St. Charles at Dusk: The House of Crimson and Clover Series Prequel Read online

  “So,” I had ventured, not sure I wanted the answer, “do you remember now?”

  “No.” She had paused; I heard a small sigh. “Nothing.”

  I would have to do research on memory loss one day when it was convenient, because I wasn’t aware of the various things that could cause it. But, did I doubt her sincerity? I couldn’t imagine why she would lie about not remembering anything. If she were hiding under this pretense because she was avoiding me, surely I would have been the last person she would have called.

  “Well,” I said, as if I were talking to anyone in the world, “if you let me know when you will be in town, I’ll be glad to set up an appointment with you at the office. I’ll get the papers prepared for you in the next couple of days.”

  How I managed to sound so casual I may never know. But Adrienne seemed as surprised as me, because she once again was distracted. “See, uh, that’s the thing…”

  “What?”

  “Nevermind. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have called you! I’m sorry!”

  And then she was gone, again.

  Just like when she disappeared, I had far more questions than answers.

  “You do know it’s Sunday, right?”

  Looking up, I saw my father standing in the doorway. Even in the summer, he maintained the traditional seersucker suit and tie, always the distinguished gentleman. He kept his salt and pepper hair combed neatly back and to the side, not a single strand askew; suit pressed, without a wrinkle or an ill-spaced crease to defile it. Colin Sullivan, at fifty years of age, was always ready for anything.

  Feeling underdressed, I examined my jeans and sweatshirt.

  “I gather you know what this means, then?” my father asked. He perched on the edge of my desk, a habit which usually bothered me. Today I barely noticed.

  “I gather it means Adrienne is back,” I responded, a bit defensively. Of course I knew what it meant; he knew that I knew.

  Had I really expected privacy when I decided to come down to the office?

  Six months ago I joined the firm, and still was “the boss’ son.” More so to him than anyone else, but I knew his behavior toward me fueled the general opinion and perception of the rest of the firm, which happened to be composed mostly of other Sullivans.

  I wasn’t given anything provocative to work on. I usually got tossed the annual pro bono cases, or maintenance requests. Or better yet, I was assigned cases our prime clients asked us to take on for their less fortunate friends and relatives as “favors.” I knew the newest member of the firm was traditionally broken in with this type of work, but I was no longer the newest member. I hadn’t much say in the matter, so I continued to work hard to prove myself, an attempt to show the team they could use my talents toward better things.

  My father had gone out on a limb when he gave me the Deschanel family, one of our most elite clients. This caused quite a stir inside the walls of Sullivan & Associates, though I couldn’t imagine why. For the past three years the work had been restricted to ongoing maintenance. The only interaction with the client family was the annual estate review with Nicolas Deschanel, and the occasional oversight of financial contracts. But though it seemed irrelevant, the associates continuously found ways to show their displeasure at what they thought was obvious nepotism.

  There existed a measure of success in their eyes simply for being born a Sullivan, and protecting each individual under that name was one way we sustained that. My father’s two brothers, Uncle Patrick and Uncle Rory, were partners. My Great-Uncle Jerome’s daughter, Olivia, had been there as long as my father, also a partner, and my Great-Uncle Jamie’s two sons, Connor and Thomas, even longer; also partners. Uncle Rory’s oldest daughter, Robyn, was in her last year at Loyola and would be joining the firm next year; his son Cameron was an undergrad at University of New Orleans with plans of attending Loyola Law as well. Aunt Chelsea, my father’s sister, had fifteen year old male triplets, Dillon, Kieran, and Kelley, who did odd jobs for the firm, and would, undoubtedly, follow the path.

  In other words, nearly the entire family worked at the firm.

  While being a Sullivan did not necessarily qualify one as a great attorney, the name was accredited with loyalty and success in New Orleans. Due to the line of direct-descent leadership, which had been customary since my third great-grandfather, Aidan, first purchased the brick building, my father was the senior partner. If I remained with the firm, I would one day hold that respected title. The day would come when I would need to stand out and make decisions others may not always agree with. The meaning of the Sullivan family motto, “Family Before All Else,” was least obvious when faced with difficult choices.

  The open hostility could be toxic at times. I found myself conflicted between staying and continuing to go the extra step to prove myself, or joining another firm and proving the folly in their narrow mindedness.

  But if I did defect, I could never face my father again.

  I worked my tail off to get through undergraduate studies, and then law school. I held two jobs as well as attending class full time. Never asked my father for any help, though I knew he would have given it to me at the slightest mention of my needing it. No, I wanted to do it all on my own.

  One thing was for sure, though: I was tired of being the boss' kid. I didn’t bury myself years deep in student loans for this.

  I remembered Adrienne once wrote a paper about my family of lawyers. I gave it to my father, potentially to piecemeal some of it into a brochure for the firm, but I never saw it again.

  Adrienne. Was it possible she was really back?

  “How long have you been here?” my father inquired.

  I glanced at the clock. “About five hours, give or take.”

  He studied me closely. I knew what he was thinking. I always knew what he was thinking. Could I blame him for his concern? No, he was probably right to be worried. He should have kicked me out of the office and sent me home, but perhaps he thought that would have been crossing a line. In the end, I think he was experiencing one of his rare moments of helplessness.

  “Your mother is making fried chicken tonight. You haven’t been over in a while,” he said finally.

  “I’ll be fine. I was just leaving to go meet someone,” I lied.

  My father once told me he thought me too brooding for my own good. I laughed then, but I remembered this as I saw him watching me closely for signs of anything amiss.

  My father paused, considering his words carefully. “Colin, be careful about assumptions at this juncture.”

  As he moved closer, I realized my first impression of him had been wrong. His face bore extra lines, and I could see the start of darkish circles under his eyes. His attention flickered down toward the Deschanel file, open and spread across my desk haphazardly.

  “I know these past few years have been hard on you. I know, in the back of your mind, you’ve always imagined a day like this would come, you could pick up where you left off, and everything would fall into place.”

  I didn’t respond, but he was very wrong. I had not imagined a day like this would come. I thought Adrienne dead, like the rest of her family was. I had mourned her, experienced all seven stages of grief as a mourning lover should, and now this?

  “But Oz, you have worked damned hard to forget her. Your life is finally in order! You have a great career ahead of you, and you will meet a responsible woman who will make you a great wife and be a wonderful mother to your children.” He leaned over the desk and started pushing the papers back in the file, but I reached out and stopped him. His eyes moved momentarily down to my hand in disbelief, and then he met my gaze.

  “Colin, don’t you understand what will happen if you get involved with this?”

  I dropped my eyes, having no answer for his question. Did I even know why I was here, poring over her file? I hadn’t taken a moment to be honest with myself about what this news meant to me, or what I intended to do with it. Would he believe me if I told him these hours had bee
n spent staring blankly at the falling rain?

  “I need some time.” But what would I do with it?

  He closed his eyes for a moment. I recognized this as his way to regroup when he was at a loss for words. Well, he would easily win this round. I was not at all prepared.

  In the end, though, he surprised me by saying nothing more on the subject.

  “Your mother is waiting with dinner. If you change your mind, call, and I’ll ask her to set a plate on the warmer.”

  He started to walk out, but, impulsively, I gave voice to a question that had been on my mind. “You didn’t know about this... right?”

  He stopped. “I always wondered. But no, Colin, I didn’t know. I wish I had, so I could have better prepared you for it.”

  I offered him a small smile. “I will be fine.”

  “I know.” My father softened, seeming more human at that moment. “But I think you know why I’m concerned. Despite the circumstances, maybe I should handle this. When it’s all over, you can still manage the Deschanel case, but for the time being-”

  Something in my gaze chilled my father; I could see it in his eyes as the words died on his lips.

  “I’m the one she called. She asked for my help. This is my responsibility.”

  My father nodded slowly and left.

  2- Adrienne

  Adrienne’s dreams were slowly turning into nightmares. There was no longer solace from the possibility they may be relevant to her past. She couldn’t hide from the visions they brought. Instead, they taunted her, dangling themselves in front of her to show what could have been, what was, but never how to get there. Never how to remember!

  For many months leading up to this recent transition, the dreams had become almost a welcome visitor into her long nights on the bayou. They were part of her passage into mornings where she would awake and start her daily chores, including preparing various things for the family table in the tourist-laden Bayou Market. She thought of the dreams almost as a comfort, though she didn't share them with Jesse, who always looked troubled when she spoke of anything vague or distant from him.

  In these dreams, much was presented, but very little explained. All of it was blurred: the stately plantation, a stout man, three tall and beautiful girls, the woman whose stature alone indicated a deep bitterness, a slight woman standing off by herself in the shadows. And two boys, men really, standing together. One of them always gazed intently in Adrienne's direction, although his face and intentions were a blur, like the rest. All the while, the tingling in her abdomen grew, alongside mixed feelings of joyful anticipation and growing dread.

  More recently, the parts that had eluded her completely were slowly coming into clarity.

  Each morning, since this change, she awoke with sweat dripping, her nightshift clinging rudely to her, making her itch. As the minutes of wakeful awareness wore on, she would slowly–and mercifully–forget the details, but the core of the message never left her: somehow, these dreams tied in with reality. My reality. More specifically, and definitely most terrifying, her reality prior to three years ago when her memory suddenly vanished, taking with it the first sixteen years of her life.

  These dreams seemed to be the only conduit between the two periods of her life, and so they served a soothing, reassuring purpose. It was a relief some part of her remembered what her life had been, and how it had come to be as it was now.

  Adrienne could not rely on real memories, for she had none to speak of. She was unable to reach out to Angelique, because the woman's only response was anger. That Adrienne should even question her past seemed an insult to her.

  “Is what you have now not pleasing enough for you? Perhaps you would like to be an heiress, or maybe the daughter of a famous actor?” Jesse’s mother would ask her, derisively. Angelique’s husband, and Jesse’s father, died of a heart attack years ago, leaving Jesse to the duties of man of the house. And while Jesse’s mother was pleased about Adrienne’s relationship with him, she was not at all thrilled Adrienne desired more. Angelique could be a very pleasant companion when Adrienne’s questions were not mixed into the discussion.

  Angelique was a woman Adrienne might never completely figure out. Jesse had given up his future to stay home and care for her; something she desperately needed. She had severe epilepsy, and nearly died from it more than once. And then there was the other little detail. The one no one talked about but kept everyone’s nerves on edge: how certain levels of anxiety in Angelique triggered fits of severe psychosis. Jesse refused to acknowledge his mother was suffering from any mental health issues, and so outwardly dismissed them as a side effect of her epilepsy; everyone in the house knew better.

  Every effort was made to keep conversations neutral, and certain topics were avoided entirely. Adrienne knew her desire to understand where she came from was one of those topics.

  So, Adrienne did not ask. Instead, she waited for clarity in her dreams. The excitement of a romantic past mingled with the possibility of disappointment.

  One evening, in the middle of a heat wave, Adrienne awoke with a start. In the bed next to hers, Jesse stirred softly.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered to the moonlit room. “What does this have to do with me?”

  This time, the blurred entities in her dreams had voices.

  “All of you, bastard children,” said Bitter Woman. Adrienne had come to know her dream visitors by their appearances, for lack of knowing anything else about them. The woman’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, head held high.

  “This is not proper talk,” Stout Man replied, as he paced the room from one end to the other.

  “Mon dieu,” whispered Shadow Woman, with a short, sad shake of her head. She sounded beautiful, but her stature suggested a timid and weak woman. No one else in the room seemed to recognize, or even acknowledge, her presence. It was as if she didn’t exist.

  “But Father, I don’t understand why you won’t let me go out tonight! I’ve been planning this for so long!” This was from one of the three girls, a tall blonde. Though her face remained out of focus, she was clearly in a pout.

  “It’s simply not proper,” Stout Man replied. Most likely, this was Adrienne's father, if she was indeed seeing her family before her; a fact she had guessed, and hoped at, long ago. This must mean the other girls were her sisters, and one of the two women, either Shadow Woman, or Bitter Woman, was her mother. She hoped it was the first.

  “Bastard children, all of you,” repeated Bitter Woman, this time with more force.

  “Have you no sense of propriety?” Stout Man complained.

  “Mon dieu!” echoed Shadow Woman.

  “You side too often with these girls, these children born bastards who will die bastards! What of my son? Our son?” Bitter Woman seemed to spit these last words.

  “Mother,” spoke one of the two young men standing off to the side. Not the one who looked intent, but the other, Carefree. He was speaking to Bitter Woman. “I’m happy to share with my sisters…”

  Stout Man turned toward them in confusion. She spun to face Carefree, her body trembling with annoyance. “Not now, Son!”

  The other young man, turned toward them but said nothing.

  Carefree seemed genuinely confused. “Je suis désolé, Mama.” Adrienne realized he had been trying to change the subject, though she was still unsure what the subject really was. “You keep saying Father’s fortune should belong only to me; that my sisters wouldn’t share with me if given the chance-“

  “Hush!”

  At this, Intent turned back toward Adrienne and winked. His face was sad, though. She felt the familiar tingling in her abdomen again.

  “Mon dieu, mon dieu!” Shadow Woman whispered. She was trembling. Like Intent, she was also staring directly at Adrienne.

  One of the three girls, the tall dark-haired one, stepped forward and put a protective hand on the shoulder of the blonde. Neither said anything, but Adrienne sensed the girl’s relaxation.

 
All three girls watched Bitter Woman suspiciously as she crossed the room toward Stout Man. When he looked up at her, there was contempt in his eyes. “It’s late. We must retire,” he said.

  As they left the room, Carefree also left, choosing another direction. The dark-haired girl’s hand left the shoulder of the blonde, and the three girls departed the room together, hand-in-hand. The girl on the left end held her hand out to the side, as if waiting for a fourth person to join them. Shadow Woman retreated.

  This left only Intent in her mind’s eye. Adrienne watched him closely, wishing for him to come into focus. When she blinked to strengthen her gaze, he was gone. His presence remained, heavy upon her.

  “Je n'arrive pas à me réveiller,” she whispered to herself in her dream, unsure why her thoughts were in French. She didn't speak French.

  “I can’t seem to wake up…”

  But Adrienne did wake up. And as she did, a single name ran through her mind; one she did not recognize, but that she knew, without a doubt, formed the needed bridge to her past: Oz. The lawyer with emerald eyes, and the smile for years.

  And thus, it was this dream which propelled the coming events into motion.

  3- Oz

  Despite the mess I made of the file, I hadn't actually looked at any of it. When I pulled it out of the cabinet, I spread the papers around the desk, as if waiting for something important to materialize before my eyes. When nothing did, sitting there seemed to help order my tangle of emotions.

  My father’s visit broke this trance, and I was determined to review the information so I could plan my next move. I was her lawyer now, all else aside.