A Twisted Ladder (45 page)

Chloe pondered her new acquisition: Bruce Dempsey. She thought it important to establish herself outside of Terrefleurs. She hoped never again to have to rely on loathsome playboys such as Jacob Chapman, and those New Orleans servants were simply not trustworthy.

RÉMI AND CHLOE HAD
borne little resemblance to newlyweds when they’d returned to the plantation. In the weeks following their wedding, they hadn’t shared a bed; they’d barely spoken. Rémi had retired to the men’s parlor where he’d slept fitfully for days, grappling with the ever-present visions and bilious words of Ulysses. Chloe had instructed Tatie Bernadette to remove all alcohol from Terrefleurs, and to cease production of it. They kept Rémi stone sober, but still his visions had continued to rage.

After several days, Rémi had emerged from the men’s parlor and wandered the plantation. He had taken to disappearing for an afternoon or for a day, haunted all the while by his rogue spirit companion. He’d been coherent, but at the same time vacant. Women of the plantation had called him the
loup-garou
, a man-wolf of the bayou, and had told their children that he would carry them off to the swamp should they misbehave.

Chloe, meanwhile, had met with sudden and unexpected resistance from her business associates. They’d shut her out. She’d tried to arrange for an audience with them, knowing she could compel them to resume business with Terrefleurs. But they’d refused any dealings with her, and had insisted that Rémi personally supervise all further transactions. Impossible, of course, for Rémi’s mind hadn’t recovered since their wedding night. Any words from him were of the kinds of truths that most would deem nonsense. Parading him in front of the suppliers and buyers who fueled the sugarcane crop would prove disastrous. Chloe had no intention of exposing her vulnerabilities.

The January sugarcane crop had been the most prolific harvest they’d seen in years. The Terrefleurs mill was bursting with cane stalks, and Chloe had held a feast to celebrate the gifts of the spirit world. The people had exalted her as their heroine, a priestess whose influence with the spirits held tremendous power. But soon after, they had questioned whether she was lacking in the proper influence over mortals.

Later, when the sugar mill still remained full even though weeks had passed since the harvest and the celebratory feast, Chloe had noticed seeds of doubt sprouting among the workers. She overheard their questions: Why were they not carting the raw sugar to the refinery where they could sell it for processing? Why was the cane still in storage, falling to borers and rot? How could Terrefleurs survive if it was unable to sell its sugar?

The weeks had continued to roll by, and now the cane still remained in place, moldering in the sugar mill. Chloe knew the workers were talking. And she could think of nothing to remedy it, because the truth had become apparent to all: Chloe was unable to arrange for the sale of the sugar harvest.

NEW ORLEANS, 2009

A
T THE TOP OF
a ladder, Madeleine pulled at the framework of suspended ceiling, hands protected in rough leather work gloves. Ethan climbed up on the folding table and joined in. They’d already removed the ceiling tiles and stacked them by the door next to the disassembled cubicles. Ethan and Madeleine tugged until the metal skeleton gave a groan, and the entire grid unzipped and clattered to the canvas tarp below. A parachute of dust billowed into the flat. Madeleine teetered and Ethan jumped down and reached for her, steadying the ladder and her leg. She was coughing and laughing.

“Come here,” Ethan said, and she let him pull her off the ladder.

“Thanks.” She walked to the kitchenette and stepped over Jasmine’s pet gate.

She opened the window, fanning the dust. “I’m thirsty. How about you?”

“Parched.”

“Water or beer?”

“Both.”

She retrieved them, including a glass of water for herself, while Ethan dragged the debris into the pile of rubble by the door. Jasmine yawned and stretched in her dog bed, having been sequestered in the kitchenette where she was safe from the renovation work. Madeleine gave her a treat and patted her fuzzy head, then stepped over the pet gate to join Ethan.

They sat on the empty canvas tarp with their drinks. Ethan wrapped his rough hand around hers. She felt grimy and sweaty but pleasantly exhausted, her body having flexed new muscles during the demolition. The breeze from the window was quickly banishing the stored-up heat in her bones. She pressed her fingers into the metacarpal ridge of his hand.

“Your hand’s cold,” he said, and rubbed it.

“Mmm, yours is warm.”

She looked at his face, and saw a smudge of dirt running along his cheekbone. It made him look attractive in a rough-and-tumble way. She thought of the Audubon Zoo, when they’d talked about his escapades in neuroscience and she’d found him so deliciously irresistible. The very memory of it stirred her.

“Tell me again how the brain emits and intercepts wave patterns.”

He looked at her, surprised and sweetly oblivious to her ulterior motive for asking the question. “Well, of course the interception part is just theory, not yet proven.”

“Isn’t it?”

“There’s no way to demonstrate that in the lab other than through periphery indications—raised hair, pulse, sweat.”

“Mmm. Raised hair. Pulse. And sweat. Little periphery indications.”

He regarded her quizzically.

She said, her voice a little on the rough side, “I guess because of the way the brain is structured, technology hasn’t figured out all the nooks and crannies.”

“Exactly. Not yet. Most parts of the body function in a way that we can measure. But the brain is different.”

She leaned in closer, angling her chest toward him. “How so?”

“Well, uh . . .” He looked her up and down. “Take memory. We used to believe that memory was stored in specific parts of the brain, now we understand memory is distributed. It’s like a hologram.”

“Is that so?”

He was watching her intently, and seemed to finally catch on to the tone in her voice, the languidness of her posture, and the way her own brain must have been emitting some intense gamma waves that conveyed a very specific, very good idea.

His eyes intensified. “Yes ma’am. That is so.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the uh, the way . . .” His gaze was fixed on hers, but he licked his lips and rallied. “Holographic film doesn’t just record an image. The actual surface of the film is rippled. It’s all . . . wavy.”

Her fingers stroked his hand, and then traced a wavy pattern up between the bones of his forearm. “Wavy. Like the surface of the brain.”

He laughed. Or maybe just shivered through his vocal cords, breaking into a wide smile. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like the surface of the brain.”

She couldn’t help but grin.

He said, “So when you have a laser. It shoots the light. I mean, you need two beams of light. To intersect. Or multiple beams. With mirrors.”

“Mmm.”

“And they intersect at the ripples that scatter the light waves. Creating . . . creating a 3-D image. And the brain . . . it’s the same with memory. I’m having a hard time concentrating with the way you’re looking at me, Madeleine.”

“That’s because the brain can’t function as a multitasker.” She reached up and touched the smudge on his cheek, and he caught her hand and kissed the underside of her wrist.

“Come here.” He pulled until she was seated in his lap, his hand running up and along her back.

His lips pressed against hers—sweet and heated like cinnamon. She combed her fingers through the cropped hair at his temples, and then down, along his neck, reaching just below his collar where his skin was even warmer.

“You must be exhausted,” she said.

“No ma’am. Not in the least. You?”

“I’m a ball of energy.”

Their lips joined, arms encircled, bodies coiled. They were smiling, delighted for this very good idea. His hands were large and strong. They kneaded the muscles in her shoulder and down her back. She let her own fingers travel down the front of his shirt, curling under the short sleeve and over the ridge between his elbow and shoulder, her thumb stroking the hot underside where his arm rested at his upper rib cage. She could smell dust and sweat and plaster. She wanted to be closer to him. Smell his base scent beneath it all.

She rose to her knees and pressed herself into him. Her head was above his, her hip at his abdomen. She curled her right knee around his middle and lowered back down again as though on a wave. His hands slipped under the bottom of her tee to the small of her back. The sensation of skin on skin caused a shiver to radiate through her body.

It felt as though a powerful magnet inside her chest had locked with something inside his. That connection was blocked by the layers of cotton clothing that separated them. She tugged his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, then her own tee was coming off, both of them tugging to free it. And then it was gone.

She whispered, “Do you have protection?”

He fumbled about and pulled a thin packet from his wallet. “Should we go to the bedroom?”

“Too far.”

Her skin pushed against his. Two layers of the same creature. His hand at her back, releasing her bra clasp. The straps dropped from her shoulders like feathers. It felt as though their hearts were sending electrical pulses to one another, joining in the same rhythm, and the chest cavity where her heart rested inside her own body seemed yet another illusion of space. A bundle of tissue that camouflaged something far more alive. The life force inside her had linked to the one inside Ethan. They were entangled beyond any hope of extrication.

Her limbs opened like the wings of a butterfly. He hooked his arm around the backs of her thighs and lifted, supporting her with his arms and legs, holding her back, laying her gently onto the canvas. He unfastened her jeans. She lifted her hips and he pulled, tugging them over and down. She kicked them off. Dust from the renovation work swirled around them and caught glints of light from the window. He was already unbuttoning his own jeans. She pulled on the fly, each button releasing in a downward succession. He was erect over the top of his briefs. He pulled off his jeans and they fit their bodies together, rib to rib, hip to hip. His erection pressed into her skin. The heat center moved from her heart, down lower, and the need to join with him felt both excruciating and exquisite.

She drew shallows breaths as they snaked around one another. Limbs locked with limbs, fingers exploring skin. She heard the clink of glass, and looked to see that her water had spilled onto the tarp. It looked gorgeous. Late morning sunlight bending to diamonds in glass and liquid. He raised his head and looked at her.

“We’re both filthy dirty,” she whispered.

She dipped her fingers into the water and brushed the smudge off his cheek. He smiled at her. He dipped his own fingers into the water and moved them down, under the fabric of her panties, between her legs. The cool liquid on his rough hands made her arch her back. His mouth covered hers, lips open. His fingers moved slowly, easily, and they found the ridge just above the opening. She gasped. A fresh, sparkling ripple unwound from her. It expanded through every nerve and then every cell in her body, escalating. She reached down and took him in her hands, mirroring his movements in broader strokes.