The Legacy (6 page)

Right this second, the thought of jetting off to the Far East didn’t hold the same excitement for Paul that it usually did. Maybe it was the clear night air, or maybe it was just the woman beside him, who drove him crazy and intrigued him in equal parts.

Marjo Savoy was the last person Paul had expected to run into on the streets of Indigo at this time of night. He’d been out for a moonlit walk, something he’d done more and more lately when he found himself unable to sleep.

“Funny how I keep running into you,” she said.

“Yep, I keep showing up, like a bad penny.”

“Or a hungry raccoon.” She gave him a grin. “I will admit, you have a certain charm. I’m sure many women have fallen for it.”

“But not you, right?”

“Sorry. It takes more than a quick wit and a nice smile to win me over.”

“Oh, so you’ve noticed my smile?”

She rolled her eyes. “Only because you keep showing it off.”

Truth be told, she had noticed his smile, and a heck of a lot more, particularly since that kiss. In fact, Paul Clermont had lingered in the back of her mind, his image teasing at her, tempting her to revisit unfinished business.

Business that didn’t have one thing to do with the opera house.

Paul chuckled. “I’ll try to be more dour around you then.”

She laughed, a light, happy sound that for a second caught him off guard. Paul almost told a joke, just to hear her laugh again. But then he remembered their differences about the opera house, and knew kissing her again seemed like a mistake.

“Tell me about Indigo,” he said.

“What do you want to know?”

“I hear you’re the resident historian. Estelle at the diner told me you’re so good, you’d clean house if there was ever a Louisiana
Jeopardy.
”

“Actually, that title goes to Hugh Prejean. I’ve just heard so many of his stories, and worked with him going through old records, that I can tell you almost anything about Indigo.”

“First question, fifty points. Where did the name come from?”

“That’s an easy one. Indigo grew up around a plantation, like so many of the small towns around here. People moved where the jobs were, and there was an indigo plantation here. At the time, the dye was vital to the country. It’s the blue in our flag, as well as the blue for half of the flags in the original thirteen states.”

“That’s pretty cool. Tell me more.”

“It’ll cost you,” she said, grinning.

“How about a hundred points?” And a kiss, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Even as his hand strayed near hers. Even as his mind replayed how she’d felt in his arms

“Indigo also became the color of Levi’s jeans,” Marjo went on, clearly not aware of what was running through Paul’s mind. “Also, police uniforms, army and navy uniforms.” She slowed her pace a little as she spoke. “Blue was the color of nearly everything back then, and the slaves who worked the plantations practically became blue themselves, both in spirit and in skin color. The songs they sang on the indigo plantation came to be known as the blues.”

“And that music formed the foundation of much of
Louisiana’s music,” he said, putting together what little he did know about the area. “Jazz, R&B, everything.”

She nodded. “It’s amazing what impact one little plant can have on a community. A country.”

“Same as the impact of one person, one building.” His gaze slid toward hers. “Is that what you’re trying to do, Marjo? Make a big impact with one building?”

“We’re here,” she said, avoiding his comment, and stopping in front of a small cottage home that Paul would swear had less square footage than some of the hotel rooms he’d stayed in over the years.

The house was bathed in darkness, blending into the inky night so it was almost invisible. “The lights are out.”

Marjo hesitated on the sidewalk. “That’s not a good sign. Hugh is a night owl. He’s always staying up until three or four in the morning to finish a good book. He says there’s not enough time to read everything he wants.”

Paul chuckled. “A man after my own heart. No matter where I go, I always have a book with me.”

“We better go in and check on him. He could be asleep but…”

“You doubt it.”

“Yeah.” Marjo pressed a hand to her stomach, as if trying to quell a bad feeling. Paul knew, because he had the same feeling in his own gut.

They made their way down the small stone walkway and up the stairs to the front porch. The old
wood creaked beneath them, as if protesting the intrusion. Marjo rapped on the door, called Hugh’s name. No response. She did it a second time, and still, only silence.

She moved to a small window, cupped a hand over her eyes and peered inside the house. “I see him. Oh, God. He’s not moving.”

“Probably just fell asleep in his chair,” Paul said, but he didn’t believe that. “We’ll have to break in.”

“This is Indigo. Most doors are unlocked, particularly if someone is home.” Marjo took in a breath, then reached for the door handle. As she’d predicted, the door was unlocked and swung open with a squeak of the hinges. “Hugh?”

She and Paul entered the house and approached the old man. As they got closer, Paul could see Hugh was slumped over.

And sure as hell wasn’t asleep.

M
ARJO GASPED
,
obviously drawing the same conclusion as he had. She put a hand over her mouth and stopped on the braided rag rug. “No, not Hugh.”

Paul stepped forward, put his fingers on the elderly man’s carotid. Nothing. Not even a flicker of life. His body was cool, edging toward stiff. “He’s been dead for a while.”

Marjo turned away, then seemed to center herself and turned back. The glimmer of grief and shock had been pushed aside as she took charge of the situation. “We’ll have to call Alain, the coroner and Hugh’s children,” she said, checking off the necessary steps on her fingers. “When Hugh arrives at Savoy, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of the way he deserves.”

She was handling this so well, Paul thought, even though he knew she must be used to this sort of thing. She was efficient, yet calm, going about her list of things to do quickly and easily.

In a few minutes, the calls had been made and the house was soon swarming with people and light. It
wasn’t until the coroner finally wheeled out Hugh’s body that Marjo sank into a chair.

“You all right, Marjo?” A police officer came over to her. He was tall, about the same height as Paul, but the man had none of the stiffness about him of a regular police officer. Paul suspected the law operated with the same easy approach as the rest of Indigo.

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I’m going to miss him.”

“We all are. When you think of Indigo, Hugh’s one of the first people that comes to mind.”

She nodded. “He was a real champion for the historical society and the restoration committee. For all of Indigo, really.” Then she seemed to recover, and glanced over at Paul. “Alain Boudreaux, this is Paul Clermont. He’s a Valois descendent from Cape Breton. Alain is the police chief here.”

Alain extended his hand and shook with Paul, a firm, honest grip. “Nice to meet you. Can’t remember the last time we’ve had one of the Valois family members down here.”

“I’m just here for a few days. Taking care of some business.”

Marjo let out a cough.

“You know, I think I’m one of your distant relatives. Real distant, considering I’m from Alexandre’s side of the family, about twenty-five times removed. My grandmother and mother are both Valois. Sometime, I’ll have to introduce you.”

Paul nodded, though he had no intention of being here long enough for a family reunion. “That’d be nice.”

“If you’re from Nova Scotia and a Valois, you
must
play the fiddle,” Alain joked.

“I used to.” He thought of those parties with his uncles. Fiddle dueling had been as common as the tall tales shared around the table. “It’s been years since I picked one up, though.”

A deputy came up and whispered something in Alain’s ear. He nodded. “Well, if you’re ever at Skeeter’s, bring your fiddle, or you can borrow one of mine. The Indigo Boneshakers play there on Friday nights. Every once in a while, a local will fill in between sets. After a couple of beers, everyone sounds good.” The two men chuckled. “Either way, I’d love to hear how they do it in Canada.”

Paul didn’t tell Alain that he fully intended to be back on the road in forty-eight hours at most. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Alain said his goodbyes, then headed out to his car. Marjo said she’d take care of anything that needed to be locked up in Hugh’s house.

She headed into the kitchen and turned on the hot water. “What are you doing?” Paul asked.

“The dishes. I…” She let out a long, tired breath. “I don’t know what else to do.”

He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, the gesture meant to be friendly, yet he could feel that sense of connection all the same. “Then let me help.”

She gave him a smile, the kind that tattoed itself on his memory because hell, if she smiled like that again, he’d gladly throw in a few loads of wash and break out the vacuum cleaner. He stood beside her as she washed and he dried, returning the dishes to the cabinet. As the bubbles multiplied and the pile of dirty dishes dwindled, something odd happened between them.

A truce of sorts began to form.

No, it was more than that. It was a moment that forged the beginnings of a bond. They’d just dealt with a difficult situation together.

“You said you and Hugh researched the town’s history together. How did you get so interested in that?” Paul approached her with the same curiosity that had inspired many of the photo narratives he’d put together for
World.

“He used to be my babysitter.”

“Your babysitter?”

She laughed. “When I was a kid, my dad became friends with Hugh. They were in the same men’s coffee club at St. Timothy’s, and eventually the two struck up a friendship. My dad loved the history of this town, too, nearly as much as Hugh.” She added some more soap to the water, then began washing again. “I was a little hard to handle as a kid—”

“I find that
so
hard to believe.”

She splashed him with soapy water. “Hey. I wasn’t that bad. I just…well, I hated to go to bed at night. Hugh had come by once for dinner, and I
guess I latched on to him and made him tell me a story before I went to bed. Within five minutes, my dad said, I was out like a light. The whole plan eventually backfired, though, because as I got older, I became more interested in the stories Hugh would tell…and then not want to go to bed.”

“Have you ever been anywhere else? Traveled outside of Indigo?”

“Not really, other than the occasional trip to Lafayette or New Orleans,” Marjo said. “I’ve lived in the same place all my life. I love Indigo.”

“How do you know you love it if you’ve never lived anywhere else?” He thought of his family, who had struggled financially because they’d never wanted to leave the place they loved.

“I can’t imagine anywhere else on earth that could make me as happy as the bayou does.”

“But haven’t you ever been curious to see the rest of the world?”

She shrugged, and Paul got the feeling that Marjo Savoy hadn’t always wanted to stay in Indigo. “Once, I guess. Back when I thought I was going to be the next Mariah Carey, with a definite touch of the bayou.”

What couldn’t this woman do? She could handle a dead body with calm, had, from what he’d heard around town, spearheaded a historical revival in Indigo and was Gabriel’s primary caretaker, something that must have had its challenges over the years. “You never told me the other day. What
do
you sing? Or rather, what did you sing?”

She rinsed the bowl she held before answering. “Do you really want to know? Or are you planning on signing me up for the next American Idol competition to get me out of the way?”

He laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that one. If I get desperate, maybe I’ll give them a call.”

She made a face and he laughed again.

“Seriously, Marjo, I do want to know. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

“Me? I’m as ordinary as they come.”

The cozy kitchen, the heavy warmth still hanging in the air and the quiet, mournful songs of the night animals seemed to intensify the moment. “You’re definitely not ordinary, Marjolaine.”

When he said her name, his voice a song all its own, a thrill went through Marjo, skating along her nerve endings. Had anyone ever said her name quite like that? For a moment she forgot what she was doing, forgot about Hugh, the restoration committee, the opera house. Forgot everything but the way her name had seemed to roll off his tongue.

“Sing for me, Marjo,” Paul said, his voice low. “Please.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to argue that there were dishes to be done, and a home to get back to, but instead, what came out were the first few notes of “
Le Pays des Etrangers.
”

The French words, which she’d memorized years ago, came easily to her, carried on the soft melody, telling a story about another country, another world.

When a smile crossed Paul’s face, she continued with the tune, her voice increasing in volume as the song took root inside her.

How long had it been since she’d sung? Too long, clearly, because with every note, a remembered joy began to enrich her spirit.

“I’ve never heard that song sung quite like that before,” he said when she finished.

Heat filled her face. “I’m out of practice and—”

He put up a finger, shushing her. “I meant, I’ve heard that song a hundred times and never has it made me feel that way.”

She pulled back, surprised. “Feel how?”

“Almost…homesick, which is crazy, because since leaving Cape Breton, I’ve never looked back.” He paused for a moment, then shook his head, as if that was all he wanted to say on the subject. “Anyway, that was beautiful. No, not just beautiful.
Incredible.
Why aren’t you singing professionally?”

She turned back to the dishes, taking an inordinate amount of interest in the way the sponge plunged in and out of a glass, as if cleaning Hugh’s dishes was the most important thing in the world. “There’s a thousand reasons. Number one being that most people don’t make it in the music business.”

“Most people don’t have your voice.”

She dismissed the comment. “I’d have a better chance of being struck by lightning and winning the lottery the same day. In other words, one in a gazillion.”

“Isn’t that what life is about? Taking chances?”

She put the last glass into the dish drainer and grabbed an extra towel off the counter to dry her hands. “Maybe for someone like you, but not for me.”

“Someone like me?”

“You don’t have any responsibilities. No children. No house, no mortgage. I have bills, Paul, and a brother who depends on me. I can’t run off with a half-baked dream just because I think I’m the next American Idol. I have to deal in reality, not impossibilities.” She tossed the towel onto the counter, then crossed into the living room, straightening pillows and blankets that didn’t need straightening.

He followed her, taking an afghan from her hands before she could fold it again. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life.”

The apology caught her off guard, making her feel vulnerable. She stopped tidying, and suddenly just wanted out of the house, away from this man who should be the enemy, but who seemed to keep turning the tables on her. “We’re finished here. Thanks for your help.”

He looked as if he might say something, but instead followed her out as they left the house, this time locking the door behind them. Marjo paused on the sidewalk. “Thank you for coming with me and for all your help.” Her words were businesslike, her tone cool. She turned on her heel and started down the sidewalk.

Paul fell into place beside her. “That’s it? You’re just dismissing me?”

“I have to get home. Gabriel—”

“Wait,” Paul said softly. He caught her gaze. A beat passed between them. Another. “Tell me, Marjo, are you still that hard to get into bed?”

Right this second, she’d be as easy as he wanted, especially when he looked at her like that, with those deep blue eyes that seemed to see into her soul. After the preview she’d had earlier today, she could only imagine how good he’d be if they went beyond kissing.

“I’m too old for a babysitter now.”

“I’m not talking about babysitting.” Then, before either of them could think twice, he leaned down and kissed her.

No, not just kissed her. He played a song on her lips, started the tune carrying to a concert. She hesitated only a second, then found herself moving into his arms, lifting her head and giving him a melody of her own.

He was good, very good, sending her hormones dancing and her mind traveling down a path that involved doing something with Paul Clermont that didn’t involve running him out of town.

As his kiss deepened, she thought of taking him home, inviting him into a bedroom that had had one occupant for far too long. He reached up, tangling his fingers in her hair. Desire snaked through her veins, singing its siren call.

She jerked back to her senses and out of his arms. “I—I can’t do this.”

“Because of our disagreement about the opera house?”

“For that and a hundred other reasons,” she said, running a hand through her hair, as if by doing so she could erase the feel of his hands. “But mostly because I have other priorities right now.”

“Other priorities besides yourself?” he said. “You can’t put a building or a festival or even your brother ahead of you all the time, Marjo.”

“Says the man who has perfected the art of severing ties,” she retorted. “Until you commit yourself to something besides yourself, Paul Clermont, don’t tell me what to do.” She took a step away, then pivoted back. “And definitely don’t kiss me again.”

He grinned. “What if you kiss me first?”

She hurried down the sidewalk, not answering him. Because as much as she wanted to tell Paul that there was about a blizzard’s chance in the bayou of that happening, she knew one thing for certain—

She’d be lying.