She remembered the night it had first happened. Gray had been in New Orleans on business. Mama had come down for dinner, but despite Alex's cajoling, had been more depressed than usual and had really made an effort just to eat with them. She had gone back to her room almost immediately, despite his pleas. When he had turned back to face Monica, she had seen the desolation in his eyes, and impulsively reached out to put her hand on his arm, wanting to comfort him.
It had been a chilly winter night. There was a fire in the parlor, so they had gone in there, and she had set herself to easing that look from his eyes. They had sat on the sofa in front of the fire, talking quietly of many things while he sipped an after-dinner brandy, his favorite. The house was quiet, the room dim, with only one lamp on. The fire had softly snapped. And in the firelight, she must have looked like Mama. She had worn her dark hair in a twist that night, and she always dressed in the conservative, classic style Mama preferred. For all those reasons, the brandy, the solitude, the darkened room, his own disappointment, her resemblance to Mama it had happened.
A kiss had become two, then more. His hands were in her hair, and he was groaning. Monica remembered how her heart had pounded, in fear and an almost painful sympathy. He had touched her breasts, almost reverentially, but only through her clothes. And he had pushed up her skirt only enough to bare the essential part, as if he didn't want to violate her modesty more than was necessary. She had a confused memory of naked flesh, unseen but felt, as he pressed himself to her, then a sharp sting of pain and the quick pumps into her. Unfaded by time, however, was the memory of how his voice had broken as he murmured, "Noelle," in her ear.
He didn't seem to know he'd been the first. In his mind, she'd been Mama.
And in her mind, God help her, he'd been Daddy. It was so sick that she was still disgusted at herself. She'd never had any sexual feelings for Daddy; hadn't had any at all, until Michael. But in the tumult of emotion that night, she'd thought, Maybe he won't leave, if I give him what Mama won't. So she had taken her mother's place, offering herself sexually as a bribe to keep Daddy at home. Poor Alex... poor her. Both of them surrogates for something neither one could ever have. Freud would have had a field day with her.
But that night had been the first of many, over the past seven years. Though not that many, come to think of it. Michael had probably had her more often in just a year than Alex had in seven. Alex had been so ashamed, so apologetic. But he had come to her again, helplessly needing the pretense that Noelle would ever lie in his arms, and Monica had let him have the ease that he needed. He never approached her when Gray was home, only when he was out of town on business.
The last time had been just two days ago, when Gray had been in New Orleans. She had gone to Alex's office that night, as she usually did, and he had done it to her on the sofa there. It never took long. He never undressed her, or himself. Seven years he'd been doing it to her, and she'd never seen him naked, had actually only seen his thing a few times. He was still apologetic about his need, as if she really were Mama, and thought the process was nasty. So he finished as fast as he could, and Monica cleaned herself and went home.
It wasn't like that with Michael. She still didn't know what had attracted him to her, or how she had actually allowed things to progress so far. He'd grown up in Prescott, so she'd known him, to put a name to his face, to speak to, all of her life. He was five years older than Gray, and already a deputy with the sheriffs department when she had finished high school. He'd married his high school sweetheart and had two little boys. They'd been like Ward and June Cleaver, and then she'd up and left him, right out of the blue. She had moved to Bogalusa and remarried a couple of years later. His sons were seventeen and eighteen now, and he had a good relationship with them.
Michael had a good relationship with everyone, she thought, a smile curving her mouth. That was why he'd been elected sheriff when Sheriff Deese had finally retired three years ago. He was a true good old boy, disdaining suits in favor of a uniform, and wing tips in favor of boots. He was a lanky six feet, with sandy hair and friendly blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his nose. Opie, all grown up.
One day, a year ago, she'd been in town and decided to eat lunch at the courthouse grill, which made the best hamburgers in town. Mama would have been horrified at such a plebeian taste, but Monica loved hamburgers and treated herself occasionally. She'd been sitting at the little table when Michael had come in, gotten his own hamburger, and was on his way back to a booth when he suddenly paused by her table and asked if he could join her. Startled, she'd said yes.
At first she'd been stiff, but Michael could tease the starch out of a shirt. Soon they'd been laughing and talking as easily as if they were best friends. She'd had another moment of stunned awkwardness when he'd asked her to have dinner with him; she was acutely aware that Mama wouldn't approve. There was nothing upper-crust about Michael McFane. But she had agreed, and to her surprise, he had cooked dinner himself, grilling steaks in his backyard. He lived now on the small farm where he'd grown up, with the closest neighbor a mile down the road, and Monica had felt relaxed by the quiet solitude of his rural home.
Relaxed enough, after they'd eaten and danced to country tunes on the radio, moving slowly around his small living room, to let him take her into his bedroom. She hadn't planned to let him, hadn't even considered that he'd try. But he'd started kissing her, and his kisses were warm and slow, and for the first time in her life she felt the curl of desire deep in her body. Alarmed by what was happening, and the speed of it, she had nevertheless stood in his bedroom and let him unzip her dress, then unhook her bra and remove it. No one had ever seen her bare breasts, but all of a sudden Michael had not only seen them, but was busy sucking on them. The drawing pressure of his mouth had made her go wild, and they had tumbled to the bed. Not for him a discreet pumping, with trousers barely lowered. Soon they were both naked, locked together on the cotton sheets, and that curl of desire had exploded into a wantonness that still alarmed her.
No lady would act in such a manner, but then Monica had always known she wasn't a lady. Mama was a lady; Monica had been trying all her life to be like Mama, so Mama would love her, but she'd always fallen short. Mama would be horrified and disgusted if she knew her daughter spent several hours a week in bed with Michael McFane the sheriff, of all people! screwing like a rabbit.
Sometimes Monica felt resentful of the strictures that had been drummed into her from the cradle. Gray hadn't been subjected to, and confined by, all the things that ladies didn't do. It was as if Mama had written Gray off as a lost cause from the moment of his birth; he was a male, therefore she expected him to act like an animal. Because she was a lady, she had ignored the sexual escapades of both father and son; such things were of no interest to her, and she expected her daughter not to be interested in them, either.
It hadn't worked that way, though Monica had tried. She had tried really hard, for the first twenty-five years of her life. Even after Mama had withdrawn from them, after Daddy left, Monica had kept trying, hoping that, if she was good enough, Mama wouldn't feel so bad about Daddy being gone.
But she had always hungered for more. Mama had always been so reserved and cool, perfect, untouchable. Daddy had been warm and loving; he had hugged her, tussled with her despite Mama's disapproval of such rowdiness with her daughter. Gray was even more physical than Daddy; he had always burned with an inner fire that Monica had recognized at an early age.
She remembered once, when Gray had been home from college, they had lingered around the dinner table, talking. Gray had been lounging in his chair with that big-cat grace of his, laughing as he described a prank some of the football players had pulled on one of the coaches, and there had been... she couldn't quite describe it... a sort of sensual wildness in the tilt of his head, the motion of his hand as he picked up his glass. She had glanced at Mama and found her staring at Gray with an expression of revulsion on her face, as if he were a disgusting animal. He had been an animal, of course, a healthy, rambunctious teenage boy, blazing with the testosterone pumping into his body. But there was nothing repulsive about him, and Monica had felt resentful of that disapproval, on his behalf.
Gray was a wonderful brother, she didn't know what she would have done without him, in those awful days after Daddy left. She had been so ashamed of her own attempted suicide that she had sworn then she would never again be that weak, that much of a burden to Gray. It had been a struggle, but she'd kept that promise to herself. She had only to look at the thin, silvery lines on her wrists to forcibly remind herself of the price of weakness.
Seeing Faith Devlin in the parking lot at the grocery store had shocked her so much that, for the first time in a long while, she'd fallen into the old habit of running to Gray, expecting him to take care of her problems. She was disgusted with herself for falling to pieces the way she had, but when she had seen that dark red hair, such a rich color that it was almost wine-colored, her heart had almost stopped. For a wild, dizzying moment, she had thought, Daddy's back! because if Renee was here, then surely Daddy was, too.
But Daddy was nowhere in sight. There was only Renee, looking even younger than when she had left, which was pure injustice. Someone as wicked and trashy as Renee Devlin should wear her sins on her face, so everyone would know. But the face staring back at Monica had been as exquisitely complexioned as ever, without a wrinkle in sight. The same slumberous green eyes, the wide, soft, sensual mouth nothing had changed. And for a moment, Monica had been again the hurt, helpless girl she'd been before, and she had gone running to Gray.
Only it hadn't been Renee; the woman in the parking lot was Faith Devlin, and Gray had been oddly reluctant to use all his influence against her. Monica couldn't recall much about Faith, just a vague memory of a skinny little girl with her mother's hair, but that didn't matter. What wasn't vague was the twist of pain at seeing her, the rush of memories, the old sense of betrayal and abandonment. She had been afraid to go to town since then, afraid she would see Faith again and feel the sting of salt in the reopened wound.
"Monica?" came Michael's lazy voice. "You go to sleep in there, honey?"
"No, I was just primping," Monica called, and ran the water in the basin to give credence to her lie. Her reflection looked back at her. Not bad, for thirty-two. Sleek dark hair, not as black as Gray's, but not a silver strand in sight. Her face was fine-boned, like Mama's, but she had the Rouillard dark eyes. Not overweight, and her breasts were firm.
Michael was still sprawled naked on the bed when she left the bathroom, and a slow smile lit his face as he held out his hand to her. "Come snuggle," he invited, and her heart turned over. She crawled back into bed, and into the warmth of his encircling arm. He sighed with contentment as he settled her against him, and his big hand moved to squeeze one resilient breast. "I think we should get married," he said.
Her heart didn't just turn over this time, it almost stopped. She stared up at him, eyes round with both panic and astonishment. "M-Marry?" she stuttered, then crammed both hands against her mouth to hold back the hysterical giggle that bubbled up. "Michael and Monica McFane?" The giggle erupted anyway.
He grinned. "So it sounds like we're twins. I can live with it if you can." He thumbed her nipple, enjoying the way it peaked at his touch. "But if we have a kid, its name will start with anything but an M."
Marriage. Kids. Oh, God. Somehow she had never envisioned that he might want to marry her. She had never even thought of marriage in connection with herself. Her life had gone into deep freeze twelve years ago, and she had never expected it to change.
But nothing is static. Even rock changed, ground down by time and the elements. Alex hadn't disrupted the even rhythm of her life, but Michael had blazed through like a comet.
Alex. Oh, God.
"I know I don't have much to offer you," Michael was saying. "This house sure ain't nothing like what you're used to, but I'll fix it up any way you want; you just tell me what to do and I'll do it."
Another shock. She had lived her entire thirty-two years at Rouillard House. She tried to imagine living anywhere else, and couldn't. Twelve years ago the entire foundation of her life had crumbled, and since then she hadn't dealt well with any change, even a relatively minor one such as getting a new car. Gray had finally forced her to give up the one she had been driving since she was nineteen, just as, five years ago, he had forced her to redo her bedroom. She had been heartily sick of the little-girl decor for years, but the thought of changing it had made her feel even worse. It had been a relief when Gray had brought a decorator in one day while she had a dentist appointment, and returned to find the wallpaper already stripped off and the carpet removed. Still, she had cried for three days. So little of her former life had remained the way it was before Daddy left, and it hurt to give up anything else. After she stopped crying, and the decorator was finished, she loved the room; it was the transition that was so wrenching.
"Honey?" Michael said now, hesitation creeping into his voice. "I'm sorry, I guess I thought "
Fiercely she put her hand against his mouth. "Don't you dare put yourself down to me," she said, low and violent, aching inside that he would think for a minute that she would consider herself too good for him. The reverse was true; Michael was too good for her. Only two days ago she had lain on the leather sofa in Alex's office and let him screw her. Ugly word. Ugly process. It had nothing in common with Michael's lovemaking. She had felt nothing, except pity, and relief when it was over.
If Michael knew about Alex, he wouldn't want her any longer. How could he? For the past year he had thought she was his alone, and all the while she had been letting an old family friend screw her, just as she had for the six years before.
She hadn't felt any guilt at all, on Alex's behalf, when Michael had become her lover. She didn't feel any connection with Alex; how could she? It wasn't even her he was doing it to, but her mother. But she was eaten alive with guilt when she went to Alex, because it was such a betrayal of Michael. She would have to tell Alex that it had to stop, but the old terror was still there, buried deep. If she stopped letting him do it, would he leave? Would it matter if he did? She wasn't a hurt, confused girl any longer, she didn't need Daddy or his stand-in.
But what would happen to Mama if Alex stopped coming to the house? He loved Mama, but could he bear to see her, so lost to him, if he didn't have the release of pretending that he was making love to her?
"I love you," she said now to Michael, and tears trickled from her eyes. "I just I never thought you'd want to marry me."
"Silly." He wiped the wetness from her cheeks, and a crooked smile lit his grown-up Opie face. "It took me a year to work up the nerve, is all."
She managed a smile of her own. "I hope it doesn't take me that long to work up the nerve to say yes."
"That scary, huh?" he asked, and laughed.
"Any... any change is hard for me." She swallowed, terrified at the prospect, and of telling Mama about Michael. Gray knew about him, of course; it was no secret that they were seeing each other, but no one suspected they'd been sleeping together for a year. But since Mama never went to town anymore, and didn't have any friends over to visit, she knew nothing about what went on these days. She wouldn't like it on two counts. One, she wouldn't like the idea of Monica marrying anyone, because that would mean her pristine daughter would be subjected to a man's disgusting touch. Two, she especially wouldn't like it if that man were Michael McFane. The McFanes had never been anything but poor farmers, certainly not in the same social stratum as the Graysons and the Rouillards. The fact that Michael was the sheriff wouldn't raise him any in her estimation; he was just a public servant earning a nice but unspectacular salary.
And she would have to tell Alex.
"It'll be all right," Michael said comfortingly. "I'll get started on fixing up the house. It should be finished in, say, six months. That'll give you enough time to get used to the idea, won't it?"
She looked up into his beloved face and said, "Yes." Yes to it all. Her heart was pounding wildly. She would manage. She would tell Mama, and face that chilly disapproval. She would tell Alex that she couldn't meet him again. It would hurt him, but he would understand. He wouldn't abandon Mama; it was silly of her even to think it. She had to look at things as an adult, not a scared girl. Alex hadn't remained a friend because she'd allowed him to stick his thing in her; he was Gray's legal representative, and a friend even before she'd been born. Probably he had just gotten into the habit of using her. Maybe he'd be glad of an excuse to stop, maybe he felt as guilty about it as she did.
She had to make things as right as possible. Not even one little thing could be wrong, or it would all unravel. A normal, happy life loomed before her like the golden ring on a carousel, and she could grab it if she could just manage to do everything right. The last time, Renee Devlin had wrecked her dream.
Her thoughts jolted. Even as Michael was hugging her exuberantly, a face swam before her eyes: sleepy green eyes, a sensuous mouth that drove men wild. Renee was still there, in the form of her daughter.
Faith had to go. Mama would be much happier if Faith left town. She might even approve of Monica, if she were the one to make Faith leave. And if Michael were involved, too...
Her hands pushed at his bare shoulders. "There's a problem."
He released her, sighing with disappointment. The reason for his disappointment twitched in his lap. "What?"
"It's Mama."
He sighed again. "You don't think she'll like the idea of you marryin' me?"
"She won't like the idea of me marrying anyone," Monica said bluntly. "You don't know she'll be so upset."
He looked startled. "For God's sake, why?"
Monica bit her lip, uncomfortable with airing their family laundry. "Because that means I'd be sleeping with you."
"Of course you'd oh." Now he looked uncomfortable. He was probably recalling all the old gossip about the arrangement Mama and Daddy had had. "I guess she doesn't like things like that."
"She hates the very idea. And with Faith Devlin back in town, she's already upset." Cautiously Monica nudged him in the direction she wanted him to go. "If Faith left again, it would put Mama in a lot better mood, but I don't know how to manage that. Gray is trying to make her leave, but he says there isn't much he can do, not like before."
To her surprise, Michael went still, and a grim look darkened his face.
"I know how he feels. I wouldn't want to do anything to put that girl out of another home, either."
Monica drew back, uneasy that he had responded directly opposite to the way she had wanted. She had expected him to understand immediately. "She's a Devlin! I can't look at her without feeling sick "
"She didn't do anything," Michael pointed out in a reasonable tone that set her teeth on edge. "We had trouble with all the other Devlins, but not her."
"She looks just like her mother. Mama nearly went to pieces when she found out one of the Devlins had come back here to live."
"There's no law that says she can't live where she wants."
Because he seemed to have trouble grasping the point, Monica decided to be blunt. "You could do something about it, though, couldn't you? Gray isn't doing much, but you could think of some way to make her leave."
But Michael shook his head, and disappointment knotted her stomach. "I was there the last time," he said soberly, a distant and somber look darkening the blue of his eyes. "When we ran them out of that shack they lived in. For the rest of the Devlins, I didn't care, it was nice to get rid of them, but Faith and that little boy well, they suffered. I'll never forget the look that was on her face, and I bet Gray still thinks about it, too. That's probably why he's taking it easy on her this time. God knows I couldn't do something like that to her again."
"But if Mama " Monica stopped herself. He wasn't going to do it. He couldn't understand, not really, because he didn't live with Mama, didn't know how that cold disapproval could slice to the bone. She controlled her dismay, and smiled at him. "Never mind. I'll handle Mama, somehow."
But how? She had never yet managed to handle Mama, to shrug off those hurtful things she said the way Gray did. Gray loved Mama, she knew, but he ignored her a lot of the time. Monica still felt like an anxious little girl, trying so desperately to live up to the standards Mama set, and always falling short.
She would have to do it. She couldn't lose Michael. She would tell Alex she couldn't meet him anymore, and somehow somehow she would get rid of Faith Devlin, and make Mama so happy, she wouldn't mind if Monica got married.
Eleven.
Faith hung up the phone, a puzzled frown on her face. That was the sixth time she'd called Mr. Pleasant and not gotten an answer. He didn't have a secretary; Mrs. Pleasant had filled that role, and he hadn't had the heart to replace her when she had died. Mr. Pleasant had checked out of the motel; rather, the key had been left on the nightstand in the room, and his things were gone. The room had been paid for in advance, so there was nothing unusual in that. She had done it herself, more than once.
What was unusual was that he hadn't called her, and he'd said that he would. She couldn't believe he had forgotten. He would have called if something wasn't wrong. Given the state of his health, she was afraid he was in a hospital somewhere and was too ill to call. He could even be dying, and she wouldn't know about it. The thought of dying alone made her chest hurt. Someone should at least be there to hold his hand, as she had held Scottie's.
Other than being worried about him, she didn't know what, if anything, he had found or whom he had questioned. She would have to continue on her own, without the benefit of whatever answers he had gotten.
She didn't have a clear idea of how to go about it, what clues to look for, even what questions to ask assuming anyone would talk to her. The only ones who were likely to answer her questions would be any newcomers, and they wouldn't be in a position to know anything. The old-timers would know, but they would heed Gray's edict against having anything to do with her.
A thought came to her, and she grinned with anticipation. There was one person, at least, who would talk to her unwillingly, but he would talk.
She dragged a brush through her hair and twisted the heavy mass into a top-knot, securing it with a few pins and leaving tendrils loose around her face and at the nape of her neck. That was the limit of her grooming; a few minutes after having made up her mind, she was on her way to Prescott, to Morgan's Grocery.
As she had expected, Mrs. Morgan spotted her the moment she entered the door. Faith ignored her and wandered toward the dairy section, which was at the back of the store, safely away from Mrs. Morgan's sharp ears. It wasn't long before Ed came hot-footing it down the aisles, his beefy face florid with both indignation and exertion. "Maybe you didn't understand too good," he said, huffing to a stop in front of her. "Get on out of my store. You can't buy your groceries here."
Faith stood her ground and gave him a cool smile. "I didn't come here to buy anything. I want to ask you a few questions."
"If you don't leave, I'm goin' to call the sheriff," he said, but an uneasy expression crossed his face.
His mention of the sheriff made her stomach clench, probably the reaction he had hoped to get. Her spine stiffened, and she forced herself to ignore the threat. "If you answer my questions," she said quietly, "I'll be gone in a few minutes. If you don't, your wife may learn more than you want her to know." When it came to threats, she could make a few of her own.
He paled, and cast an anxious look toward the front of the store. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine. My questions don't concern my mother. I want to know about Guy Rouillard."
He blinked, surprised by the turn. "About Guy?" he repeated.
"Who else was he seeing that summer?" she asked. "I know my mother wasn't the only one. Do you remember any of the gossip?"
"Why do you want to know about all that? It don't matter who else he was seeing, because it was Renee he ran away with, not any of the others."
She glanced at her watch. "I figure you have about two minutes before your wife comes back here to see what's going on."
He glared at her, but said reluctantly, "I heard he was seeing Andrea Wallice, Alex Chelette's secretary. Alex was Guy's best friend. Don't know that it's true, though, because she didn't seem tore up when Guy left. There was a waitress out at Jimmy Jo's, I can't remember her name, but Guy saw her a few times. She's not there anymore. Heard tell he had a thing going with Yolanda Foster, too. Guy got around. I can't remember who all he was messin' around with, or when, exactly."
Yolanda Foster. That must be the ex-mayor's wife. Their son, Lane, had been one of that group of boys who hung around Jodie when they wanted a good time, but wouldn't speak to her if they met her in public.
"Was that common knowledge?" she asked. "Were there any jealous husbands around?"
He shrugged, and glanced again toward the front of the store. "Maybe the mayor knew, but Guy donated a lot of money to his campaigns, so I doubt Lowell Foster would have kicked up very much if he'd known Yolanda was... uh, collecting donations." He smirked, and Faith thought how much she disliked him.
"Thanks for the information," she said, and turned to go.
"You won't come here again?" he asked anxiously.
She paused and gave him a considering look. "Maybe not," she said. "Call me if you think of any more names." Then she walked briskly from the store, not even glancing at Mrs. Morgan on the way out.
Two names, plus the possibility of the unknown waitress. It was a beginning. What intrigued her, though, was the mention of Guy's best friend, Alex Chelette. He would likely have the answers to most of her questions.
The Chelettes were one of the old, monied families in the parish not on a level with the Rouillards, but then neither was anyone else. She knew the name, but couldn't dredge up any memories of them as people. She had been only fourteen when she'd left, and more withdrawn than most, keeping to herself as much as possible. She had paid attention only to those who had direct contact with her family, and as far as she could remember, she had never met any of the Chelettes. Alex was still likely to be around, though; the case of Guy Rouillard aside, old money tended to remain in one place.
She walked down to the pay phone at the end of the parking lot and looked up the Chelettes. The residence was listed as "Alexander Chelette, atty." Below it was the number for "Chelette and Anderson, Attorneys at Law."
Thinking that now was as good a time as any, she fed in a quarter and dialed the law office. A musical voice answered on the second ring.
Faith said, "My name is Faith Hardy. Could Mr. Chelette see me today?"