A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz
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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.”
Chapter Four
Christi sped through her morning routine, eager to get out of the house and away from the venomlike antagonism writhing between Daniel and Armand and poisoning the atmosphere. She and Rosane were on their way to the Galeries de la Capitale via the city bus.
As the bus bounced along Grande-Allée and the house disappeared from view, her spirits lifted. The sun sparkled against the snowbanks and warmed her heart, if not the air. She’d purposefully donned her brightest red sweater over her favorite black pants and her wild parrot earrings to cheer her. Now, she found she didn’t need the external props. She was just another mother going to enjoy a day of shopping with her daughter. Tomorrow was soon enough for a serious discussion, she decided, and shrugged off the pinprick of guilt.
The Galeries de la Capitale was a huge two-level mall that boasted more than two hundred and fifty stores, boutiques and restaurants. Large glass windows ran the length of the ceiling down the center courtyard, giving the place a light and airy feel.
“Look, Mom!” Rosane pointed toward the Mega-Parc at the lone skater on the rink. A girl glided easily over the smooth surface as her coach shouted instructions. “Can I try that?”
“It’s harder than it looks, honey.” Christi laughed, remembering the many times she’d wished for a padded bottom when she’d learned to skate.
“Can I? Pe-lease?”
Christi couldn’t refuse Rosane anything when she put on her pleading face. “Let’s go shopping first.”
They saw familiar names like Sears and The Gap among the sea of unfamiliar ones. At La Baie, they found a sale on everything they needed and left the store with two big shopping bags crammed full.
On impulse, Christi ducked into a music store. Music reflected its author. Maybe she could get an insight on what had changed Daniel through his work. She chose a CD of his first album, Shifting Sands, released five years ago and a CD of his latest album, Âme d’Hiver, winter’s soul, released for the Christmas shopping season. She fingered the single red rose on a bed of crystallized snow. To the CDs, she added an inexpensive player and a pack of batteries.
She and Rosane browsed several boutiques before they reached a bookstore.
“How come they have a library in a mall?” Rosane asked.
“Librairie is French for bookstore, honey.”
“Can I pick out a couple of books? I’ve read the one I brought already.”
“Sure.”
Christi wandered the aisles until she reached the mythology section and started leafing through books.
“Can I go find my books now?” Rosane asked, fidgeting.
“Sure. Just stay where I can see you.” Christi’s fingers eagerly snatched several books from the shelf. She’d found the titles she wanted. What answers would they give her?
Unconsciously, her hand dropped to her coat pocket and searched for the roll of Tums she kept there. As she read on, she didn’t even notice the minty chalk sliding down her throat.
NEAR QUEBEC CITY, 1698. Mardi Gras.
Outside a tempest of the devil’s own making brewed. Winds howled. Snow swirled. Temperatures chilled bones to the marrow. But inside, a fire roared and laughter