A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz
stole Marguerite’s beau and about the hair-pulling match that followed on the church steps. Or maybe you would like to hear about the Christmas we all got the mumps.”
All of it. She wanted to hear all the stories that would bring her closer to her mother. “Will you tell me why she left?”
A twinge of pain pierced his features. He suddenly looked old and vulnerable. Not like the devil at all, but like the shadow of the healthy man he’d once been. “If you wish.”
Daniel had to be wrong. There was no subterfuge. Whatever game existed between them had nothing to do with her. “Thank you.”
Marguerite placed a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast before Daniel, then attacked the sinkful of dishes with enough vigor to dislodge industrial slime.
Christi drained the last of her tea, but couldn’t force herself to eat any more of the toast. As she moved the chair back to get up, it screeched against the linoleum tiles.
Daniel leaned forward across the table and placed a hand over her forearm. His touch, soft as sin and just as seductive, shivered all the way down to the soles of her bare feet. “I have a meeting this morning, but don’t think you can escape me. We need to settle this thing between us.”
Nestling the album in one arm, she rose, uncharacteristically unsure of what she wanted to say. “You promised me a week.”
“Before you make your decision, not before I get you out of here.”
ARMAND SAW the pictures clearly in his mind. The colors were gone, but the contrast of black against white made his memories that much more vivid.
He was eighteen and walking back from a soirée dansante with his cousin Caroline and his sister Marguerite. He’d had a little too much to drink and done too little dancing to wear it off. That was the only reason he could imagine why he’d made such a monumental error.
“Ah, Armand, you were an impulsive fool then, but you have grown since and learned the value of patience. This time, you will allow no mistake.”
Winter’s cold bite and the wine cellar’s peaceful darkness engulfed the small space, but the wine would keep him warm and he didn’t need light to see the past. By the dim glow of the weak sun eking through the dirty square window, he poured himself another glass of red wine and savored half its contents before he allowed the movie in his mind to restart. He reviewed the film of that night long ago, immersed himself in the memories.
Ma belle Caroline.
“Do you know who you are?” he’d asked her as their boots crunched the hard-packed snow on the sidewalk.
“Of course I do. I’m your cousin, Caroline Rose Langelier. I’m not the one who drank too much wine tonight. You are.” She’d laughed at him and hooked her arm through his.
“No, you’re more than that. You’re a direct descendant of Rose Latulippe.”
“Did you hear that, Marguerite?” Caroline called back to her cousin trailing behind them. “I’m a descendant of a lost soul.” Then she teased him with a playful tickle. “Maybe you’re right, Armand. I danced with a lot of devils tonight!”
“You don’t understand.” Armand stopped and grabbed her arms as he faced her. “You’re special.” The intensity of his belief must have frightened her for he saw the color drain from her cheeks.
“Armand, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t you see? With your soul, I could buy eternal life.” He’d seen it so clearly then—her still beating heart in his hands, her last breath trapped in his mouth, his body tingling with the reward of never-ending life.
Her amusement tinkled ice-clear in the dark night. “I think we better get you home and in bed.”
When he squeezed her arms too tight, her laughter died and her eyes rounded in fright.
“Marguerite?” she pleaded to his sister, but her frightened gaze remained locked with his.
Impatient, as usual, Marguerite wrenched his death grip from Caroline’s arms. “Armand, stop it! Can’t you see you’re scaring her?” She walked between them the rest of the way home.
Armand drained the remainder of his glass of wine and poured himself another.
He’d wasted years trying to find Caroline after she ran away. Her choice of a military life married to a foreigner was a good one. The frequent moves had made her hard to trace. She must have panicked when she realized Fort Worth was their last stop before her husband’s retirement.
Christiane was eighteen by the time he found them again. Except for the lighter shade of hair, she was the spitting image of her mother at that age. But he’d sent a boy to do a man’s job and lost another nine years waiting for his prize.
Now his human body had betrayed him. He could wait no longer. He’d had to engineer Caro’s death. Only then could he lure Christiane home where she belonged.
Lifting his glass in a toast, he saluted the darkness. “To you, Caro. And to the gift of your daughter. I’m sure you understand why her presence here is necessary. I have so little time left.”
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