The Legacy (11 page)

“Oh, oh, my,” Marjo said, the words jerking out of her on a moan and a breath. “Paul, I—”

Outside, she heard the sound of tires on gravel. It took a long second before her mind made the connection, but when it did, she jerked away from Paul, clutching at her shirt and hurriedly rebuttoning it. “Gabriel. He’s home.”

“He has
really
bad timing,” Paul said, grinning.
He released her, grabbed his shirt off the floor then slipped it back on. By the time Gabriel entered the house, she and Paul were at opposite ends of the kitchen table, sipping wine.

Marjo bit her lip when she noticed that Paul’s shirt was on inside-out. She could only pray her brother didn’t make the same observation.

“Hey, Paul,” Gabriel said. “You here taking pictures?”

Paul slid a grin Marjo’s way. “No, no pictures,” Paul said. “Not tonight.”

“I took some.” Gabriel pulled the camera Paul had given him out of his backpack. “Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

Paul and her brother started a discussion about focal points and composition. Marjo picked up her wineglass and headed out to the porch, taking a seat in the rocker. The warm Indigo night wrapped its familiar comforting blanket around her.

“Sorry about that,” Paul said as he joined her a few minutes later. “I get talking about photography, and before you know it, hours have gone by.”

“That’s okay. I’m glad to see Gabriel having so much fun with the camera.” Paul was obviously a good influence on her brother.

“He has an eye for it. He could apprentice under someone part-time and take some classes in photography. I think eventually he could make a good living at it.”

Marjo didn’t want Paul encouraging Gabriel to
run off on a whim. “He makes a good living already.”

Paul started to speak, as if he was thinking of disagreeing, then stopped. “As long as he’s happy.”

Of course Gabriel was happy. If he wasn’t, he would have said something to Marjo. Either way, she refused to entertain the thought of Gabriel becoming a photographer. He had a good job at the funeral home, one that would be there for as long as he needed it. She wasn’t going to push him into a competitive field where he could suffer rejection.

Gabriel had had enough of that in his life, simply because he was different. She’d shielded him as much as she could, but there’d always be that one person who would say something that would put a chink in Gabriel’s gentle spirit. Marjo knew from competing in singing competitions when she was younger just how easily a few mislaid comments could destroy someone’s confidence.

“So, how did you learn to play the fiddle?” Marjo asked, opting for a change in subject.

“My dad taught me. It’s pretty much a family tradition in Cape Breton. My uncles would come over on the weekends and create a party out of nothing more than a fiddle and a case of beer.”

She finished her wine, then twirled the glass in her hands. “What’s your family like?”

“Ordinary. Two parents, a younger sister named Faye, and me. My dad worked himself half to death for too many years, but now he’s retired.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged, then settled into the wooden chair beside hers. “Yeah.”

He hadn’t exactly opened up a door into his soul, yet he knew almost everything there was to know about her.

He’d kissed her, made his interest in her clear, but hadn’t done anything that would take this relationship past the superficial.

Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? Nothing long-term. Nothing that would take her from the roots she’d worked so hard to build for herself and Gabriel. If that was so, then why did Paul’s reticence sting so badly?

“I forgot to tell you,” Paul said, his hand slipping into hers. “There’s one condition to my support of the opera house.”

“A condition?”

“You sing at the festival.”

“You can’t force me to sing just so I get the opera house support.”

“I can and I did. With the committee’s approval, of course. In fact, it was a group idea. I spoke to Joan Bateman, who is writing the program.” He grinned, clearly pleased with his plan. “You’re already written into it, so there’s no backing out.”

“I can’t sing—”

“Oh, yes, you can. You proved it tonight. You gave a hell of a performance, too.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, rising and
crossing to the porch railing. “It’s not that simple. I can’t just start singing again.”

“Why not?”

“I have
responsibilities,
Paul.” Gabriel coming home late had been a clear reminder of where she should be directing her attentions. Paul wandered the earth with nothing more than a camera and a passport. He couldn’t possibly understand her commitment to her brother, the family business, her need to stay on solid ground instead of grasping for clouds.

“You have an amazing voice. You shouldn’t keep it hidden away in that funeral home.”

“Don’t talk to me about keeping things hidden away,” she said, making an effort to keep from shouting because Gabriel was within earshot, inside the house. “You’ve barely told me more than three sentences about yourself since I met you.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

She shook her head. “One thing I’ve learned in researching the histories of this town and the people who have lived here is that there is
always
a story to tell. Every one of us has a story.”

“Not me. I gave you all there was. I’m divorced, I spend my days traveling all over the world, taking pictures and earning a living.”

“That’s it, huh?” She crossed the porch until she was close enough to see the reflection of the moon in his eyes. They seemed like deep, dark pools she could lose herself in. “Why did you get divorced?
Why did you sell your house? Why did you choose a job that makes you a nomad? Why—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, getting up from his chair. “Somehow this got turned around into an argument about me, when all I wanted was for you to sing in the CajunFest.”

“And I think you have no business telling me how to live my life when you are barely living your own.”

He stepped back, and she could see that her words had hit their mark. Immediately she wanted to take them back, to seal up that mouth that often got her into trouble. There were definitely times when speaking her mind wasn’t the best choice. “I’m sorry, Paul, I—”

“No, you’re right.” His voice went cold and hard, as rigid as his posture. “I don’t have any business telling you what to do. Nor do I have any business owning something in this town. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looked away for a second, as if deciding something, then turned back to her. “I will honor our deal and pay for the rest of the repairs on the opera house. But when that’s done, I’ll tell Sandra to find a buyer who will agree to honor the town’s plans for the place—someone who has an appreciation for roots and legacies.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Paul was packed and ready to go, as always, in less than a minute. He’d called the airline, arranged a flight to Nova Scotia, talked to Joe, his editor, and promised the pictures by the end of the week. Everything was set for him to leave Indigo.

To resume his life.

He crossed the room, exiting out the French doors and onto the veranda. The sun was just coming up over the bayou, turning the foliage from deep emerald to a bright, lively green. The golden light seemed to wash over the land, making it sparkle, as if it were a magic place.

He shook off the feeling, then turned and reentered his room. As soon as he got on the plane, this wistful feeling would stop. He’d slip back into work mode and everything would go back to exactly the way it had been. He’d be free again, which was exactly how he liked it. Even if a couple of nagging doubts persisted. Thoughts centered on a certain feisty brunette who expected more out of him than he ever had himself.

It was best to leave, before the idea of staying took hold of him again.

A knock sounded at his door, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulled the door open.

Marjo.

She wore her hair loose again and he was sure she hand never looked so beautiful.

Stay,
his mind whispered.
Tell her you’re not going anywhere.

Ever again.

Before he could utter those words, he reminded himself he had a plane ticket. An assignment. A career to get back to.

“I came by to give something to you,” Marjo said, handing him a thick manila folder.

“What is it?”

“Documents, tracing the history of the opera house. I thought you might want to know everything about the property. Before you sell it to the highest bidder.” She turned on her heel and headed down the hall.

“Marjo, wait!” When she didn’t stop, he hurried after her, catching up with her at the top of the staircase. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Don’t go, not yet.”

“Why? You’re leaving. It’s all over town. Paul Clermont is getting on the first plane out of hell.” Her eyes glimmered with sadness. “Why should I stay and delay the inevitable?”

“You don’t understand. I’m leaving because I have a job, a photo assignment.”

She gave him a short, polite nod. “Good luck with that. And if you’re ever in the area again, do stop by.”

That had to be the coldest goodbye Paul had ever received. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but it sent a fist into his gut all the same.

“Marjo, I hate to leave things like this.”

“Like what? Did you think a few kisses meant anything between us? How could they? We barely know each other. You’re only doing what you said you were going to do. Moving on, severing all ties.”

Put that way, it sounded like he was abandoning the town, abandoning her.

Indigo would be just fine without him, and he without it. But as he looked at Marjo, he had to wonder whether he was selling himself a bucket of rotten crawfish.

“Marjo, you don’t understand. I know what it’s like to tie yourself to a place so tight you cut off all other avenues. I watched my relatives work hard all their lives, only to see everything they owned wiped away in one bad fishing season. But they stayed in Cape Breton, thinking things would get better someday, when the only way out was to leave.”

“You mean, run away.”

“I’m not running away from anything.” Yet, as the words left his mouth, he wondered how true that was. “You may think I’m deserting all of this, but I’m not. I’ll be back.” He gave her a grin, hoping to return to the camaraderie they’d had before, the easy
connection that seemed to have disappeared. “I have to check on my investment.”

She gave him a broad smile. “I appreciate what you’ve done for the opera house, and this town will be fine, regardless of who owns it. And so will I.”

She was making it clear that there was no reason for him to come back. There was nothing waiting for him here.

The right thing to do—the only thing he could do—was to let her go and not look back.

“Then will you give Gabriel this?” he asked, taking a business card out of his wallet. He cleared his throat of the lump that had suddenly formed there. “If he ever wants to pursue photography, have him call me.”

“
If
you talk to him,” she said, “please don’t encourage him to follow some foolish dream. I might not always be here to take care of him, and he needs to have a secure job. Besides, you know how these creative fields are, Paul. The criticism can be brutal. Gabriel has had enough of that already.”

“I know that,” Paul said. “I’ve been on the receiving end of a vicious critique more than once. But sometimes those things can make a person stronger instead of crushing them.”

She shook her head. “Not Gabriel.”

“And not you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Is that why you aren’t singing?” he asked. “Because you don’t want to be hurt?”

“Of course not.” But she looked away from him. “I’m simply not a risk-taker. Nor do I want my brother to live that way.”

“Oh, Marjo, don’t be afraid of taking risks,” he said.

She quirked an ironic grin. “I could say the same to you. Either way, thank you for the card and have a safe trip.” She tucked his business card into the back pocket of her capris, then turned to head down the stairs. On the first step, she paused, and in that second, Paul willed her to turn around, to undo all of this, to demand he stay instead of letting him go as easily as a balloon string slipping through her fingers.

And then she did turn around, rose on her tiptoes and kissed him.

But her kiss lacked passion and tasted instead of goodbyes and bittersweet memories. Too quickly, she broke away from him. Her hand cupped his face for one brief second, and then she was gone.

M
ARJO DID THE ONLY THING
she could do after leaving La Petite Maison and Paul Clermont.

She worked.

She did everything from organizing the old files at the Savoy Funeral Home to polishing the floor of the opera house. In the days after Paul had left town, she came home every night tired, sweaty and…miserable. What was it about that man? How could he have gotten under her skin in such a short time?

“Hey, Marjo!” Cally called, pulling into Marjo’s driveway on Thursday night just as Marjo was
climbing the porch steps, exhausted and ready for bed. “I thought you might need this.” She held up a six-pack of light beer and joined Marjo on the porch.

Marjo sank into a chair and reached for the chilled bottle her friend proffered. “Thank you. You read my mind.”

The heat wave had broken, leaving them with the moderate days and cool nights that were normal for October. It seemed as if the minute Paul Clermont left town last week, the heat stirred up by his presence had dissipated.

Cally sat beside her, twisted the top off her own bottle and took a drink before speaking. “So, are you trying out for the Toughwoman competition or what?”

Marjo laughed. “Maybe I am working a little too hard. But look at the benefits.” She held up her right arm and flexed a bicep.

“I’m more worried about your cardio muscle.”

“Cardio? I’m fine there.” She patted her chest. “Breathing well, no murmurs or racing heartbeat.”

“That’s because there’s no man around to make your heart beat faster.”

“Well, there is that,” Marjo admitted. She’d struggled all day to blot the memory of Paul Clermont from her mind. It didn’t work. He remained there, as stubborn as a mule. “Look at the bright side. My nights are free again.”

“Yeah, and what are doing with those free nights? Working until you run yourself into the ground. I
don’t think you’re doing all this to help the opera house, but to get one good-looking Cape Breton man out of your system.”

Marjo opened her mouth to protest, then realized she couldn’t even lie to herself. “Yeah, I am. It’s not working very well, though. Maybe I need a brain transplant.”

Cally laughed. “Didn’t you tell him how you felt before he left?”

“I was going to. I even went over to his room at La Petite Maison with this cool little speech all worked out. I had visual aids and everything.” Cally raised her eyebrows. “No, not the kind of visual aids you’re thinking of, though maybe those might have worked better. I took along the love letters of Alexandre and Amelie, thinking I could just casually mention how romantic the letters were, and that being at the opera house with him had ignited these feelings…”

“But?”

“But I didn’t. Good thing, too, because he made it very clear that he was leaving. That Indigo, and me, were a temporary layover in his travels.”

“Then he’s an idiot, because in my opinion, you—and me—are the best catches in this entire bayou, and any man who can’t see that doesn’t deserve us.” Cally clinked her bottle against Marjo’s. “So there.”

Marjo laughed. “You do know how to make me feel better.”

“It’s the beer talking. Makes me all self-righteous.”

“Well, despite my deplorable love life, one that I don’t need, I might add, I’m glad to see everything finally moving forward with the opera house. The CajunFest is all set to happen on Saturday.”

The workers Paul had hired had been working all week. The plumbing updates were done, the chairs had been fixed and an air-conditioning system had been installed, which would provide a welcome respite for the festival-goers from the heat outside.

“And not a moment too soon. This town could use the boost.” Cally spun the bottle between her hands. “What I’m worried about is afterward.”

“Afterward? Far as I know, we don’t have any other events planned.”

“I meant, with you. This festival and the restoration have consumed all your spare time for months. What’s going to happen when it’s all over?”

The thought had occurred to Marjo, too. What would she do when all this was over, and she was left with a big hole in her life? She’d be alone again, with nothing to fill her days but the funeral home and Gabriel. “I’ll still have my work at the funeral home.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

What Marjo wanted hadn’t been a consideration since she’d turned nineteen. Her life had been built around responsibilities. The business. Gabriel. “It’s
what my parents expected. What they needed me to do.”

“No. They needed you to keep it open to provide an income for you and Gabriel. I’d say you’ve done your duty, Marjo. You’ve been there for sixteen years. They didn’t say you had to run it forever or to make it your whole life.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. From far off, a bullfrog let out his loud, belching song. “Do you think they’d be happy if they could see you so
un
happy?”

Marjo was ready to fire back an argument, to disagree with Cally as she had a hundred times before. But she hesitated and then shook her head. “No, they wouldn’t.”

“Then hire a funeral director and go work in the opera house. Make it a center for music once again. Sing your heart out every day, and find the happiness that you deserve, my friend.” Cally reached out and grasped her hand, her palm cool against Marjo’s. “It’s
your
turn now.”

“What about Gabriel?” Marjo worried her bottom lip. For so many years, that had been her number-one concern.
What about Gabriel?

“He’s getting older, in case you haven’t noticed. He doesn’t need you as much as you think. And besides, you don’t have to sell the business—you just don’t have to run it. Gabriel can work with Henry as long as he needs the job, and you can stop worrying so much.”

Worry. It had become such a constant companion she couldn’t imagine a life without it.

She allowed herself a moment to think about the audience in the bar a few nights earlier. When she’d gotten up on the stage and started singing, a butterfly had taken wing inside her chest.

For too long she’d suppressed that side of herself. But in Skeeter’s, people had responded to her song, and the praise had reawakened her long-neglected desire to sing professionally. Not just sing occasionally with the Indigo Boneshakers, but to do it every day of her life.

“Maybe…” Marjo said, not making any promises, “I’ll give it a shot. After the festival. And only on a part-time basis.”

“Wow. You’re agreeing with me?” Cally winked. “Must be the beer talking.”

“Speaking of beer, this was a good idea.” Marjo hoisted the her bottle in appreciation. “Thanks for this, and for being such a good friend.”

“Aw, you’d do it for me. And you have, a hundred times over. You’re the kind of friend who’s there whenever someone needs you.” Cally rose and gave her a quick hug. “Especially when someone has just had their heart stomped on by Remy Theriot. Remember when he dumped me last year, right in front of the Blue Moon? He tells me, and half of Indigo, that he’d only asked me out to bide his time until a better offer came along. Heck, I
was
the better offer. He was just too stupid to realize it.”

Marjo opened her mouth to agree, but before she could speak, a car careened into the driveway. Any
thing moving that fast in the bayou meant one of two things: a lost and panicked out-of-towner or a life-and-death situation. Jenny leaped from the car, leaving the engine running. “Marjo! Come quick!”

Marjo was already halfway down the stairs, Cally close behind. “What happened?”

“The funeral home—it’s on fire!”