The Legacy (3 page)

F
IVE O’CLOCK
came and went. Five-fifteen. Five-twenty. The waitress at the Blue Moon Diner finally stopped asking Marjo if she wanted to order and left her alone, except for the occasional ice-water refill. Marjo waited, patiently—well, as patiently as she could, considering she wasn’t sure she possessed the patience gene—for Paul Clermont to show.

Earlier that Sunday afternoon she’d gone to work at the funeral home. There’d been no appointments, no funerals in progress, so she’d had a few minutes to get some work done and to also go online. She’d typed Paul Clermont’s name into Google, trying to find out who she was up against. Marjo was a woman who liked to be prepared, who wanted to know the odds—so she could beat them.

What she’d seen had impressed her. Paul Clermont’s photos were more than just visual records. He captured the spirit—maybe even the soul—of his subjects. She felt as if she were part of his pictures, in the wilds of New Zealand, the refugee camps of Africa, the Appalachians of West Virginia. Surely the
man who had photographed a rare albino gorilla in the Congo and a hidden pyramid chamber in Egypt could have some understanding of the historical importance of the Indigo Opera House.

And if he couldn’t, well, she’d have to tie him up and keep him hostage in her back bedroom until he did.

At five twenty-five, Paul entered the Blue Moon, looking so darn handsome she had to hate him on principle. He paused a moment in the doorway, framed by the setting October sun, which burnished his dark hair with gold. He had the broad shoulders and narrow waist that were mandatory requirements for any hero.

A man who was determined to upset her best plans shouldn’t look that good. He should be Quasimodo’s twin, so that she wouldn’t feel her heart skip a beat whenever she looked at him.

Her gaze caught his, and for a second she forgot the purpose for this meeting. How long had it been since she’d gone out on a date? Been attracted to someone to the point where she had trouble remembering her own name?

As he approached, a charge detonated inside her gut.
Mon Dieu,
her own body was staging a mutiny. The trouble was, her mind wasn’t sending out any complaints.

She’d never met a man quite like him. Most of the men around Indigo had been worn down by the hard work that living in the bayou demanded—the
shrimping, the fishing, the constant worrying about keeping up with the bills and keeping ahead of the water, which seemed to slip in and erode more of the land along the bayou every year.

Marjo wanted to preserve every inch of Indigo, cast it in bronze and show the world this special, incredible place.

For that, she needed Paul Clermont’s cooperation. She silenced her hormones and crossed her hands on the table in her getting-down-to-business position.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, stopping beside the table. He had one hand behind his back, and when he brought it forward, she saw he was holding a bright bouquet of camellias. “And I’m sorry for being disagreeable earlier.”

A flush of surprise filled her as she accepted the bouquet, marveling over the rich color of a pair of Kramer’s Supreme variety, the pale hues of a Pink Perfection, as well as a couple High Fragrance varieties, which added a sweet scent to the bunched flowers. She inhaled, a grin spreading across her face, even as she tried to ignore how the flowers had made her anger at him melt away. “You’re forgiven.”

“Good.” He smiled, too, and slid into the seat across from her.

She fingered one of the silky blooms. “Did someone tell you these are my favorites?”

“No, it was a wild guess. Apparently a few things do stay secret in the bayou.”

She laughed, then breathed in a second whiff of
the blooms. “My mother planted these all around our house,” Marjo said softly. “I love camellias because they remind me of her.” Unexpected tears rushed to her eyes. She blinked them away. Why was she getting so emotional now?

“Did she die?” Paul asked, his voice quiet and gentle.

Marjo nodded, still touching the velvety petals of the flower. “In a car accident, with my father, when I was nineteen.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she had no doubt he was being sincere.

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat, ridding it of a sudden sentimental lump. “Anyway, let’s get down to business.”

“I do have an excuse for being late, by the way,” Paul said. “I started taking pictures of La Petite Maison, because the light at this time of day was too good to pass up, and I lost track of time. And again, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Is that an occupational hazard?” she teased, the flowers having lightened her mood considerably.

“It is. And a real problem when the last ferry has already left or you missed your plane out of Zimbabwe.” The smile on his face was far too attractive. It was the kind of smile that asked a woman to open up, to trust him, to take this beyond a simple conversation. For a moment she considered doing just that, forgetting her reason for being here and just talking to him as a woman talked to a man.

A little selfish indulgence.

The waitress came over and deposited a menu in front of him, but he didn’t open it.

Marjo suppressed the attraction building inside her. “Aren’t you going to order?”

“Are you sure you won’t have them poison my food? A little salmonella for the enemy?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She laughed. “Maybe next time.”

He arched a brow. “Remind me never to let you cook for me.”

The words whispered an innuendo, a hint of them spending more time together, and a need that had gone unanswered for too long now made itself known.

An image came to mind of Paul Clermont in her bed, his long, lean body curling around hers.

She’d been alone for such a long time, playing the role of mother, head of the household, business owner, but not woman. And definitely not a woman who put her own needs high on the priority list. What would it be like to do that? Just for one night?

Whoa, that wasn’t why she was here. She grabbed the other menu and read the day’s specials again, even though she’d figured out ten minutes ago what she wanted to eat.

“What do you recommend?” Paul asked.

“Well, if you’re adventurous, there’s the alligator special.” She gestured toward the stuffed alligator head hanging over the lunch counter, then laughed
at the face he made. “If you’re more traditional, Estelle makes the best gumbo and turtle soup in the world. It’s her specialty.” She lowered her voice and cupped a hand around her mouth, knowing how easily even a whisper could travel in this town. “It’s even better than my tante Julia’s, but don’t tell anyone I told you so.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” He smiled at her, and the electrical charges she’d felt before ratcheted up, increasing her appetite for something other than the Blue Moon’s Sunday night special.

When their waitress returned with two icy glasses of tea, Paul took her suggestion and ordered the soup. Marjo opted for the same. Once they were alone again, she tucked the flowers into the space beside her, then began. “I promised you a story.”

“About the opera house?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll tell that one now,” she said, changing her plan. Although he seemed interested, she was afraid that if she told him the opera house’s history today, it would still be too easy for him to walk away. Rather, she wanted to foster in him the same love for Indigo that she had, starting with the story that had long ago ignited her own curiosity. “Instead, I want to tell you about La Petite Maison.”

“The bed-and-breakfast?”

She nodded. “Their histories are intertwined, like most everything around here. The land was owned by Alexandre Valois and was just one of many properties he built in Indigo in the early 1800s.” She
paused as the waitress deposited the generous bowls of soup in front of them. “Alexandre had a manservant who worked for him, a man by the name of Charles Baptiste. Charles was loyal to the core and had been with Alexandre since he was a baby. From what I’ve read in Alexandre’s papers, it was clear Charles would have done anything for the boy he’d pretty much raised into a man. Alexandre’s parents were distant, more the type that had children to carry on the family name, but little else.”

“There are still people that do that—leave the raising of their kids to someone else,” Paul said, giving Marjo the feeling that perhaps his childhood had been less than ideal.

She left that issue alone. “Shortly before Alexandre got married, Charles fell ill. So ill, he became bedridden and couldn’t serve Alexandre anymore.”

“And in those days, there was no such thing as disability pay.”

“No, but Alexandre was committed to the people around him. He built the cottage, which later became La Petite Maison, for Charles and his wife and children.”

“That’s pretty generous. It’s a gorgeous property.”

Marjo smiled. “It still pales in comparison with the plantation house Alexandre built for his wife, but that’s another story. Alexandre chose that remote location because Charles was a private man, and Alexandre knew that his friend would want to be away
from the lack of privacy in Indigo. Charles was afraid people might alienate him because they thought his illness was contagious or had been some twisted punishment from God. Alexandre spared no expense, even bringing in a doctor from France and housing him in one of the outbuildings.”

“In short, he did everything he could for the man,” Paul said.

Marjo nodded. “In the end, it wasn’t enough. Charles died a year later, a long, slow, agonizing death. From what we’ve pieced together from the sketchy medical records left by the doctor, we think it might have been stomach cancer.”

Paul shuddered. “Not a good way to go. He must have suffered.”

“After Charles died, Alexandre told Charles’s family they could stay in the house, and he would continue to pay them Charles’s salary, even though his friend and the man he considered his true father was gone.”

“A man who thought with his heart,” Paul said, finding the meaning in her words, “not his wallet.”

“Exactly.” Marjo held up a finger, telling Paul the story was far from done. “But here’s where it gets interesting.”

Paul had his spoon halfway up to his mouth, then he paused. “There’s more?”

“After her husband died, Charles’s wife never spent another day in that house. She took the kids, whatever money was left, went to France and never
returned.” Marjo quirked a grin. “Oh, and she took one other person with her.”

Paul leaned forward. “Who?”

“The French doctor. Apparently they’d grown
very
close over her husband’s sickbed.”

“Quite the grieving widow.” He shook his head. “Makes me feel bad for Charles.”

“It worked out okay. One of the maids who worked for Alexandre turned out to be Charles’s mistress, and the child she’d had three years earlier was his. As loyal as Charles was, he apparently made excellent use of his time off.”

Paul laughed. “This is all true?”

“Yeah. We pieced it together from birth records and letters. It was quite the scandal in those days, particularly when Charles’s widow left with the doctor. But until the day he died, Alexandre stuck by Charles and defended his name. He paid for Charles’s illegitimate child to be educated. The maid and the boy moved into the cottage and lived quite well.”

“That puts the little bed-and-breakfast into a whole new light.”

“That’s why I told you that story instead of the one about the opera house. I want you to
see
the opera house first, like you did La Petite Maison, then hear its story.”

“I have seen it.”

“But not the way you saw La Petite Maison today. You told me you were so wrapped up in capturing
that building on film that you forgot the time, forgot our meeting, forgot everything.” She paused and took a sip of water, deciding this was as good a time as any to make her case, to finally get to the reason she’d invited Paul here. “Do me a favor. Spend more than a few minutes with the Indigo Opera House. I think you’ll see it in a whole new light, too. And then you’ll realize you can’t possibly let it go.”

“Don’t you think a new owner would be more supportive of your plans? More involved?”

“Maybe. And maybe not. Besides, all you have to do is remain the owner. I’m sure the town can give you a break on the taxes. And the restoration committee will handle everything else. The same thing happened with Shadows-on-the-Teche, when the original owner’s grandson decided to sponsor a revival of the buildings.”

“It’s not just about the tax bill. I don’t
want
to own an opera house. To me, that wreck of a building is a tie. And I don’t like ties.”

“But you
can’t
sell it,” Marjo protested. “Not now. If you put it on the market, we’ll be forced to stop the restoration. We’re having enough problems getting funding since hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Tourism dried up for a long time, and people are afraid to invest in an area that has already suffered so much. The committee, and the town itself, won’t support something that might end up being sold to some developer who will tear it down and put up a discount store in its place.”

“Here? In the middle of nowhere? I think the chances of that happening are remote.”

Did he have to take her literally? “Either way, the committee won’t want to sink any more time or effort into something that might not be there in three months, or six. And you are a Valois, and to the committee, having a Valois on the deed is vital.”

“Why? As far as I know, none of the Valois family has been down here in years. I wasn’t even sure the place really existed, that it was just a family tale, until it popped up in my uncle Neil’s will. An uncle I’d rarely seen, I might add, and who’d never shown up at a Sunday dinner to boast about this ‘treasure.’ To most people in the family, this place was a good story for Sunday dinners, nothing more.”

“Your uncle remembered it,” she said. “He was here once, in the early fifties. Though he never had the money we needed to restore it, I think he wanted to make sure the property stayed in the family.”

Paul sat back in his chair. “My uncle was
here?
In Indigo?”