Authors: Erica Spindler
The wind pulled at and lifted her long silk scarf, and as she looked from the cars to her mother, it fluttered behind her. She held out her arm. "Ready, Maman?" she asked, using the French pronunciation. Her mother nodded and took her arm. Together they headed up the curving brick walk.
"I wish your grandfather would have come," Marie said, her brow wrinkling with concern. "He and Blake were friends. The family will expect to see him and..." Her words trailed off, and she took a deep breath. "It doesn't seem right, that's all."
Veronique swallowed the choice words that sprang to her tongue about her grandfather Jerome and squeezed her mother's arm. "You know how he is," she murmured instead as they approached the awesome house. Built in the late 1800s, it reflected the eclectic revival style of Victoria's reign, complete with gingerbread, a turret and portico. This house, like many others up and down St. Charles Avenue, was fitted with leaded glass windows. One of her earliest memories was of riding the streetcar down the Avenue at night with her mother and being entranced by the light flooding through the faceted glass.
The butler opened the door before Veronique had a chance to knock. He escorted them through the huge foyer and into the main parlor. When she caught sight of Lily St. Germaine heading their way, Veronique muttered a short, stern word under her breath. The woman was a gossip and a snob. The biggest of both. In fact, Veronique was sure several of the stories that had circulated over the years about "that Veronique Delacroix" had come right from this particular horse's mouth.
This could be fun, Veronique decided. Lily St. Germaine would never pass up such a golden opportunity to snub her. A gambler by nature, Veronique eyed the woman's expression—the light in her eyes, the tilt of her lips, and determined gait.
A hot-fudge sundae says she'll insult me within two minutes of arrival; if not, I'll eat something nutritious for dinner.
Veronique glanced at her watch the moment Lily stopped in front of them, an overbright smile on her lips.
"Marie, your dress is lovely. And just your color, too," the woman gushed. "I've never seen you look better."
Veronique waited, silently counting down from ten. When she reached five, Mrs. St. Germaine turned suddenly. Slowly, the large woman lowered her gaze, sweeping Veronique from head to toe. She arched one meticulously penciled eyebrow in distaste, then purposefully turned her back to her.
Veronique's lips curved—one minute, twelve seconds. There was a hot-fudge sundae in her future, thanks to an oh-so-predictable snob.
"So, Marie, how are you, dear? You look marvelous. I
do
so hope that you and I..."
And a fake, Veronique thought. From her fabricated concern to her dramatic gestures, the woman was as phony as pink plastic flamingos. Veronique had never been able to take plastic birds seriously.
Veronique touched her mother's elbow. "Excuse me. I'm going to the bar. Would you care for anything?"
"No, thank you. Run along, sweetie."
"Run along, sweetie?"
Veronique bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. "Oh, Maman," she murmured, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're something else." Her eyes shifted to Lily's disapproving face. She winked, and the woman looked obviously appalled. "You're something else, too, Mrs. St. Germaine."
Laughing to her herself, she turned toward the bar. As she wormed her way around and through the mourners, she caught snatches of conversation.
"...I told him to stop working so hard. If he'd listened to me..."
Self-important.
She edged by another clique of women.
"...The poor thing, a widow at her age! And Brandon... they were so close..."
Affected.
Veronique continued moving through the room.
"...He's the only heir. The estate must be incredible. I'd love to get a peek at..."
Veronique shook her head, wondering if anyone was here to pay their respects. It seemed they were more interested in gossip and their own aggrandizement. As well as being seen, she thought, catching sight of Sissy Dunbar, the society editor for the
Times Picayune.
At least she'd left her photographer behind.
"Drink, miss?"
The bartender was an ancient black man with bright white hair. "Yes." Veronique smiled. "Whiskey, neat."
While he poured her drink, she glanced back at her mother. Several other women had joined her, and they were in the middle of an avid discussion. One corner of her mouth lifted as Mrs. St. Germaine gestured grandly and her mother's eyes widened in shock. They were undoubtedly barbecuing some innocent bystander.
"Here you are, miss."
"Thanks." Veronique took the glass and sipped. She held the heady liquor on her tongue for a moment before swallowing. Whiskey was a tough drink, gutsy and decisive. That's why she liked it.
Her gaze moved back to her mother and softened. There were advantages to being the black sheep. The biggest was that everyone was so scandalized by her presence and behavior, they'd forgotten her mother's sin and had accepted her back into their elite circle.
And that meant the world to her mother. These people were Marie's friends. She'd grown up with them. She understood them, and they her. Veronique remembered how alone and sad her mother had been—ostracized by her friends, shunned by her family. Veronique tightened her fingers around the glass. And all because of one very human mistake.
A strange prickling sensation ran up her spine, and she took her gaze from her mother, only to meet the curious eyes of Sissy Dunbar. Rats. She and the society editor had tangled before, and she had no desire to repeat the performance. Veronique smiled and held up her drink in greeting, then ducked through the Open doors that led out onto the gallery. She sucked in a deep breath and began walking.
Sissy was tenacious and Veronique had no doubt that if she wanted to talk to her, she would follow.
The gallery ran the full length of the house and was lined with French doors that led to various rooms on the first floor. She peeked through the first open door she came to, making a small sound of pleasure as she glimpsed an ornate old pool table. Thinking the room empty, she slipped inside.
* * *
Alone in the billiard room, Brandon stood ramrod straight in front of the fire, staring down at the dying embers. His shoulders and neck ached from tension; his head throbbed from a combination of bottled emotions and squinting against the light. But worse, there was a hollowness inside him. It had been there since his father's death. It was an emptiness that hadn't gone away with food or drink. He understood it—the void had come with the knowledge that there were no more chances, that time had run out.
Brandon looked down at his hands, then turned away from the brilliant spring garden. He and his father had been connected by flesh and blood, yet they hadn't known each other—not in the way a father and son should. They'd never gone to a ball game together, never gone fishing. Nor could he remember a heart-to-heart talk or a shared joke. They'd merely existed in their connected space.
Brandon crossed to the cue racks. His father had been busy building a retailing empire. Brandon acknowledged a surge of pride for the man who'd founded Rhodes at an age just shy of thirty and who'd been the driving force behind its success. If he hadn't had the time or energy to get to know his son or been generous enough to share himself or his success, well, perhaps that was part of being the best.
Brandon flexed his fingers in frustration. If only it hadn't been so sudden, if only he'd hung on a little longer... maybe they would have made the effort and touched each other. He shook his head and sighed. It was over.
There was a breathy exclamation behind him, and Brandon turned. A woman wearing red jeans and a black suede jacket stood in the doorway. The jeans fit like a second skin, outlining a figure that was almost boyishly thin. Her hair was thick, straight and the exact shade of the liquor in her glass. At the cemetery he'd seen a flash of red from the corners of his eyes and had thought himself mistaken. As she took a step toward the center of the room, resentment both at the intrusion and her choice of dress washed over him. "May I help you?"
Veronique's gaze flew to his in surprise. "Excuse me! I didn't know you were here. I thought—"
"You thought you'd take the opportunity for an un-guided tour?" he supplied. "Or have you just lost your way? The
mourners
are all in the main parlor."
"I'll go now." She swung around to leave, then stopped and turned back toward him. His face was etched with grief, his eyes dark with pain. She couldn't leave without saying something, without somehow trying to ease his suffering. "I'm really sorry, you know."
This time her exit was stopped by Brandon. "No, I don't know," he returned coldly. "Are you 'really sorry'? If so, you're one of the few people here who is."
She tipped up her chin. "I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't meant it."
"Oh? I can see how grief-stricken you are." His eyes raked over her. "Is red the newest trend in funeral wear?"
Veronique's spine stiffened. "What I wear is a statement about who I am, not how I feel or my sincerity."
Brandon emitted a short bark of laughter. "Maybe you're right—everyone else looks as if the world has come to an end." He crossed to the pool table and picked up the cue ball. He stared at the smooth white ball for long moments. Almost to himself, he said, "Someone asked me if I felt more powerful, now that I'm the president of Rhodes. As if that had even crossed my mind."
For a second Veronique thought he was going to throw the ball. Instead, he carefully put it down and turned away from her. It was an obvious bid for her to get lost, but he seemed so alone, so in need of comfort, that she couldn't bring herself to move. Knowing she was intruding, she murmured, "What matters is the way you and your father felt about each other. And the way you feel right now. Not what all those superficial twits in the other room are thinking or saying."
Brandon flinched. Without realizing it, this stranger had touched the very heart of his grief. "You want to hear something funny?" he asked, his voice hard. "I don't know
how
I felt about my father. I don't know if I loved him or hated him."
"Those are both strong emotions," she said quietly, watching as he strode to the French doors and looked out at the lushly landscaped yard. His shoulders were broad and strong; he held himself like a man who understood much about control but little about pain. When he swung back around, Veronique saw that a muscle worked in his jaw.
"I was never allowed to sit at his desk. Not at the store, not in his study here. And now those desks and everything in them are mine. Does that make sense?"
Veronique didn't answer because he didn't expect her to.
"He was a crusty one all right, smart and shrewd. He could be kind, but more often he chose not to be." He dragged a hand through his hair. "I think he loved my mother, or maybe they just existed well together. I'm not even sure of that."
He paused, his eyebrows drawing together in thought. After a moment he looked back at her. "I'm proud of his business achievements. Rhodes is the finest store in the South. For five years running our yearly sales have exceeded that of every other privately-owned retail establishment in the country. We've been written up in
Southern Accents, Oprah
and
Southern Living
, to name a few. Building a business of that magnitude takes..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but instead crossed to stand in front of her. Silently, he took the glass from her hands and tossed back the remainder of the drink. It burned, and he wished for another. "In truth, I have no idea who Blake Rhodes was. Now I never will."
Her heart ached for him. She understood the anger that came with finality. She sympathized with the frustration that came with the certainty of defeat. "It seems we're in the same boat, you and I," she murmured, a catch in her voice.
"Oh?"
"I didn't know my father, either." He'd handed the glass back; she held it to her lips, hoping to catch the last fiery drop on her tongue.
"How did you manage?" he asked, his eyes searching her face.
She put the glass aside. "As best I could. I'm still dealing with it, still coping." She pushed the hair away from her face. "When I said I didn't know who my father was, I meant that literally."
This was the woman he'd heard so much about, Brandon realized. This was the legend, Veronique Delacroix. "You're Marie's daughter."
This time Veronique swung away from him. "Interesting," she murmured, picking up the cue ball, "that you should instantly know me by my filial status." But it was easy, she thought. She was the only bastard in the group—or rather, the only one everyone knew about. The ivory ball was smooth and cool against her palm. She rolled it across the table; it bounced off the cushion and rolled back to her. "Do you play?" she asked suddenly.
He cocked his head. Something had changed—in her voice, her stance, her eyes. "Of course."
She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled ten. She laid it on the rail and smiled wickedly.
"Straight pool. First player to one hundred wins." Without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the cue racks mounted on the wall behind her. She selected a cue, tested its weight, balance and length. She chalked the tip, then looked at him, arching her eyebrows in question. "Shall we flip a coin for the break?"