The Dollmaker. Amanda Stevens
conjure Ruby’s laugh. It was getting harder and harder to do. After seven years, the memories were sometimes elusive.
But, no, there it was…the image of a two-year-old Ruby at the zoo, tugging on Claire’s hand as she laughed up at her. “Bears, Mama!”
Even as a toddler, Ruby had been such a happy child. Sweet and tenderhearted, and yet so willful and stubborn at times that Claire’s patience had been sorely tested.
“That child would argue with a fence post,” Claire’s mother used to say with an exaggerated sigh.
“Yes, and I wonder who she gets that from,” Claire would counter.
Secretly, Claire had been grateful that her daughter inherited more of Lucille’s disposition than hers. Claire was too much like her moody father, although she hoped to God she never succumbed to the same demons that had driven him to suicide when she was just a baby.
Even in her deepest despair after Ruby’s kidnapping, Claire had never contemplated taking her own life, and for one good reason—she’d never given up hope that her daughter would someday come home to her. The flame had grown dimmer with each passing year, but on days like today, the glimpse of a familiar face on a crowded street could rekindle her faith, and she’d find herself indulging in the same old fantasy.
Ruby was still alive and she’d been happy and healthy all these years. A childless couple had seen her riding her bike on the sidewalk that day and had been enchanted by her blond curls and sunny smile.
They’d taken her home with them, loved her as if she was their very own, and in time, Ruby had responded to their kindness and affection. In time, she’d adjusted to her new home, and for the past seven years, she’d led a perfectly normal life. Maybe she no longer even remembered her real family. Her real mother.
Claire blinked back unexpected tears.
The fantasy was just that. Nothing more than a wishful daydream that had helped sustain her through some of her darkest days. And the girl on the street in front of her wasn’t Ruby. The likelihood of her daughter still being alive was miniscule. To even consider for a moment that Ruby might have been in New Orleans all this time, that fate would have miraculously brought them together on this very street, was ludicrous.
And yet…
Claire whispered her daughter’s name. The sound slipped through her lips as a plea.
The girl turned, as if responding to the soft entreaty, and Claire saw her clearly for the first time. The girl’s face split into a broad smile, and Claire’s breath caught. Everything around her seemed to still. The noise from the street faded, and the palm fronds and banana trees in a nearby courtyard stood motionless in the heat, as if nature itself was holding a breath.
And then Claire exhaled in a painful rush. It wasn’t Ruby. Of course it wasn’t Ruby. But for that one fleeting moment when their gazes touched, Claire had a glimpse of what it might be like to see her daughter’s face again after all these years.
The girl’s attention moved past her and she waved at someone behind Claire. Someone who had called out her name.
Megan. The girl’s name was Megan. Not Ruby.
Claire glanced at her reflection in a store window, saw the pinched look on her face, the whitened knuckles where her hand gripped her purse strap, and slowly she let out another breath.
Ruby was dead and she wasn’t coming back. She’d been taken from the sidewalk in front of their home while riding her bike, the victim of an abduction that had never been solved. Claire knew the statistics. Her daughter had probably been dead within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after she’d been grabbed, her body discarded in some remote field or shallow grave, where she had been lying all these years. Alone.
Claire put a hand to her mouth. Tears scalded her eyes, but she held them back as she scoured the street in front of her. The girl and her friends had scurried beneath an awning to get out of the drizzle. Claire deliberately turned and started walking in the opposite direction.
“Did you hear about the body they found in the Quarter?” Charlotte LeBlanc asked casually when she and Claire met a few minutes later at their designated rendezvous.
“I saw it on the local news before I left the house this morning. Do the police know who did it?”
Claire’s sister was an assistant D.A. for Orleans Parish and usually had an open pipeline to the police department, but she shook her head. “They think it was probably drug-related. So far they haven’t even been able to identify the body. Poor bastard was sliced up pretty bad. All his fingers were missing.”
Claire shuddered. “I don’t know how you do it, dealing with that kind of violence on a daily basis. I think it would start to get to me after a while.”
“I think it would, too, but I’m not you. And someone has to keep the baddies off the street.” Charlotte snapped open her umbrella as the drizzle turned into a full-fledged shower and the gray clouds over the Gulf vibrated with lightning. Within a matter of moments the city was soaked and dripping, and as they walked along Decatur, Charlotte tried to hold the umbrella over both of them.
“Here, let me,” Claire said as she took the handle. “I’m taller.”
“Okay, but just make sure I’m covered. I’m wearing silk. Damn.” Charlotte swore as she stepped in a puddle. “And these shoes are brand-new.”
Claire glanced down at her sister’s high heels. The delicate footwear had obviously not been designed for wet weather, but certainly looked elegant and sophisticated on Charlotte’s dainty feet.
Claire felt a stab of envy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d splurged on a pair of expensive shoes. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed any indulgence whatsoever, but with her divorce nearly final, she had to keep her belt tightened. Now was not the time for extravagant purchases.
Although Charlotte would argue that designer shoes were not an extravagance, but a necessity. Image was everything and nothing screamed success like a good pair of shoes. Unless, of course, it was her gorgeous leather handbag, the one that had come with a four-figure price tag in roughly the same amount as Claire’s new central air-conditioning unit.
Her grandmother’s old house was going to be the death of her yet, Claire thought as she and Charlotte sidestepped crates of watermelons and cantaloupes stacked in front of a small grocery store. The old Uptown house was a classic money pit with the never-ending repairs and the exorbitant utility bills. Little wonder that she’d worn the same sandals and carried the same battered tote for two summers in a row. But then, an artist, as Charlotte teasingly called her, didn’t need to worry about her image the way an up-and-coming assistant D.A. did.
Claire wondered if any of the people they passed on the street would ever guess that she and Charlotte were sisters. They were so different in so many ways. They shared the same mother, but their looks and temperament had come from their respective fathers.
Charlotte was a petite brunette and as charming and vivacious as her handsome father, A. J. LeBlanc, who had sweet-talked his way into their mother’s heart and bed and then absconded with her life savings two days after she’d told him she was pregnant.
Charlotte’s abandonment issues aside, her father’s Creole heritage had blessed her with a honey-colored complexion and beautiful almond-shaped eyes the color of fine Burmese jade. Claire had always thought her sister resembled a porcelain figurine, but when she got angry, those green eyes would glitter like a knife blade.
In contrast, Claire was tall, thin and fair, an introvert whose propensity for brooding had come from her bookish father. William’s suicide, followed by A.J.’s betrayal, might have made some women a little gun-shy in the romance department, but not their mother, Lucille. A string of live-in lovers had followed, until her latest paramour, Hugh Voorhies, had swept her off her feet eight years ago. That was an endurance record for Lucille.
“Damn, Claire, pay attention,