The Legacy (4 page)

“I never met him, but Hugh, the town historian, told me Neil came into town long enough to pay a visit to the opera house. He didn’t stay long. Hugh said he got the feeling Neil was the kind of man who liked to be alone.”

“He was the family hermit. We rarely saw him.”

“Either way, after his visit, he wrote to Hugh once in a while to see how the place was doing. For the last thirty years or so, a woman named Maude Picard
rented the opera house and turned it into an antique store. She dealt with a lawyer in New Orleans, and when she died last January, we tried to contact Neil but never heard back.”

“He was quite ill. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity. She clasped her hands on her lap, praying she could get her message across to him. This moment might be the only one she had to convince Paul not to sell. “You need to understand something about Cajuns. If there’s one thing that’s important to the people of this area, it’s their heritage. Their traditions. Their customs. The opera house is a part of that heritage.” She lifted her hand and toyed with her spoon. “This area is…unique, just like I hear Nova Scotia is. It’s filled with people who are fiercely protective of their heritage. We have our own dialect. Our own type of food. You won’t find what we have here anywhere else in the world, and because of that, a lot of us are fighting to preserve our heritage.”

“Even as the world around you changes.” He spooned up some gumbo.

“Yes.”

“Fine. Then I’ll sell it to someone who promises to keep the building as it is. Maybe I’ll even name it The Valois or something. That should make you happy and honor my uncle’s wishes.”

Again, he was trying to wash his hands of the building, as if it were bothersome dirt. “That’s not enough,” Marjo protested, ignoring her gumbo,
which was quickly growing cold. “To keep it truly the Indigo Opera House, it has to be owned by a Valois, because they’re the ones that founded it, and to people here, nothing can replace generations of ownership. If you knew the history—”

“I know enough. If there’s one thing my uncles and aunts like to do, it’s talk about where they came from. They rehash several hundred years of history and make it sound as if we were still trying to get out from under the English. Just because my relatives are like that doesn’t mean I am. I like feeling disconnected—unattached to anyone or any thing. I live out of a backpack and I don’t worry about being home for supper for anyone. I come and go as I please, and thankfully, I get paid to do that.”

Marjo shook her head, unable to believe anyone would prefer to live their life free of family ties and roots, particularly someone who had grown up in an area so entrenched in its history. She’d always been such a part of this community and found it inconceivable that someone wouldn’t have a place to call home, a place that surrounded you like a warm blanket on a chilly night. “To me, that’s sad. What kind of life is that?”

“Depends on who’s living it. I happen to think my life is perfect the way it is.” He went back to his soup.

She glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring. She shouldn’t be surprised, given what he’d just told her, but she was. Paul was tanned, fit and seemed to be a happy, successful man, the kind any woman in
her right mind would want. Yet when Marjo looked in his blue eyes, she got a feeling—those same feelings her granny Lulu used to get about storms on the way—that Paul Clermont’s life was not as perfect as he painted it. “Why don’t you come out and take pictures of the opera house?”

“I already took a couple, in case I need them for the Realtor or maybe a piece down the road. I don’t see the need for any more photos.”

“If you see the inside, the amazing construction of those nineteenth-century craftsmen, I’m sure you’d think differently. I don’t know anything about photography, but I know something about you, about your work. It’s damned good.” She clasped her hands together once again, before she went overboard. “I saw that series you did on the tribe in New Zealand. The Maori tribe who’d never seen an outsider before? Their culture was dying, because the very seclusion they sought had become a double-edged sword. You captured their story, but not in the captions. It was the pictures of their faces, their homes. And I have to admit, you did it really well.”

He sat back, surprised. “You looked up my work?”

“Even out here in the sticks, we get Internet access. And some of us actually know how to use Google.”

He grinned. “I’m flattered you looked my work up, and even more flattered that you liked it.”

“Then please do this one thing,” she said, sliding
her bowl to the side and reaching briefly for his hand. When she touched him, once again the contact ignited something inside her. She’d meant only to emphasize her point, but clearly something more than that had happened here.

“What?” he prompted.

She pulled her hand back. “Look at the Indigo Opera House as an assignment. As a way to capture someone’s story. Maybe you could even get that magazine of yours to run a piece on it. That way, we all win.”

“How do you see that?”

“I get the publicity I need to fund the rest of the restoration, as well as spread the message about the importance of preserving our Cajun heritage. And you’ll undoubtedly end up with dozens of offers from rich philanthropists in New York or Hollywood who will invest in the property as a conversation piece.” She had to choke out those last few words, but surely anyone who saw the opera house would love it as much as she did.

“I’ll think about it,” he conceded. “You’ve whet my appetite with the story of the bed-and-breakfast. Not enough to make me want to own a piece of Indigo, but enough that I want to see the rest of the opera house through my lens.” Paul considered her words, his body still. “But only if you tell me one thing.”

“What?”

“What’s in it for you?” He leaned forward, and
his piercing blue eyes seemed to zero in on her, slipping past her defenses. “Because there’s more to this for you than just fixing up some old building and making people remember a way of Cajun living that is disappearing faster than fog on a sunny day.”

“I don’t want anything more than that.”

“As you say down here, that’s a load of toad crap.”

She laughed. “We say it a little less pretty than that.”

“I’m with a lady,” Paul said, tossing her one of those grins that he seemed to have in abundance. “A lady who has a secret. And until I find out what your story is, Marjolaine Savoy—”

The sound of her name slipping from his lips in that deep, intent tone made her heart skip a beat.

“—I’m not making any promises.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Paul stood by the slow-moving Bayou Teche, his camera in hand. Centuries-old oak trees coated in moss stood like silent sentries over the water, their branches weighed down and reaching toward the bayou like the hair of Mother Nature herself. It was the kind of place where a man could fall completely off the map, lost in its lush wilderness.

Of course, the beauty around him included alligators lurking in the bayou, a thought that reminded Paul he needed to pay attention.

Through his camera lens, he sighted a brightly colored bird in a tree, then turned to frame a stand of dead oaks that looked like blackened ghosts. He didn’t depress the shutter button, instead he simply observed the landscape through the narrowed, distant eye of the lens.

The bayou was, as Marjo had said, unlike any place he’d ever been before. It seemed to combine the desolation of the desert with the teeming life of the rain forest, and yet there was also an other-
worldly feel to the place. Before him, a gnarled cypress reaching at least a hundred feet up to the sky as an elegant red-shouldered hawk circled overhead, watching, always watching, for prey.

Last night’s dinner with Marjo had been enjoyable, even if the two of them butted heads more often than they agreed. If he could just get her to accept his plans for the opera house, maybe he could leave this place.

“What’s that?”

Paul turned around, lowering his camera as he did. A boy, well, a young man, stood behind him, eyeing the camera, a quizzical look on his face.

“A camera,” Paul said.

“Does it make those instant pictures?”

It took Paul a second to understand the question because of the Cajun accent. “A Polaroid? No, not exactly. But it does let you see the pictures right away.” Paul held out the camera, showing the young man the review screen.

“Is that a picture you just took?”

“No, just the scene from the viewfinder.”

The young man’s face scrunched up at that word, but then he nodded, apparently satisfied with Paul’s answer. “I’m Gabriel,” he said suddenly, thrusting out a hand. “I make twenty-two at my next birthday.”

“Paul.” They shook, Gabriel’s hand pumping up and down.

“What are you doing in the bayou?”

“Well…” Paul paused, filtering the information. Gabriel seemed to be a little mentally challenged—
not much, but enough that Paul didn’t think entering into the legalities of his ownership problem would be a good idea. Besides, the way word traveled around here, anything he said would likely end up in the weekly paper. “Selling some property.”

“Why?”

Gabriel’s face was guileless, truly curious. “Because I don’t want to own it anymore.”

“You don’t want to live here?”

“It’s not exactly the kind of property someone lives in,” Paul replied, skipping the main question. He didn’t want to live here, or anywhere.

“Oh.” Gabriel considered this, shifting back and forth on his feet in an almost rocking movement. “Why can’t ya?”

The words came out blended, like, “I-cancha.”

“The building I own is the opera house,” Paul said, figuring if he didn’t say that straight-out, they’d be playing the why game for a while.

The boy’s blue eyes brightened. “You own that? Wait till I tell Marjo. She’s gonna want to meet you.”

“I already met Marjo.” And tangled with her twice, earning a spot on her permanent enemy list, a dish of gumbo notwithstanding.

“She’s my sister.” Another beaming smile.

“Oh,” Paul said, surprised. It wasn’t that he’d expected Marjo Savoy to exist in a vacuum, he just hadn’t pictured her as part of a family. Her well-mannered brother didn’t seem to have inherited an ounce of his older sister’s disagreeable nature.

“You should keep it,” Gabriel said. “The opera house, it’s really important to people. I forget why, but I know it’s really important.”

“Well, I’m going to think about that,” Paul said, deciding he would, indeed. Owning an opera house wasn’t a hardship, as Marjo had said, and required little more than keeping his name on the deed. Still, the idea of being a landlord wrapped around him like a tentacle.

“Good!” Gabriel’s wide smile risked becoming contagious. “You gonna take pictures of it?”

“Well, I hadn’t—”

“I love pictures,” Gabriel said. “Some of them make me sad, but some make me happy. Know what I mean?”

Paul nodded.

“You must like pictures a lot.” Gabriel looked again at Paul’s camera, longing clear in his eyes. “I wish I had a camera like that. Then, whenever I wanted to see something again, I could just look at the picture.”

Paul smiled. He’d had the same wish as a child. How many times had he begged his parents for a camera? And then, when he’d finally received his first one for his twelfth birthday, he’d never been without a camera again. “Here, why don’t you try this one on for size?” He carefully handed over the Nikon to Gabriel.

He took it from Paul, weighing the silver camera in both palms. “It’s big. Heavy. Like a rock.”

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Can I take a picture?”

“Sure,” Paul said. “But, first, let me show you how it works.” He came around behind Gabriel, helping him lift the camera into position and sight the image of the bayou in the lens. Then he showed him how to flick the zoom in a little, perfecting the shot. “Now just push that button.”

Gabriel looked back at Paul, hesitating only a second, before returning his gaze to the camera and doing as Paul suggested. The image imprinted on the digital card inside, then an instant later, appeared on the screen. “I did it!”

His joy was evident, the pride in his eyes like a beacon. For the first time in a long time, Paul remembered exactly why he’d gone into this job. “Yeah, you did. And you did a great job.”

“Thanks,” Gabriel said. With two hands, he passed the camera back to Paul. “Wish I could keep the picture. Put it on my wall. So my room, it’s like the bayou, too.”

“Well, the picture stays in the camera because it’s a digital image, not a real image,” Paul explained. “I have to hook it up to my iBook with a USB cable, then download the file and—”

He could see he’d already lost Gabriel in explaining the technicalities. “Maybe I’ll get it printed out for you,” Paul said, then immediately chastised himself for making a promise he might not be able to keep. Although he would consider retaining owner
ship of the opera house, in the end he knew he would probably list the property as originally planned and get back to his life.

“What are you doing?”

What was with this woman? She was always coming up behind him. Paul wheeled around to face Marjolaine Savoy.

“This is getting to be a bad habit,” he said, giving her a grin. As he spoke, he was struck by the strength in her vibrant blue eyes, the long, tight braid that seemed to beg someone to undo it and the soft curves that filled a spaghetti-strap sundress. Okay, so maybe he didn’t mind her coming up behind him.

Clearly, the bayou didn’t provide the only interesting views in Indigo.

“Paul’s showing me how to be a picture taker.” Gabriel held up the Nikon.

Marjo looked to Paul for confirmation. He gave her a short nod. “Gabriel here has quite an eye.”

Her brother beamed. “Maybe…maybe I can get a job doing pictures. I’d like that better than working with Henry on the dead bodies.”

“Maybe,” Marjo said, not committing to anything. Gabriel had lots of enthusiasm but little follow-through. “Give Mr. Clermont his camera back and we can get on home.”

“I want to take some pictures.” Gabriel gave her that stubborn pout that meant he wasn’t going to leave without a fight.

“Gabriel, we need to get home. I have to get to work. We have a wake tonight.”

“I want to take some pictures,” he insisted. “Paul said I could take a few of the bayou. Then I can go to work.”

Marjo looked at Paul, wanting him to take her side so she could get Gabriel home and make her way over to the funeral home.

“Take one or two more, Gabriel, then do as your sister says.” Paul turned to Marjo. “It’ll only take a second.”

Gabriel smiled again, then turned the camera on Paul, snapping the photo before Paul could voice a protest. Then her brother wheeled around and framed Marjo in the lens, depressing the button again.

“Gabriel,” she repeated, her voice a warning.

Her younger brother let out a sigh, then reluctantly returned the camera to its owner. “Can we do it again?”

“Sure. Whenever your sister says it’s okay.” Paul sent a glance Marjo’s way, and Gabriel turned his hopeful eyes on her. Two against one.

“All right,” Marjo said. “But only if you’ve finished your chores and—”

Gabriel ran up and gave her a hug, his joy apparent in the tight squeeze and big smile. “I will.” Then he broke away just as quickly. “’Bye, Paul! I gotta go. See you soon!”

Gabriel dashed away, faster than Marjo had ever seen him move before.

“He’s a great kid,” Paul said. “So enthusiastic and friendly.”

“Thanks.” She lingered a moment longer, feeling she should say something else. A crazy thought. All she wanted to do was to put as much distance between herself and Paul Clermont as possible.

Dinner last night had actually been fun, when they weren’t sparring like Tyson and Holyfield. Maybe the tension came from their opposing views on the opera house, but every time she looked at Paul Clermont, he ignited a spark inside her that she’d thought had long ago gone out. “Well, I have to get to work,” she said, but her feet didn’t move.

“Where do you work? There aren’t very many businesses around here.”

“The Savoy Funeral Home. If you follow the road through town and up to the left, you’ll see it over by the church and the cemetery. It’s been in my family forever.” She shrugged. “Guess I just followed family tradition.”

“Do you do the embalming?”

It was a natural question, and one she’d been asked a hundred times before. “Not so much now. I’m the funeral director so I do most of the planning and oversee the services. Henry Roy is our undertaker and he does the embalming. Gabriel helps him. I learned how to embalm, even did it for a while when I was younger, then I got my degree in funeral administration. I mean, it was the family business, we just grew up with it. It was natural to
help out. I remember when Gabriel and I were little, we’d help dress the bodies.”

“Wasn’t that…upsetting?”

“It was at first,” she admitted, and fell into step beside Paul as he began to walk along the edge of the water. “But, down here especially, you learn that death is simply part of life. There are a hundred different Cajun superstitions around death, but by and large, we see it simply as part of the cycle.”

“Like the bayou,” he said, pointing toward the olive-green water, teeming with life, yet edged by dead trees that hadn’t been able to survive along the crowded banks. Together, life and death created a picture of beauty.

“Yes.”

“So, was funeral work your life’s ambition?”

“No, not even close,” she said, laughing, enjoying this respite from a day that had been filled with the very detail work she hated. “When I was a kid, I had this crazy idea that I could be a singer. My mother took me to a professional teacher in Lafayette for years, and for a while, I performed locally.”

“So why didn’t you do it professionally?”

“It was just impractical. I had…” She glanced back in the direction that Gabriel had gone. “Responsibilities.”

Paul looked at Marjo and saw the woman beside him with new eyes. Apparently there was a lot more to her than he had thought at first glance.

That didn’t mean he was considering a truce,
maybe more of a ceasefire as they walked along the natural path that formed at the bayou’s edge. It eventually led up to La Petite Maison. Occasionally, Paul would see an alligator skimming along the surface, showing little more than his eyes and looking like a log rather than a predator. “You were right, this place is different from anywhere else I’ve been.”

“If you stay here too long, it’ll grow on you,” Marjo teased. “And if you stand in one place too long, the Spanish moss will grow on you, too.” She smiled, the kind of smile that Paul knew would linger in his mind, stay with him all day. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

This woman was the polar opposite of him, and yet even as he moved closer to her to avoid the low-hanging moss, he felt a rush of need for Marjo Savoy surge through him. He glanced over at her, wanting to run his fingers through that long, impossible hair, to trail a palm along the soft skin of her arms. It was almost painful to walk along beside her, pretending he wasn’t acutely aware of her every breath.

“I can’t imagine settling down anywhere, period,” Paul said. “Although I did own a house, back when I was married, but that didn’t last long.”

“The home ownership or the marriage?”

“Both.” When he didn’t elaborate, Marjo let the subject drop.

They reached a thick stand of trees, which gave them two options: forge their way through the foliage so they could pick up the path on the other
side, or go around the trees. Marjo turned around at the same time Paul did, and they ended up facing each other, inches apart. She stopped. He stopped. His eyes met hers, and desire sang along his veins, thudded in his heart, pounded in his brain.

Kiss her,
his mind whispered.
Kiss her, before you remember all those reasons why you shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it.

“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going and—”

“It’s okay,” Paul said, touching her lips with a fingertip.

She inhaled, parting her lips as she did, nearly kissing his finger. He watched her mouth open, intent and serious.

And then, in the space of an instant, he leaned down, brushing his lips lightly against hers in a touch so gentle it was more tease than anything else. He pulled back a centimeter or two, waiting for her to react.

She leaned forward, and her lips met his in a hot, frenzied kiss, the kind that came about on the spur of the moment, fueled by want and nothing else. Fire ignited nerve endings throughout his body, awakening a part of him that had slumbered for so long. Too long. For one amazing, senseless minute, she kissed him, seeming to melt into him as his palms cupped her face.