Midnight Bayou

  with the dog. She’d slip on the wet grass, tumble into the pond. He’d be right at hand to pull her out. No, to dive in after her and save her because she couldn’t swim.

  Then one thing would lead to another, and they’d have sex on that damp grass, in the watery sunlight. Her body, wet and sleek, would rise over his. He’d fill his hands with her breasts, and . . .

  “Jeez.” He blinked, saw her disappearing into the trees again.

  He wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or relieved to find himself hard. He’d had sex only once in the six months since he’d broken things off with Jessica. And that had been more a reflex than real desire.

  So if he could find himself fully aroused over some ridiculous fantasy of a woman whose face he hadn’t seen, that area was coming back to normal.

  He could check worry over his manhood off his list of concerns.

  He tossed the last swallows of cold coffee away. He didn’t mind starting the day with a stray erotic fantasy, but he did mind starting it with bad coffee. It was time to get down to practicalities.

  He went back in, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed into town for supplies.

  It took him most of the day. Not just to get the supplies, but to reacquaint himself with the city he was going to call his own.

  If Boston was a respectable wife, with a few seamy secrets, New Orleans was a sensual mistress who celebrated her darker sides.

  He treated himself to an enormous breakfast, so loaded with cholesterol he imagined his heart simply keeling over from the shock.

  He bought coffee beans and a grinder. Bagels and beignets. He loaded up on the single-male cuisine of packaged dinners, frozen pizza, dry cereal. Hit the liquor store for beer, bourbon and some good wine.

  He loaded it into his car, then struck out again, as much for the joy of wandering the streets as the recollection he needed something to eat on and with. He settled for paper plates and plastic ware, and stopped to watch a street musician set out his trumpet case, prime it with a few coins, then fill the air with a stream of magic.

  Declan gave him his first dollar of the day.

  He avoided the temptation of the antique shops and the lure of the Quarter. Lunchtime music was already pumping out of clubs and exotic scents wafted from restaurants. He bought himself a muffuletta—that marvel of meat and cheese and oil on Italian bread—to take back home for later.

  As he walked to his car again, he noted the tourists with their bags from Café du Monde or the Riverwalk shops, the card readers sitting at folding tables around the perimeter of Jackson Square who would tell your fortune for ten dollars a pop. He caught the faint drift of marijuana under the ripening stench of garbage as he walked by an alleyway.

  And saw an enormous black woman, smoking in indolent puffs, on the plant-jammed gallery above a shop that advertised erotic candles.

  He bought one for Remy of a naked woman with breasts like torpedoes, and grinned over it all the way back to his car.

  He drove home energized. He hauled in supplies, stuffed them wherever seemed logical at the time, then began a serious room-by-room inspection of the main level. He made notes on problems, on potentials, on plans and on priorities.

  The kitchen was a definite first. He had experience there from his own house in Boston, and from two remodels where he’d assisted friends.

  He couldn’t claim to cook more than the occasional omelette or toasted sandwich, but he thought of the kitchen as the heart of any home. The latest transition of the Manet Hall kitchen was early eighties—stark white and chrome with a slablike island work counter and blinding white flooring.

  The good points were the generous windows, the old and serviceable brick hearth and the pretty coffered ceiling. He liked the enormous pantry, but thought it would serve better as a mudroom. He’d hack down to the original wood flooring, strip off the overly sweet teapot-themed wallpaper, yank out the island in favor of an antique baker’s table or some such thing.

  Decorating wasn’t his strong point. He’d left that to Jessica, who’d favored pale colors and classic lines.

  And now that he thought about it, he preferred stronger colors and the charm of the fanciful. He liked details and fuss. It was his house, damn it, and he’d do it his way. Top to bottom.

  He’d put in some old glass-fronted cabinets where he could display antique kitchen appliances. Cracked, mismatched dishes, bottles and Mason jars. Cluttered.

  Good solid surface countertops. Copper faucets. He didn’t care if they tarnished. They’d just look more real.

  Big-ass refrigerator. State-of-the-art dishwasher and range. All fronted with distressed wood.

  Now, we’re cooking.

  He took reams of notes, measured, remeasured. He dragged out his research books and pored over them on the floor of the empty library while he ate half his sandwich and drank enough coffee to make his ears ring.

  He could see it, so perfectly. The floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with books, the deep green walls and the soft cream of the plaster ceiling and trim. Thick silver candlesticks on the mantel. He’d have to have all the chimneys checked professionally so he could start building fires, knock the chill out of the air.

  The trim would be restored where it needed it, sanded smooth as satin. The pocket doors here, and the massive ones separating the gentlemen’s and ladies’ parlors, were in excellent shape.

  Someone along the way had refinished the library flooring.

  He crawled around, running his hands over the wood. Sand it down lightly, slap on a couple coats of clear varnish, and they’d be set. The area rugs had protected it well—the good, thick Aubussons Josephine had ordered from Paris.

  He smelled brandy, leather, beeswax and roses, but thought nothing of it. His eyes were cloudy and distant when he stopped at the tiled hearth, flicked his thumb over the chip at the corner. That section would have to be replaced, or if it couldn’t be matched, rounded off. They’d been hand painted and glazed in Italy, at considerable expense.

  Julian had knocked the candlestick off the mantel, and it had chipped the tile. Drunk again. Raging again.

  The cell phone in his pocket rang and had Declan sitting back on his heels. Blinking, displaced, he gazed around the empty room. What had he been doing? Thinking? He glanced down at his thumb and saw he’d rubbed it raw on the jagged tile. Disoriented, he dragged out his phone.

  “Yeah. Hello?”

  “There he is. I was about to give you up.” Remy’s cheerful voice jangled in his head as Declan stared at the tile. He’d been thinking about the tile. Something . . .

  “I’m, ah, doing a room by room. Measuring. Stuff.”

  “How about you get yourself out of there for a while? I got me a late meeting, thought you could meet me for a drink after. Effie, too, if I can drag her out.”

  “What time is it?” Declan turned his wrist to check his watch. “Midnight? It’s midnight?”

  “Not yet it’s not. You been drinking already?”

  “Just coffee.” He frowned at his watch, tapped the face. “Battery must’ve gone.”

  “It’s just after six. I should be able to wiggle loose by nine. Why don’t you come on in? I’ll meet you at Et Trois, in the Quarter, on Dauphine about a block off Bourbon.”

  “Yeah.” Absently, he shoved at his hair, found his forehead was lightly beaded with sweat. “Yeah, that sounds fine.”

  “You need directions, Yankee boy?”

  “I’ll find it.” He rubbed his throbbing thumb. “Remy?”

  “That’s my name.”

  Declan shook his head, laughed at himself. “Nothing. See you later.”

  He drove in early. He wasn’t particularly interested in drinking, but wanted to see the metamorphosis of New Orleans from day to night. The streets gleamed under the carnival of lights, teemed with the crowds who streamed along, looking for entertainment.

  It was neither the tourists nor the merchants who ran the show, in Declan’s opinion. It was the city itself. A
nd its wheels turned on music.

  It pumped from doorways, cool jazz, hot rock, melting blues. Overhead, restaurant galleries were thick with diners who warded off the January chill with spicy sauce and alcohol. The strip club hawkers promised all manner of visual delights, and in the shops cash registers rang as tourists gorged on T-shirts and Mardi Gras masks. The bars served hurricanes to the Yankees, and beer and liquor to those who knew better.

  But it was the music that kept the parade marching.

  He soaked it in as he strolled down Bourbon, past doorways, bright lights, and sudden, unexpected courtyards. He skirted around a group of women who clutched together on the sidewalk chattering like magpies.

  He caught the scent of them—flowers and candy—and felt the typical male reaction of pleasure and panic when they burst into giggles.

  “Nice ass,” one of them commented, and Declan kept on walking.

  Women in packs were dangerous and mysterious entities.

  It occurred to him that if he were going to meet Effie, he should take her a token. Some sort of engagement gift. He didn’t know what she liked, or what she was like, come to think of it. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was buying gifts.

  Wishing he’d thought of it earlier, he poked through a couple of shops without much hope. Nearly everything in this section was geared for the tourist trade, and he didn’t think a wind-up, plastic penis was quite the thing for a first introduction. A gift could wait, he reflected, or he could just fall back on the basket of girl lotions and potions.

  Then he saw it. The silver frog squatted on all fours as if it was about to take a good, springy hop. It had a cheerfully wicked face and a big, smart-ass grin. And reminded Declan instantly of Remy.

  If this Effie had fallen for his old college pal, she had to appreciate whimsy. He had it wrapped in fancy paper with a big red bow.

  It was still shy of nine when he turned onto Dauphine.

  He was ready to sit in a bar, away from the center ring of the circus. Maybe listen to some music and work on a beer. For the next several weeks, he was going to have to tow the line. Spend his days tearing into the kitchen, his evenings planning his next point of attack. He had to track down specific craftsmen. Get bids. Get started.

  For tonight, he’d spend some time with friends, then go home and get a solid eight hours’ sleep.

  He spotted the sign for Et Trois. It was hard to miss as it danced cheerfully in cool blue over the scarred wooden door of a building barely two good strides from the street.

  The second floor boasted the typical gallery and lacy iron baluster. Someone had decked it out with fat clay pots of hot pink geraniums and strung little white fairy lights along the eaves. It made a pretty, feminine picture. The kind of spot where you might sit, drink a glass of wine and contemplate the people strolling by below.

  He opened the door to a blast of jumpy zydeco, the scent of garlic and whiskey.

  On the small stage was a five-piece band—washboard, fiddle, drums, guitar, accordion. The little dance floor was already packed with people executing the quick, fancy two-step the music cried for.

  Through the dim light he could see that none of the round wooden tables scooted to the side were free. He turned toward the bar. The wood was nearly black with age, but it gleamed. A dozen backless stools were jammed together. Declan copped the single one left before someone beat him to it.

  Bottles lined the mirror behind the bar, and interspersed with them were salt and pepper shakers in a variety of themes. An elegant couple in evening dress, dogs, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Porky and Petunia, the round, naked breasts of a reclining woman, carnival masks and winged fairies.

  He contemplated them, considered the sort of person who would collect and display fairies and body parts, and decided it was someone who understood New Orleans.

  Onstage, the fiddle player began to sing in Cajun. She had a voice like a rusty saw that was inexplicably appealing. Tapping his foot, Declan glanced down to the end of the bar. The man tending had dreadlocks down to his waist, a face that might have been carved by a very skilled hand out of a polished coffee bean, and hands that moved with balletic grace as he worked taps and poured shots.

  He started to lift his hand to get the bartender’s attention. And then she walked out of the door behind the bar.

  Later, when he could think clearly, he would decide it had been like having a sledgehammer plowed into his chest. Not stopping his heart, but jump-starting it. His heart, his blood, his loins, his brain. Everything went from holding pattern to quick march in an instant.

  There you are! something in his mind shouted. Finally.

  He could hear the race of his body like a hard hum that drowned out the music, the voices. His vision focused in on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on a black stage.

  She wasn’t beautiful, not in any classic sense. What she was, was spectacular.

  Her hair was midnight black, a gypsy mane that spilled wild curls over her shoulders. Her face was fox-sharp—the narrow, somewhat aristocratic nose, the high, planed cheeks, the tapered chin. Her eyes were long and heavy-lidded, her mouth wide, full and painted blood-lust red.

  It didn’t quite go together, he thought as his brain jumbled. The elements in the face shouldn’t work as a whole. But they were perfect. Striking, sexy, superb.

  She was small, almost delicately built, and wore a tight scooped-neck shirt the color of poppies that showed off the lean muscles of her arms, the firm curve of her breasts. Tucked into the valley of those breasts was a silver chain with a tiny silver key.

  Her skin was dusky, her eyes, when they flicked to his, the deep, rich brown of bitter chocolate.

  Those red lips curved—a slow, knowing smile as she strolled over, leaned on the bar so their faces were close enough for him to see the tiny beauty mark just above the right curve of her top lip. Close enough for him to catch the scent of night-blooming jasmine, and start to drown in it.

  “Can I do something for you, cher?”

  Oh yeah, he thought. Please.

  But all that came out was: “Um . . .” She gave her head a little toss, then angled it as she sized him up. She spoke again, in that easy Cajun rhythm. “You thirsty? Or just . . . hungry tonight?”

  “Ah . . .” He wanted to lap his tongue over those red lips, that tiny mole, and slurp her right up. “Corona.”

  He watched her as she got the bottle, snagged a lime. She had a walk like a dancer, somewhere between ballet and exotic. He could literally feel his tongue tangling into knots.

  “You want to run a tab, handsome?”

  “Ah.” God, Fitzgerald, pull yourself together. “Yeah, thanks. What’s it unlock?” When she lifted her eyebrows, he picked up the bottle. “Your key?”

  “This?” She reached down, trailed a finger over the little key and sent his blood pressure through the roof. “Why, my heart, cher. What’d you think?”

  He reached out a hand for hers. If he didn’t touch her, he was afraid he might break down and sob. “I’m Declan.”

  “Is that right?” She left her hand in his. “Nice name. Not usual.”

  “It’s . . . Irish.”

  “Uh-huh.” She turned his hand over, leaned down as if reading the palm. “What do I see here? You haven’t been in New Orleans long, but you hope to be. Got yourself out of the cold, cold North, did you, Declan?”

  “Yeah. Guess that’s not hard to figure.”

  She looked up again, and this time his heart did stop. “I can figure more. Rich Yankee lawyer down from Boston. You bought Manet Hall.”

  “Do I know you?” He felt something—like a link forged onto a chain—when his hand gripped hers. “Have we met before?”

  “Not in this life, darling.” She gave his hand a little pat, then moved down the bar filling more orders.

  But she kept an eye on him. He wasn’t what she’d expected from Remy’s description. Though she was damned if she knew what she’d expected. Still, she was a w
oman who liked surprises. The man sitting at her bar, watching her out of storm-gray eyes, looked to be full of them.

  She liked his eyes. She was used to men looking at her with desire, but there’d been more in his. A kind of breathless shock that was both flattering and sweet.

  And it was appealing to have a man who looked like he could handle anything you tossed at him fumble when you smiled at him.

  Though he’d barely touched his beer, she worked her way back to him, tapped a finger to the bottle. “Ready for another?”

  “No, thanks. Can you take a break? Can I buy you a drink, coffee, a car, a dog?”

  “What’s in there?”