Jezebel (2 page)

Chapter 1

Annabelle

“I gave you all that I could give. My soul, my heart, my mind.”

~ L’ame Immortelle—Betrayal

Tuesday. Again.

Annabelle had been dreading Tuesday for a week now. After last week’s kitchen duty she was sure her life
was
a nightmare. She’d left Glenview smelling like pureed spinach, bad breath and old people. It was a disaster. Her four hours had felt like ten.

As she walked down the brightly lit corridor toward the recreation room, a ruckus came from suite 208. She slowed her pace, eavesdropping. Her purple Converse sneakers squeaked on the sterile linoleum floor. She hated it here. She hated what volunteering represented in her life. Visit number two, and she was already willing away the next twenty-three, mandated volunteer days.

“I’m not riled up, you fools!” A woman swatted attendants’ hands away from her. “I’m bored. This place is like hell,” she huffed, resigning and settling down in the overstuffed chair behind her. The sight of this woman, scarcely as old as her own parents, struck her. Her skin was soft looking, her eyes clear and her posture self-assured.

“I’ll sit with you,” Annabelle boldly suggested from the doorway.

The woman’s weathered but clear hazel eyes shot to hers, and she smiled ruefully.

“Can you be trusted?” the woman asked, eyes narrowed.

What a strange question. Maybe this hellish punishment wouldn’t be so bad, after
all.

Annabelle shrugged. “Sure.”

“And who, my dear, are you?” the woman asked.

Annabelle took the woman in now. Really took her in. She was tall, slender, and quite pretty despite being her parents’ age. Her salt and pepper hair was swept up into a French twist. She thought what a shame it was when dementia hit this young. Ten years in a nursing home seemed like torturous eons to her, but having to endure these sterile places for nearly half a lifetime was just cruel.
It was depressing knowing that this was the last stop. When a person was out in the world anything was still possible but once they moved into a place like Glenview there was only one way they would move out.

She straightened her shoulders. “I’m Annabelle Fortin.”

“Well, Annabelle Fortin, why on earth do you want to sit with a bumbling middle-aged fart like myself?”

“I don’t know, you seem kind of . . . spirited to me. Maybe you’ll have something interesting to say.” Annabelle peeled her eyes from the woman and glanced out the window near the woman’s bed while absently tucking her hair behind one ear.

“Oh, posh. You pity me. Think I’m lonely.” The woman huffed. “I’m not, you know. One can never be bored with a mind full of memories. I had quite the life before this.” Her hands splayed wide and gestured to the cold, eggshell-colored room. The attendants that lingered seemed to warm to the idea of Annabelle placating the woman.
“Is it alright that I sit with her instead of working in the kitchen?” she asked the nursing assistant.

“I’ll check but as far as I’m concerned you’re a godsend. If she gives you any trouble, holler. She’s a mean bird,” the nursing assistant stated as he exited the room. Annabelle wrinkled her nose at him.

Moving across the sterile room toward the chair opposite the lady, Annabelle cracked her knuckles then sat. Unlike the other rooms she’d passed in the hallway, this woman’s was cold. Not homey at all. No pictures or decorations hung on the walls, no trinkets sat on shelves.

“So, am I allowed to stay?” she asked scratching her arm that didn’t even itch.

“I suppose.” The woman looked her up and down, weariness pulling heavily at her features.

“What’s your name?” Annabelle finally asked, desperate to break the silence between them.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the woman answered with a smart-ass grin. The corners of Annabelle’s mouth kicked up into a smile. She chuckled and tucked her legs up under herself in her chair.

“I could probably just ask someone,” she returned.

“Where’s the fun in that?” the woman answered, a sour expression on her face as if she had just bitten into a lemon. Annabelle shrugged. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” she answered. The woman’s eyes lit up like sparklers.

“Eighteen was grand! You must be having the time of your life.” The woman clapped her hands together excitedly.

Annabelle frowned. She was definitely
not
having the time of her life. “It’s been less than awesome,” she answered dryly.

“Bullshit!” the woman squawked.

Annabelle started at the curse from the woman before noting the huge smile on her face. “Eighteen will be the best year. You’ll see. You’ll look back when you’re sitting in some home somewhere, like me, and think,
damn,
eighteen was fabulous.”

“I sure hope so,” she answered, frowning.

“You have quite the pout, you know that? It twists up your features and makes you ugly.”

“That’s not very nice.” Annabelle scowled. She eyed the old woman, a sudden wave of insecurity rushing through her.

“It’s not meant to be nice. It’s the truth. Truths are often ugly.” Annabelle blinked, unsure how to respond.

“Child, are you always this . . . this boring?” the woman asked.

“I’m not boring!” she squawked crossing her arms and pursing her lips in irritation.

“Well you’re not exactly
riveting
either, are you?” the woman volleyed back, revealing a half smile.

“What do you want from me?” Annabelle asked irritated. This woman was crazy but definitely not boring. She might actually enjoy some of her time if she got to sit with this mystery woman each week.

“Well, Annabelle Fortin,
eighteen,
let’s start with something easy.”

“Okay.” she answered.

“Why are you here?” the woman asked while pulling a blanket from the back of her chair and placing it over lap. Annabelle looked at the woman’s sock clad feet. For the first time since her DUI she felt ashamed to admit why she was here. “This isn’t rocket science love, just spit it out,” pushed the woman after a pause of silence.

“I don’t have a choice. It was volunteer for six months or serve jail time. I chose this.” she answered lifting her chin and meeting the woman’s gaze.

“A rebel. I like it. What’d you do?”

“I got pulled over for driving drunk,” Annabelle explained.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Only my pride.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm.

“Oh posh, scandals and alcohol go together like peanut butter and jelly. That’s not all that exciting,” the woman
tsked.
Annabelle felt her face wrinkle in confusion. “There must be more to it . . .”

“Nope. Grounded until I leave for college. No phone. Limited computer use. No friends over and stuck here once a week for four hours.”

Stifling a snort the woman said, “Dear God, you mean that I’m to be your
only
source of entertainment for the next six months?” She slapped a hand to her chest dramatically. Annabelle cocked her head and stared at the nut job, hard. “Your life is
definitely
worse than mine,” the woman concluded with a roll of her hazel eyes.

Bubbles formed in Annabelle’s gut. Her rib cage started to shake and finally, she laughed. A loud, hearty laugh. A laugh that startled her. A laugh the likes of which was so genuine that she couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. The mystery woman promptly joined in, giggling right alongside her. It put her at ease. Her heart felt lighter.

“So tell me, do you have a boyfriend?” the woman asked as their laughter died down.

“Do you have a name?” she responded with a smart-ass smile.

“Touché, tiger, touché.” The woman grinned a dazzling smile revealing a row of straight white teeth.

“So, are you going to tell me?” she pushed.

“Not today,” the woman answered simply.

“You are strange.
Very
strange. And you don’t seem to be confused at all. Why are you here?”

“Ahh, life’s great mysteries.
Confused—
is that what you think dementia is?” the woman asked.

“Well, mostly. Forgetful and confused.” She shrugged.

“And does that come and go?” the woman pushed.

“Sure, like you’re fine for a while and then not. That’s why you need to live somewhere like this.”

“I think based on your definition I would be delirious. Dementia affects memory, thinking, language, behavior. Delirium is more of a sudden unexpected severe confusion and rapid change in the brain’s ability to function.”

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “How are those different?” Annabelle asked. She was struggling a bit to keep up with the woman. Her brows were knit together as she tried to work out what the woman was getting at.

“Exactly my dear! How
are
they different?” Annabelle huffed and shook her head in frustration. Having a real conversation with this woman proved difficult and tiring.

“Okay, I give up. New topic? You said you had quite
the life before this. Will you tell me about it?” she asked.

“That depends.”

“On what?” she sighed.
Maybe the kitchen crew would be better.

“Whether or not you like love stories.”

Annabelle half-shrugged. “Sure. I usually like a little suspense or mystery with my romance but a love story could be alright.”

“Oh but my dear, every great love story has a twist. If there’s no twist, how does one ever know if their love can endure?”

“Endure what?” she questioned as she pulled at imaginary threads on her sleeve.

“Anything,” the woman answered as if that were the only answer.

Annabelle thought about her words for a moment. Let them sink into her brain. Did her parents’ love story have a twist? Surely not one that she’d heard about. Or could a twist be a tragic event? If that was the case then her family, her parents, had endured a twist and survived it together, even if just barely. Either way, she wanted to corral the woman into a singular train of thought.

“Okay. Tell me your story,” she answered.

“It might upset you, or perhaps I have no story to tell. We have six months! Let’s start with someone far more interesting. Celeste Fontaine.”

Annabelle’s face scrunched up. “Who the heck is Celeste Fontaine?”

“Oh, she was a girl I knew. A caretaker for a large chateau just outside of Paris. She had everything she ever imagined in life: blissfully happy parents who spoiled her rotten, friends she adored, and a man that made every woman on the planet jealous of her. But let’s go back to the very start shall we?”

The woman had a mischievous gleam in her eye. Annabelle would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit curious about
any
story this woman might tell. She was a character for sure, and that meant she probably hung out with some interesting people before she ended up at Glenview. She probably had lots of good stories to tell. Hell, it beat wearing a hairnet and latex gloves in the kitchen. She shivered at the thought of cafeteria food, trays and dirty silverware. And hairnets.

“Are you cold?” the woman asked, head cocked to the side.

“No,” she answered, shrugging away the kitchen visual.

“Are you ready to pay attention?”

Annabelle nodded. “Excellent. If you don’t pay attention, you’ll miss things.
Important
things.” Annabelle cocked her head to the side and wondered what the woman was yammering on about. “Make sure you listen carefully, and try not to jump to conclusions until I’m finished telling you everything. What happens from here on out isn’t my responsibility. It’s yours, so take notice.” Annabelle scrunched up her nose in confusion and shrugged. The woman stared a moment longer at her before she nodded saying, “Alright then. Remember kid, the devil is in the details. Paris. Nineteen eighty-four.”

Chapter 2

Celeste

Paris 1984

Celeste smoothed the fabric of her dress. Her gown hugged her body in all the right places. The silk felt luscious against her skin. The gardens twinkled under the strand lighting as she walked through row after row of flowers, taking in their unique smells and blossoms. Her hair was massed on top of her head with a select few tendrils hanging down, framing her face. She had spent the better part of the afternoon at the salon with Mara perfecting their looks. Celeste felt like a princess at these affairs no matter how much she loathed wasting an entire night with the stiff crowds of the upper crust. She was used to it, yes, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t rather be elsewhere.

At twenty years old, she wanted to be at a pub with Matteo and Mara, singing karaoke and not caring if her shoulders were squared, which utensil to use or whether or not she was behaving in a ladylike manner. She wanted to live in the moment. Be whoever she felt like that evening. Instead, she was here, at the Garden Gala, where her parents were raising money for new pharmaceutical research. FogPharm was one of the leading research facilities in the world. Her parents, both scientists, were passionate about their work and their company. She had been required to attend these lavish parties since she’d turned sixteen.

She was thinking about her teenage years when he walked into the gala like he was walking the red carpet. Every woman in the room stopped and noticed him, no doubt hoping they’d be the one to catch his eye. Just the sight of him across the open space sent Celeste’s heart beating rapid-fire. He flashed a smile here and there as he walked. Smirking, showing a dimple, he shook hands with all the right people.

Then, just five minutes later, she watched as he grabbed a champagne flute and chugged the contents in an empty corner of the garden. Suddenly, he looked miserable. She read his tension in the tight, bunched line of his shoulders. Although she wanted to be out with friends having a good time rather than here because it was expected of her, she wondered how anyone choosing to be here could be tense at this event eluded her. Lights twinkled. Music played. Drinks flowed. It was magical here. Late spring in Paris offered nothing less.

Celeste was not short by any standard, but from what she could tell the man stood at least six inches taller than her five-foot-eight-in-heels height. His broad shoulders were encased in an expensive dove gray suit that tapered down to narrow hips. His dirty blond hair hung mussed, tucked behind his ears. Tan and lean and athletic, his body looked damn near perfect with clothes on. She could only wonder what it looked like without them. Wealth, authority and virility rolled off him in great waves. His strong jaw added to the overall appeal. Green eyes landed on hers and she froze in her spot. The light captured them, making them appear to twinkle. Her breath faltered and heat warmed her cheeks. She darted her eyes to the floor quickly after she realized she was blatantly staring at the handsome stranger.

“He’s a looker,” Mara pretend-panted in her ear. Celeste jumped at the sudden break in the spell of the evening. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Cece.” Mara’s arm linked through Celeste’s at the elbow as she laughed.

“I was just . . .”

“Fantasizing. Like every other straight gal in this place,” Mara cut her off. Celeste slumped her shoulders as the truth of her friend’s statement washed over her. She was pretty, but there were far more attractive women here tonight to catch his eye. Plus, she wasn’t looking. She had two more years left at university and a career to map out.

“Who is he?” Celeste asked.

“That happens to be
the
Gabriel Fontaine,” Mara answered.

“The biochemist?” she squeaked. She’d wondered about him. Her parents had made him an offer to work for them upon his finishing graduate school. They were still waiting on an answer three months later. He was one of the most coveted up-and-comers in the biochemistry field.

“The very one.”

“I thought he’d look older and less hot. Aren’t biochemists supposed to be extra nerdy and unattractive?” Celeste joked.

“They are. He defies logic.” Mara laughed. “Come on, we need drinks!” Mara tugged on Celeste until she finally moved her feet. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention as they made their way to the bar. She felt as if she was being watched and she blushed thinking about whom it might be. She could feel his green-eyed gaze burning into her back.

“How’re your parents?” Mara asked. The two of them had been friends since high school. The best of friends. Mara came from an affluent background like she did. The pressures
and
perks were understood without words. Mara’s penchant for being somewhat of a wild child irked her parents but without her, Celeste would have drowned under the pressure of life long ago. Her parents loved her. They did, but the world they existed in was wrought with discipline, expectations and beliefs that were ironclad from years of breeding. They showered her with love and encouragement, yet that encouragement always seemed to come with a price.

“At table six,” Celeste said.

“Ahh, so are mine.” Mara nodded.

“You’d better behave, Mara. They’ll never let you room with me if you cause a scene again.”

Mara’s last stunt had sent both sets of parents over the edge. She’d streaked through campus last semester drunk. Her parents had threatened pulling her from school until she could learn how to behave appropriately. Her response to the situation hadn’t helped any: ‘If by behave, you mean find myself a suitable husband, then no thank you.’ They’d laughed and laughed, huddled in their dorm room together over their reaction. Their blood-drained faces, her mother’s gasp, her father’s look of disdain. It had shaken them both, and over the summer Mara had been nothing short of a model of finance-driven breeding. She had no choice.

“Oh, shut it, Cece. I’ll behave.” Mara lifted her wine glass and drained it as Celeste shook her head and giggled. “Where is Matteo?” Mara asked, drawing out his name to make a point. Celeste blushed, knowing that in another life, maybe Matteo and she would be free to explore their budding feelings for each other.

“He’s there,” she answered, pointing across the dance floor. Matteo, tall dark and brutally handsome, made his way through the crowd, offering appetizers. She sighed at the unfairness of life. How some could be viewed as inconsequential simply because of their bank balance. How the world was built on dreams and iron and greed. Matteo was brilliant, handsome and going to make a name for himself. She knew it. She had unwavering faith in him.

“If you’re not going to take advantage of that fine work of art, I will.” Mara giggled. Matteo was absolutely beautiful. She slapped Mara’s arm playfully and laughed alongside her friend. The three of them were like three peas in a pod. It was rare that they spent longer than a day or two without seeing each other.

“He’s too important to me to do that. Have at it,” Celeste said. Above all else, she valued Matteo’s friendship. They’d met in their Intro to Horticulture class in their freshman year of university and instantly formed a bond, a bond that neither of them seemed willing to take further than friendship. It was odd in a way. They held hands when they explored the campus, he picked her up from parties when she’d had too much to drink, and sometimes they shared a bed, to sleep only, simply to ward off anyone else from doing so. They talked about their dreams, their goals, and their differences. He dated and she dated and there was no jealousy harbored between them. It just . . . was what it was. There was an understanding.

She looked to him now. His nose was perfectly straight, and his jaw was well defined. His lips were perfection. Mara winked at Matteo from across the floor and they both laughed when he dramatically winked back.

“Excuse me. What are you drinking?” It was a deep,
lush
male voice. Mara’s head whipped around and her jaw dropped. Using her index finger, Celeste pushed Mara’s chin up until her mouth closed again and suppressed a chuckle. Turning, she noticed the body behind the voice.

The biochemist.

Gabriel Fontaine.

“Who were you directing that question to?” she asked. Mara snorted and started to back away. Celeste grabbed Mara’s wrist to hold her in place.

“I think your friend is quite observant.” He laughed as Mara released herself from Celeste’s grip and moved another step away.

“Me then?” she asked, smiling as heat warmed her body from her belly up.

“Yes. You,” he confirmed.

“White wine spritzer. But, as you can see, my glass is half full.”

“Witty.” He grinned, flashing her a row of dazzling white teeth.

“Perhaps.” She felt a flutter in her belly. What was his angle here? She tried to work it out as he took a step closer to her.

“I’m not sure we’ve met. Gabriel,” he said.

“The biochemist with the inflated ego,” she returned coyly. His reputation was no secret. He was said to be brilliant in his field and popular with the ladies, and was modest about neither. A bachelor at heart.

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me,” he laughed. It was a deep, carefree sound that resonated. She instantly liked it.

“Celeste Fogarty.” She extended her free hand to him. He took it, gently but firmly, and turned it over before placing a kiss on the inside of her wrist. A small move, bold in its intimacy, but not outright inappropriate. If she could stop the damn butterflies demanding to break free from her belly she could analyze the moment.

“Fogarty . . .” he murmured. “Julian and Roberta’s daughter?”

“The very one,” she answered. He let his eyes roam her form—top to toe. His perusal made her squirm. She’d never been so blatantly stared at before. His gaze was appreciative though, not critical.

“I can see it now,” he said finally.

Celeste laughed. She truly looked nothing like her parents. Her mother’s blond hair and blue eyes were a far cry from her auburn locks and hazel eyes. Her mother was petite, while she was more athletically built. Her father, also blond, albeit a darker shade than her mother’s, was fit, but stocky. They loved to say she got her height, hazel eyes and brunette coloring from her grandparents. Celeste couldn’t be sure though, as she’d never met either set. Both were deceased by the time she was six and had never bothered to come to France from the States to visit.

“I hate it when people say that.”

“It was rather lame.” He shrugged. He looked to table six, where her parents were seated, and then back to her. “And, I suppose, not exactly true.” Celeste shook her head and grinned at him.

“So, Gabriel, what can I do for you?” she asked, feeling bold. From the corner of her eye she caught Mara and Matteo watching her. Suddenly she felt as if she were betraying them somehow. Leaving them out. They would bombard her with questions later tonight, no doubt.

“Épouse-moi,”
Marry me,
he said. Celeste felt her brows lift and her eyes grow wide.

“Very funny. I’ve only just met you!” she laughed.
What a strange thing to say,
she thought.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He grinned at her.

“Everything!” she replied, raising her hands in the air. His grin widened. She couldn’t help but be swept up in his dimpled smile. His carefree expressions were mesmerizing. Hell, everything thus far was mesmerizing about him.

“I’ll ask you every day until I wear you down and the only logical answer becomes yes.”

“You’re crazy,” she answered, snorting. She slapped a hand over her mouth and nose, embarrassed that she’d snorted out loud. Gabriel didn’t seem to notice or mind as he continued on.

“I’m many things. Taken by you. Frappe.”
Smitten.
The French word rolled off his tongue the way calm water lapped a shoreline.
Provocatively.
She loved the way the language here sounded. She loved listening to it. Matteo teased her love of languages by speaking his native Italian to her. Mara always joked that anytime a man spoke a foreign language, Celeste became putty their hands. Mostly, it was true. She could close her eyes and get lost in the gentle lilts and smooth sounding words of either French or Italian.

“That’s bold,” she scoffed, trying to remain unaffected by his words.

“Maybe.”

“No. Definitely,” she stated, chin raised.

“Okay, it is, but I know what I want.” Such conviction. Such allure. Curiosity to know if he was serious bloomed in her.

“What about next month? Next year? Twenty years from now?” she quizzed, deciding to play along. Her parents, still at their table, caught her eye, nodding their approval.
Of course.

“Je vous veux.”
I’ll want you,
he answered. The conviction in his voice made her heart slam against her ribs.

“I can’t take you seriously right now, this is preposterous.” She laughed at the handsome stranger before stepping backward a step. He caught her wrist, stopping her movement. The rugged pad of his thumb grazed the delicate underside of her skin. Fire bloomed in her belly, swelling upward through her chest, warming her cheeks and surely staining them an obvious pink. Her eyes snapped to his.

“Settle for a dance with me then?” His eyes, stormy and serious, captivated her, kept her rooted in her spot. “Celeste, s’il vous plaît, juste une danse?”
Just one dance.
That damned French again, so fluid. So deceptively seductive. Her name sounded exotic they way he drew out the ending. She nodded her permission. He smiled a wolf-like grin, full of victory and blatant desire.