tell you I'm sorry, so awfully sorry for letting you down however I did.”

"It's all right." He touched his lips to her forehead. "You couldn't know. Whatever it was, if it was, you couldn't know. And sweetheart, this isn't a day for looking back. It's all about tomorrow now.”

"You're right. Just … just be careful," she said as Remy walked up and gave Declan a mock punch.

"That's my wife you're holding, cher. You go get your own girl.”

"Good idea.”

He hunted up Lena, found her in a clutch of people. The red of her dress was like a sleek tongue of flame over her dusky skin. He imagined his reaction to it, to her, transmitted clearly enough as he saw that knowing and essentially female look come into her eyes as he stepped toward her.

He turned slightly and held out a hand to her grandmother. "Miss Odette, would you dance with me?”

"Day hasn't come when I'll turn down a dance with a handsome man.”

"You look wonderful," he told her when they took the floor.

"Weddings make me feel young. I had a nice talk with your mama.”

"Did you?”

"You're wondering," she said with a chuckle. "I'll tell you we got on just fine. And she seemed pleased when I told her I saw how you'd been raised up right the first time I met you. She paid me back the compliment by saying the same about my Lena. Then we chatted about things women often chat about at weddings, which would likely bore you-except to say we agreed what a handsome young man you are. And handsome young men should find more reason to wear tuxedos.”

"I could become a mamtre d'. But they get better tips when they have a snooty accent, and I'm not sure I could pull that part off.”

"Then I'll just have to wait until your own wedding to see you all slicked up again.”

"Yeah." He looked over her head, but Lena had moved on. "This one's working out pretty well anyway. I was a little panicked that the storm last night would screw things up.”

"Storm? Cher, we didn't have a storm last night.”

"Sure we did. A mean one. Don't tell me you slept through it.”

"I was up till midnight." She watched his face now. "Finishing the hem on this dress. Then I was up again 'round four when Rufus decided he needed to go outside. I saw lights on over here then. Wondered what you were doing up at that hour. Night was clear as a bell, Declan.”

"I … I m/'ve dreamed about a storm. Pre-wedding stress." But he hadn't been up at four. Hadn't been up at all, as far as he knew, after midnight-when he'd walked through the house to turn off all the lights before going to bed.

Dreams, he thought. Wind and rain, the flash of lightning. The yellow flames of the fire in the grate. Pain, sweat, thirst. Blood.

Women's hands, women's voices-Effie's? –giving comfort, giving encouragement.

He remembered it now, clearly, and stopped dead in the middle of the dance.

He'd had a baby. He'd gone through childbirth.

Good God.

"Cher? Declan? You come on outside." Gently, Odette guided him off the floor. "You need some air.”

"Yeah. Southern ladies are big on swooning, right?”

"What's that?"

"Never mind." He was mortified, he was awed, at what had happened to him inside his own dream. Inside, he supposed, his own memories.

"Go on back in," he told her. "I'm just going to take a walk, clear my head.”

"What did you remember?”

"A miracle," he murmured. "Remind me to buy my mother a really great present. I don't know how the hell you women get through it once. She did it four times. Amazing," he mumbled, and headed down the steps. "Fucking amazing.”

He walked all the way around the house, then slipped back in for a tall glass of icy water. He used it to wash down three extra-strength aspirin in hopes of cutting back on the vicious headache that had come on the moment he'd remembered the dream.

He could hear the music spilling down the steps from the ballroom. He could feel the vibrations on the ceiling from where dozens of feet danced.

He had to get back up, perform his duties as best man and host. All he wanted to do was fall facedown on the bed, close his eyes, and slide into oblivion.

"Declan." Lena came in through the gallery doors, then shut them behind her. "What's the matter?”

"Nothing. Just a headache.”

"You've been gone nearly an hour. People are asking about you.”

"I'm coming up." But he sat on the side of the bed. "In a minute.”

She crossed to him. "Is it bad?”

"I've had worse.”

"Why don't you just lie down a few minutes?”

"I'm not crawling into bed on my best friend's wedding day-unless you want to keep me company.”

"It's tempting. Seeing a man in a tux always makes me want to peel him out of it.”

"Mamtre d's must just love you.”

"There now, you made a stupid joke, so you must be feeling better.”

"Considering I gave birth less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd say I'm doing great.”

Lena pursed her lips. "Cher, just how much have you had to drink this evening?”

"Not nearly as much as I plan on having. You know how you had this theory that I was Abigail Manet? Well, I'm starting to think you're onto something seeing as I dreamed I was in that room down the hall, in the bed I've seen in there-that one that isn't there. I wasn't seeing Abigail on that bed, in the last stages of labor. I experienced it, and let me tell you, it ain't no walk on the beach. Any woman who doesn't go for the serious drugs is a lunatic. It beats anything they dreamed up for that entertaining era known as the Spanish Inquisition.”

"You dreamed you were Abigail, and you-was "It wasn't like a dream, Lena, and I think I m/'ve been in that room when I had the-flash or hallucination, or whatever we call it. I can remember the storm– the sound of it, and how scared I was, how focused I was on bringing that baby out.”

He paused, replayed his own words. "Boy, that sounded weird.”

"Yes. Yes, it did." She sat beside him.

"I heard the voices. Other women helping me. I can see their faces-especially the young one. The one close to my age-Abigail's age. I can feel the sweat running down my face, and the unbelievable fatigue. Then that sensation, that peak of it all when it was like coming to the point of being ripped open. Bearing down, then the relief, the numbness, the fucking wonder of pushing life into the world. Then the flood of pride and love when they put that miracle in my arms.”

He looked down at his hands while Lena stared at him. "I can see the baby, Lena, clear as life, I can see her. All red and wrinkled and pissed off. Dark blue eyes, dark hair. A rosebud mouth. Tiny, slender fingers, and I thought: There are ten, and she is perfect. My perfect Rose.”

He looked at Lena now. "Marie Rose, your great-great-grandmother. Marie Rose," he repeated, "our daughter.”

Their daughter. She couldn't dismiss it, and something deep inside her grieved. But she couldn't speak of it, wouldn't speak of it, not when her head and heart were so heavy.

Lena threw herself back into the crowds, the music, the laughter. This was now, she thought. Now was what counted.

She was alive, with the warm evening air on her skin, under the pure, white moonlight with the fragrance of the flowers and gardens rioting around her.

Roses and verbena, heliotrope, jasmine.

Lilies. Her favorite had been the lily. She kept them, always, in her room. First in the servants' quarters, then in their bedroom. Clipped in secret from the garden or the hothouse.

And for the nursery, there were roses. Tiny pink buds for their precious Marie Rose.

Frightened, she pushed those thoughts, those images, aside. Grabbing a partner, she flirted him into a dance.

She didn't want the past. It was dead and done. She didn't want the future. It was capricious and often cruel. It was the moment that was to be lived, enjoyed. Even controlled.

So when Declan's father took her hand, she smiled at him, brilliantly.

"This one here's a Cajun two-step. Can you handle it?”

"Let's find out.”

They swung among the circling couples with quick, stylish moves that had her laughing up at him. "Why, Patrick, you're a natural. You sure you're a Yankee?”

"Blood and bone. Then again, you have to factor in the Irish. My mother was a hell of a step-dancer, and can still pull it off after a couple of pints.”

"How old's your mama?”

"Eighty-six." He twirled her out and back. "Fitzgeralds tend to be long-lived and vigorous. Something's upset you.”

She kept her cheerful expression in place. "Now what could upset me at such a lovely time and place?”

"That's the puzzle. Why don't we get a glass of champagne, and you can tell me?”

He didn't give her a chance to refuse. Like father, like son, she thought as he kept her hand firmly in his. He drew her to the bar, ordered two flutes, then led her outside.

"A perfect night," she said, and breathed it in. "Look at those gardens. It's hard to believe what they were like just a few months back. Did Declan tell you about the Franks?”

"About the Franks, Tibald. About Effie and Miss Odette. About the ghosts, about you.”

"He bit off a lot here." She sipped champagne, wandered to the baluster. Below, people were still dancing on the lawn. A group of women sat at one of the white tables under a white moon, some with babies sleeping on their shoulders, some with children drooping in their laps.

"He was bored in Boston.”

Intrigued, Lena looked away from the people, the charm of the fairy lights, and looked at Patrick. "Bored?”

"Unhappy, restless, but in a large part bored. With his work, his fiancie, his life. The only thing that put any excitement in his face was the old house he was redoing. I worried he'd go along, end up married to the wrong woman, working in a field he disliked, living a life that only half satisfied him. I shouldn't have worried.”

He leaned back on the baluster and looked through the open doors into the ballroom. "His mind, his heart, was never set on the path we-his mother and I– cleared for him. We didn't want to see that, so for a long time, we didn't.”

"You only wanted the best for him. People tend to think what's best for them is best for the people they love.”

"Yes, and Declan's nature is to do whatever he can to make those he loves happy. He loves you.”

When she said nothing, Patrick turned to her. "You said he was stubborn. It's more than that. Once Declan sets his mind on a goal, on a vision, he's got a head like granite. He won't be turned away by obstacles or excuses or lukewarm protests. If you don't love him, Lena, if you don't want a life with him, hurt him. Hurt him quick and make it deep. Then walk away.”

"I don't want to hurt him. That's the whole point and problem.”

"He didn't think he was capable of loving anyone. He told me that after he broke it off with Jessica. He said he didn't have that kind of love inside him. Now he knows he does, and he's better for it. You've already made a difference in his life, an important one. Now you have to love him back, or leave him. To do anything in between would be cruel, and you're not cruel.”

She reached up, closed her fingers around the key on its chain, then dropped them– nervous now-to the wings on her breast. "He's not what I planned for. He's not what I was looking for.”

He smiled then, kindly, and patted her hand. "Life's full of surprises, isn't it? Some of them are a real kick in the ass." Then he leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I'll see you again," he said, and left her alone.

The party rolled on a good two hours after the bride and groom were seen off in a shower of confetti-which Declan imagined he'd be finding in his lawn, his clothes, perhaps even his food for the next six months.

The music stayed hot, and the guests stayed happy. In the early hours of the morning, some walked to their cars. Others were carried, and not all of them were children.

Declan stood on the curve of his front steps and watched the last of them drive away. The sky in the east was paling, just a gentle lessening of the dark. Even as he stood, he saw a star go out.

Morning was waking.

"You must be tired," Lena said from the gallery above him.

"No." He continued to look at the sky. "I should be, but I'm not.”

"It's going to take you a week to clean this place up.”

"Nope. The General and her troops are coming over tomorrow to deal with it. I'm ordered to keep out of the way, and that's one command I won't have any trouble obeying. I didn't think you'd stay.”

"Neither did I.”

He turned now, looked up at her. A kind of Romeo and Juliet pose, he thought, and hoped for a better ending. "Why did you?”

"I'm not sure. I don't know what to do about you, Declan. I swear to God, I just don't know. Men've never been any trouble for me. Maybe I've been trouble for them," she said with a faint smile. "But you're the first who's given me any.”

He started up to her. "None of them loved you.”

"No, none of them loved me. Wanted me. Desired me, but that's the easy part. You can be careless with wants. And I'll tell you the truth.

Sometimes, most times, I enjoyed that carelessness. Not just the sex, but the dance. The game. Whatever you want to call that courtship that's no courtship at all. When the music stops, or the game's over, there might be some bumps and bruises, but nobody's really hurt.”

"But this isn't a game between the two of us.”

"I've already hurt you.”

"Bumps and bruises so far, Lena." He stopped, face-to-face with her. "Bumps and bruises.”

"When you look at me, what are you seeing? Someone, something else from before. You can't run the living on the dead.”

"I see you clear enough. But I see something else in both of us that shouldn't be ignored or forgotten. Maybe something that needs to be put right before we can move on.”

He reached in his pocket, pulled out Lucian's watch. "I gave this to you once before, about a hundred years ago. It's time you had it back.”

Her fingers chilled at the idea of holding it. "If this is true, don't you see it all ended in grief and death and tragedy? We can't change what was. Why risk bringing it on again?”

"Because we have to. Because we're stronger this time." He opened her hand, put the watch into her palm, closed her fingers over it. "Because if we don't set it right, it never really ends.”

"All right." She slipped the watch into the pocket of the short jacket she'd put on. Then she unpinned the watch on her dress. "I gave this to you once before. Take it back.”

When he took it, held it, the clock that had once stood inside the Hall began to bong.

"Midnight," he said with perfect calm. "It'll strike twelve times." And he looked down at the face of the enameled watch he held. "Midnight," he repeated, showing it to her. "Look at yours.”

Her fingers weren't so steady when she pulled it out. "Jesus," she breathed when she saw both hands straight up. "Why?”

"We're going to find out. I have to go inside." He looked up, toward the third floor. "I have to go up to the nursery. The baby …”

Even as he spoke, they heard the fretful cries.

"Let's just go. Declan, let's just get in the car and drive away from here."

But he was already moving inside. "The baby's crying. She's hungry. She needs me. Lucian's parents are sleeping. I always go upstairs early when he's not home. I hate sitting with them in the parlor after dinner. I can feel the way she dislikes me.”

His voice had changed, Lena realized as she followed him. There was a Cajun cadence to it. "Declan.”

"Claudine will walk her, or change her, but my pretty Rosie needs her mama. I don't like having her up on the third floor," he said as he hurried down the corridor. "But Madame Josephine always gets her way. Not always," he corrected, and there was a smile in his voice now. "If she always did, I'd be alligator bait 'stead of married to Lucian. He'll be home tomorrow. I miss him so.”

As he started up the stairs, his gait slowed, and Lena heard the rapid pace of his breath. "I have to go up." It was his own voice now, with fear at the edges. "I have to go in. I have to see.”

Gathering all her courage, Lena took his hand. "We'll go in together.”

His hand shook. The cold that permeated into the air speared into the bone. Nausea rolled through his belly, rose up his throat. Clamping down against it, he shoved the door open.

He stumbled, and even as Lena tried to catch him, fell to his knees.

"He comes in. He's drunk. I don't want him coming up here, but he won't go away. Everyone says, they say how he looks just like Lucian, but they don't see his eyes. I have to make him go away, away from my baby. I wish Claudine hadn't gone off to meet Jasper. I don't like being alone up here with Julian. He scares me, but I don't want him to see it.”

His eyes were glazed, glassy smoke in a face that had gone pale as death. "Declan, oh God, Declan, come back." She squeezed his hand until she felt bone rub against bone.

"When he grabs at me, I get away." His voice was breathless now. He still knelt, a rangy man with sun-streaked hair, wearing a tuxedo with the tie dangling loose. A man with a woman's memories, a woman's terror storming inside him.

"But I can't leave my baby. I get the poker from the fireplace. I'll kill him if I have to. I'll kill him if he touches me or my baby. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

As her knees seemed to melt away, Lena sank to the floor beside him, tried to wrap her arms around him.

"He's stronger than me. I scream and I scream, but nobody comes to help me. He's drunk and he's crazy. He's crazy and he's drunk. He knocks me down, and he rips at my clothes. I can't get away. My baby's crying, but I can't get to her. I can't stop him.”

"Oh." Shaking, Lena tried to hold him, rock him. "No. No, no, no.”

"He rapes me." Fire burned in the center of him. Pain, the pain, and the fear. Oh God, the fear. "I call for help. I call for you, but you're not here.”

His voice tore with tears. "You don't come. I need you.”

"Don't, don't, don't." It was all she could say as she clung to him.

"He hurts me, but I fight him. I try to stop him, but he won't stop. I'm so scared, I'm so scared, but even then I know he's not doing this because he wants me. It's because he hates you.”

He turned his head, those storm-gray eyes drenched. "He hates you. And because I'm yours, he has to break me. The way he broke your toys when you were children. I beg him to stop, but he won't. He tries to make me stop screaming, but I can't stop. I can't. His hands are around my throat.”

It doubled him over, that hideous pressure, that shocking loss of air. "I can't breathe. I can't breathe. My baby's crying for me, and I can't breathe. He kills me. While my baby's crying in her crib. Our baby. While he's still inside me. He breaks me like a toy that belongs to his brother.”

He lifted his head, looked at her now. And when he spoke, his voice was so full of grief she wondered they both didn't die of it. "You didn't come. I called, but you didn't come.”

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

"She came." Declan got rockily to his feet. "She came, and she saw what he had done to me. She looked down at me like I was a mess that had to be cleaned up before the neighbors came to call.”

His eyes were dry now, and narrowed at the slamming of doors on the second floor. "Her house, her sons, and I was the bayou slut who'd trespassed. I watched her look down on me. It was like a dream, that watching. I saw her tell him to carry me out, down to the bedroom, while she cleaned up the blood, and the candle wax, and the broken crockery. He took my body out the gallery, but I watched her, watched her go over to my sweet baby, and I heard her mind wonder if it would be best just to smother the child. She considered it, and I believe if she'd tried, there was enough of me left that I could have struck her down like a lightning bolt.”

He walked back to the door. "She thought I was weak, but she was wrong. They could kill me, but they couldn't end me.”

"Declan, that's enough.”

"No, not yet." He walked down the steps, down the hall, opened the door to Abigail's bedroom. "He laid me on the bed in here. And he wept. Not for me, but for himself. What would happen to him? His hand had defiled me, and killed me, but he thought only of himself. And does still. For he's in this house, he and Josephine. Walking and waiting in their little hell.”

He crossed over to the wall where the armoire had been, opened the door of it in his mind. "They took some of my clothes. I had the gown in here for the ball. I was so proud of it. I wanted to be beautiful for you. Make you proud of me. She dropped my watch, but didn't notice. She had Julian wrap me up, and they carried me out, with the suitcase full of my things. They got old bricks to weigh me down, and they carried me away.

"It was hard. Even though there was moonlight, even though it was cool, it was a hard walk carting all of that. Julian got sick, but she brooked no nonsense. They would say I ran off with another man. They would let the gossip spread that my baby was a bastard, fawned off on you as your own. She told Julian how it would be as they put the bricks over me, as they tied the cloak around me with rope, as they pushed me into the bayou.”

He looked back at her. "You believed them.”

"No." Lena was weeping now. For him, for Abigail, for herself, for Lucian. "No.”

"Not at first. You feared for me. You searched for me. You wept for me. I tried to reach you, but you wouldn't let me in. You wouldn't let me in because some part of you already believed their lies. I loved you. With all my heart, my soul, my body. I died for you.”

"I couldn't stop what happened to you. I wasn't here to stop it.”

"No, you weren't here that night. And you were never really here again. Not for me, and not for our child. You broke your promise to me, the solemn vow you made to me in that bed the night she was born. More than death, that is what doomed us.”

"How did I break my promise?”

"You promised to love our child, to care for her always. I was always true to you, Lucian. You have to know.”

"I do know." She closed her hand over the watch in her pocket and felt the weight, the grief, the sorrow.

"How could you leave her alone? How could you turn from her? You were all she had. You swore to me.”

"I don't know. I was weak. I wasn't as brave or as true as you. Maybe … I think maybe you were the making of me, and when you were gone, I had nothing to hold me straight.”

"You had Marie Rose.”

"Perhaps I loved you too much, and her not enough. Forgive me. Forgive me for what I did, for what I didn't do. I can't go back and change it." She drew out the watch, held it face up in her palm. "No matter how often time stops, it's too late. If I could, I would never leave you. I'd take you and the baby away. I'd do anything to stop what happened to you.”

"I loved you. And my heart ached every minute since they took me from you. Ached with grief, then with hope, and then with sorrow. You chose death, Lucian, rather than life. Still you choose loneliness rather than love. How can I forgive, when you can't? Until you do, they've won, and the house that should've been ours still holds them. None of us will ever be free, until you choose.”

He turned, opened the gallery doors and walked outside.

The door slamming at her back made her jolt. It was, Lena thought, like a rude laugh aimed at someone else's misery. Ignoring it, she stepped outside, took a deep breath.

"Declan.”

He was leaning on the baluster, staring out at the first hints of dawn. "Yeah. I'm trying to figure out if I need an exorcist, a psychiatrist, or if I should cash in and see about starring in a remake of The Three Faces of Eve.”

He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shrug off an irritating weight. "I think I'll settle for a Bloody Mary.”

Cautious, she stepped up behind him. "I'll make us both one," she began, and started to lay her hand on his back. He sidestepped, evading her touch, and left her standing there with her hand suspended.

"I don't need to be petted and stroked. Still a little raw here. Comes from getting raped and murdered, I guess." Jamming his hands in his pockets, he strode down the steps.

She waited a moment, struggling for balance, then walked down to join him in the kitchen. "Let me make them. I'm the professional.”

"I can make my own goddamn drink.”

It stung when he snatched the bottle of vodka out of her hand. Stung like a slap. "All right then, make your own goddamn drink. While you're at it, you oughta think about living your own goddamn life.”

She spun away, and when he grabbed her arm, she lashed out with her own slap. When her hand cracked across his cheek, the clock began to strike again, and the doors to slam.

Cold settled gleefully into the bone.

"You ever been raped?”

She yanked her arm free. "No.”

"Probably haven't been strangled to death, either?" Forgoing the niceties, he took a long drink straight from the bottle. "Let me give you a clue. It tends to put you in a really foul mood.”

Temper drained out of her. "Don't drink like that, cher. You'll only get sick.”

"I'm already sick. I need a shower.”

"Go on and take one. You'll feel better for it. I'm going to make some tea. Just let me do this," she snapped out before he could argue. "Maybe it'll settle us both down some." "Fine. Whatever." He stomped up the stairs.

She sat for a moment, just sat because her legs were still shaking. Then she took the watch out of her pocket, studied the face. The second hand ticked around and around. But the time never went beyond midnight.

Putting it away again, she rose to brew the tea.

She carried it up, along with the tidy triangles of toast. The sickbed meal her grandmother had made for her in childhood. He was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing a tattered pair of sweatpants. His hair was still wet. His skin was reddened from vicious scrubbing. She set the tray beside him.

"Do you want me to go?”

"No." When she poured a mug of tea, he took it, tried to warm his hands. Despite the blasting heat of the shower, he still felt chilled.

"I didn't just see it, or remember it. I felt it. The fear, the pain, the violation. The humiliation. And more-like that isn't bad enough-part of me was still me. That part, the big, tough guy part, was helpless, just helpless watching a terrified woman be raped and strangled. I can't explain it.”

"You don't have to. I felt some of it. Not as strong, not as clear as you, but … When you looked at me, when she was looking at me out of your eyes, I felt such grief, such regret. Such guilt. Drink your tea now, sweetheart.”

He lifted the mug obediently. "It's good. Pretty sweet.”

"Sweet tea and toast. It's good for you." She crawled onto the bed behind him, knelt and began to knead at his shoulders. "She was stronger than he was. It's not his fault so much. He was raised weak. But he loved her, Declan. I know that without a doubt. Even without knowing the terrible thing that happened to her, he blamed himself. For not being with her, not giving her enough of himself.”

"He deserted the child.”

There was such finality in his voice. "He did. Yes, he did," Lena replied. "And though it was wrong of him, wrong to take his own life and leave their baby an orphan, she had a better life because of it. She was surrounded by people who loved her, who valued the memory of her mother. She would never have had that life here, in the Hall." "She was entitled to it. He should have seen to it.”

She laid her cheek on the top of his head. "You can't forgive him.”

"I can't understand him.”

"No, a man like you wouldn't understand a man like him. Maybe I do, maybe I understand a man who'd run off with a woman rather than stand up to his parents. One who'd bring her back into a house full of resentment and shadows instead of making them a home. One who'd fall apart enough to drown himself rather than live with the hurt and raise his own child with the love and compassion that had been denied him. He wanted to be more than he was. With her, he would have been.

"You shouldn't despise him, Declan. You should pity him.”

"Maybe. It's hard. I've still got a lot of her despair inside me." Abigail's, he thought, and a good portion of his own.

"Can you rest?”

"I don't think so.”

"Why don't you try? I need to go change." She slid off the bed, then lifted the tray and set it aside. "Try to sleep awhile. I won't be long.”

He didn't try to stop her. It was probably best to be alone. He lay back, stared at the ceiling as the first birds began to sing.

Abigail had been broken, he thought. Body and heart.

He was feeling pretty much the same himself.

He must have dozed, for when he opened his eyes the sun was up. Still early, he decided, but the General and her troop of whirlwinds would be coming along shortly to storm through his house with mops and brooms and God knew.

Maybe the place needed to be cleaned up, shaken out. It was still his. He wasn't giving it up. Whatever had happened, whatever shared it with him, he wasn't giving it up.

And by Christ, he wasn't giving Lena up, either.

He sat up, scowling, and saw her sitting in the chair across the room. She wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt. There were three small bouquets lying in her lap.

"You up for a little drive?" she asked him.

"I guess.”

"Put a shirt on, and some shoes." "Where are we going?”

"I'll tell you on the way.”

She drove, and he kept the flowers in his lap now.

"I want to take flowers to her. To Marie Rose." As her ancestor, Lena thought, as her father. "I thought you might like to visit there, too.”

He said nothing.

"Grandmama told me," Lena continued, "how Marie Rose used to go to the cemetery once a year on her birthday. She'd bring him flowers. This morning, when I went over to change my clothes, she told me where we'd find his crypt, and we picked these from the marsh. I want to take flowers to Lucian, too.”

He picked one clutch up. "Your symbol of pity?”

"If that's the best we can do.”

"And the others?”

"Marie Rose took them to her mother, once a year as well. A part of her m/'ve known. She went to the river, every year on her birthday, and dropped flowers in the water. Grandmama told me where.”

She drove smoothly, a little fast, then slowed to turn into the cemetery. "I know you're still angry with him, and with me. If you don't want to do this, you can wait in the car. I won't blame you.”

"Why are you doing it?”

"He's part of me. Through blood, and more. If I can find a way to accept who birthed me, if I can live with that, then I can find a way to accept this. To live with it.”

She stopped the car, took two of the bouquets. "It's a little walk from here. It shouldn't take me long.”

"I'm coming with you.”

He got out, but didn't-as she'd grown used to-reach for her hand. They wound their way over the paths between the tombs, the ornate grilles, the marble angels and through shadows thrown by crosses.

She stopped at one of the raised tombs. There were many, simple and unadorned. Her grandfather rested here, and others who were parts and pieces of her. But today she had come only for one.

Her hands gripped tight on the flowers. Marie Rose, she read. Blood of my blood, heart of my heart.

"Grandmama, she told me Marie Rose was a happy woman, she had a good life. She was content with it. That might not be enough to make up for what was done, but if it had been done different … Well, I don't see how I'd be standing here with you this morning.”

She started to lay the flowers, and Declan closed his hand over hers on the stems. They placed them on the grave-the baby, the girl, the old woman, together.

"He's a ways from here," Lena managed. Her voice was thick, her vision blurry as she turned away.

They walked through the sunlight, through the shadows of the tombs, in silence.

The Manet crypt was a towering square, its porticoes carved, its doors thick and studded. Topping it was a fierce angel, holding a harp as a soldier might a shield.

"Cheerful," Declan commented. "I'd say none of them went gently into that good night." He glanced around, saw the plain concrete box on a raised slab. The plaque read:

LUCIAN EDUARD MANET. 1877-1900.

"He's out here?”

"He wasn't to be forgiven," Lena explained. "Not for his marriage, his child, his embarrassing death. They called it accidental drowning, though everyone knew it was suicide. But though Josephine wouldn't have him in the family crypt, she wanted him buried on consecrated ground. Otherwise, there would have been yet another scandal.”

Declan looked back at the crypt. "Bitch.”

"He had no grandparents, as I did, to love him. To soften the blows. He had a twin brother who loathed him simply because he existed. He had money and position, education and privilege. But no love. Until Abigail. Then they took her from him.”

She laid the flowers for him. "He did the best he could. It just wasn't enough.”

"You're stronger than he ever was. Smarter, more resilient.”

"I hope so. And I hope he rests soon. The flowers won't last long in this sun, but … Well, you do what you can.”

She walked away without another word. Declan lingered a moment more, staring at the plaque, then the flowers. Then he went with his impulse, took a single flower out of the bouquet, and laid it on top of the tomb.

Lena put her sunglasses on because her eyes were tearing. "That was kind.”

"Well, you do what you can." This time, he took her hand.

They didn't speak on the drive back. Nor did Rufus or Odette come out of the house when Lena parked in front of it. He remained silent as she led the way through the marsh. Silent, as he remembered the way in the night, with the chill in the air, the flitting moonlight, the call of an owl. And the panting breaths of a killer and his accomplice.

"Do you want to go back? You're awfully pale.”

"No." Sweat ran down his back despite the cold under his skin. "I need to do this.”

"It's not much farther.”

There were marsh flowers springing up along the edges of the narrow, beaten path. He concentrated on them, on the color, the small beauty. But when she stopped on the bank, he was out of breath and dizzy.

"It was here. Right here.”

"I know. Marie Rose came here, to this spot. Her heart knew." This time she handed him the bouquet and drew a single flower out.

Declan let the flowers fall into the river, watched the color, the small beauty, float on the brown water. "Not everybody can put flowers on his own grave.”

"I'm sorry." Tears slid down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry." She knelt, tossed the flower where it would drift alone. She groped for Declan's hand. "I'm so sorry I hurt you.”

"Don't." He drew her to her feet, into his arms. "It's all right.”

"He didn't trust enough. I didn't. Too much grief and not enough faith. Then, now.”

"There's been enough grieving. Then, now." He tipped up her face. And said what he'd realized was inside him-inside Abigail-at the moment they'd taken flowers to Marie Rose. "I forgive you.”

"You're more forgiving than she was.”

"Maybe. Maybe that's why we keep going around. Gives us a chance to fix things we screwed up.”

"Or make the same mistakes again. I've got something else to give you. But not here. Back at the Hall. It's the right place to give it to you.”

"Okay." He kissed her hand. "We're okay.”

"I think we're getting there. I'd like to walk back, get my bearings.”

"Good idea.”

"There's something I'd like to ask you to do," she said as they took the path again. "I'd like to put up three markers, maybe near the pond. One for Lucian, one for Abby and one for Marie Rose. I think it's time they were together.”

"I think they are together now." Or nearly, he thought. Very nearly, because there was a lightness in his heart he hadn't expected to feel again. "But the markers would be a nice memory. We'll pick out a spot, put them in. Then we'll plant something there, together.”

She nodded. "A willow maybe.”

"Like the one she liked so much." He nodded. "Sometimes you put things back the way they were, sometimes you change them. We'll do both. Then when our kids come along, we can have picnics near there, and tell them the story." He waited a beat. "You didn't tell me to shut up.”

"Cher, you just wear me out. Looks like your soldiers are here.”

He glanced over, wincing when he saw the cars. "Won't this be fun? Look, let's sneak up the front stairs and lock ourselves in my bedroom. I feel like I could sleep for a week now.”

"The bedroom's fine, but I've only got an hour. Then I've got to go in to work.”

"I've got an hour in me," he replied, then tapped a finger to his lips and crept up the stairs. "Ever roll around naked in bed with a houseful of women scrubbing floors outside the room?”

"No, and that's not on the schedule for this morning.”

"Spoilsport.”

"Declan. No, leave the doors open. No, just hold on-was "That's what I'm doing," he said when he'd locked her in his arms. "Holding on. And God, God, it feels good. I've missed you," he murmured, and understood it was Abby as much as himself who held close.

A circle, nearly forged again, he thought. And this time, it wouldn't break.

She's losing, he realized. Josephine. It was all slipping out of her hands.

"I've got things to say to you.”

"I'm done with talking." He laid his lips on hers in a soft, sumptuous kiss. "Lie down with me, Lena. Just lie down with me. I've really missed holding you.”

"I need to do this standing up." She eased away and stood in the spill of sunlight. "I've done things my way up till now, and that's worked out just fine for me. You've complicated things, confused things, irritated me, and turned my life upside down with what was, what is, what might be. I've never cared much for might be's, Declan.”

"How about will be's?”

"That's your hard head talking. I love that about you. I love so many things about you, I've lost count. So here I am stuck with some damn rich Yankee.”

Everything inside him swelled, then went bright as the sun. "Angelina.”

"You just wait till I'm finished." She sighed, paused until she was certain she could speak calmly. "I've got a lot of friends who care about me, maybe even love me the way friends do. I had my grandpapa, who made me the light of his life. I've got Grandmama. But nobody ever loved me just like you do. And the hell of it is, I never loved anybody the way I love you. S.”

She lifted her arms, unclasped the chain around her neck. She held it out to him, the little key dangling. "This is yours now, and has been for some time, I guess. You're the key, cher. You always were.”

He took it, then delighted her by clasping it around his own neck. "I'm going to make you so happy.”

"You damn well better. We getting married or what?”

"You better believe it." With a laugh, he scooped her off her feet, spun her around in circles. "Do you feel it?”

"Feel what? My head's spinning.”

"The house is ours now. Only ours." He set her on her feet. "No more ghosts. No more lives but ours. And we're just beginning.”

She slid her arms around him, lifted her mouth to his. "Welcome home.”

Still holding close, she drew out the pocket watch, turned it faceup. They watched time move on.

THE END