A Rose At Midnight

“No, she believed fairy tales were too violent for children.”

“Pity.” Armand took out a handkerchief and coughed into it. “It is such an interesting story about a young girl who danced with the devil on Mardi Gras.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Did you know that legends have a basis in fact?”

“I’ve heard that.” With slow movements of her index finger, Christi traced the gold L on the cover.

“One of your names is Rose, is it not?”

“Y-yes.” Her finger hesitated on the downward curve of the L.

Armand’s gaze drifted to Rosane who tested the kitten’s pouncing skills with a piece of string. “Did you have a strong impulse to name her Rose?”

How could he know such a thing?

“And her father, was he not a handsome stranger?”

She gasped, snapping her finger from the album. “No, of course not.” The quick denial was for Rosane’s benefit.

Christi had woven her memories of Daniel into a mantle of fantasy for her daughter. She’d worn that same fantasy as comfort against the pain his disappearance had caused.

Armand’s eyes twinkled with devilish delight, sending a swell of confusion sweeping through her. He was an old man, one of her only living relatives. He couldn’t possibly want anything but her well-being, could he?

“There’s no need to protect the child.” For once, Armand’s silken voice did nothing to smooth the goose bumps skittering up her arms. Nor did the cup of hot tea Marguerite placed before her. “Rosane is part of the legacy. In time she, too, will take her rightful place.”

“Rightful place? What do you mean? What legacy?”

“All in good time.”

What was happening? Why did Armand’s charm suddenly make her tense? She grabbed the photo album with both hands and hugged it to her chest like armor. She couldn’t have explained the feeling of abandonment that keened through her. Was she in danger? More important, was Rosane? There was no estate, no inheritance, no money other than her pitiful salary. Damn Daniel for planting doubts into her mind.

“Does it give you a thrill to scare people?” Daniel’s frame filled the doorway. His shirt and pants looked slept-in and his hair finger-combed. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Fear or love? One snowballed right into the other.

Her gaze automatically sprang to her daughter, gauging whether she or Daniel was closer to the child. Then a flush of heat brushed her cheeks at her foolishness. Daniel wouldn’t hurt her. He’d promised.

“Ah, Daniel, it is a bit early for you, is it not?” A crooked smile spread over Armand’s lips that somehow now seemed unnaturally red.

Daniel sat in the empty chair across from Christi. “It’s never too early to deal with the devil.”

Marguerite banged a frying pan onto the stove and snapped on a burner. She jerked open a drawer and with a loud rattle, extricated a whisk. From a low cupboard, she clanked a bowl.

“The devil exists only in legends, dear boy.” Armand looked much too pleased with himself. He turned to her. “Have I scared you, ma chère?”

“Of course not.” Christi shrugged, letting the album slip to her lap, and sipped her tea. She wasn’t sure what she felt about anything at the moment.

“I was merely trying to enrich you with the most famous Mardi Gras legend of the area. You wanted to know of your past. That includes the bad as well as the good, no?”

“Is the legend bad?”

Marguerite dumped the metal bowl in the sink. It rattled against the sides before landing upside down over the drain.

“It is merely a tale to warn young girls there is a price to pay for dancing with the devil.”

Was he trying to warn her to stay away from Daniel? Her gaze jumped from Armand to Daniel and back. Had she become the pawn again? Were they playing for her attention, the way Armand and Marguerite had vied for Rosane’s? The sudden tension between the two men was palpable. Daniel’s long silence didn’t help matters. What was he thinking behind that intense frown?

Rosane tugged at the skirt of Christi’s flannel gown and mouthed, “Who is he?”

“Daniel is a guest,” Armand said, saving Christi from the fluster of her own thoughts. She needed time to sort through all this and was given none.

“Can I watch TV?” Rosane asked, cradling the kitten in her arms.

“For a few minutes. As soon as I get dressed, we’re going to go shopping for some snow pants so you can play with the little girl next door.”

“Okay.”

Armand folded his discarded newspaper. Tucking it under his arm, he rose. “If you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to. You may keep the album. Perhaps this afternoon we can share an apéritif and I will tell you about the time your mother 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!”