Adamant Spirits, page 149
“Great. I’ll reach out to both field teams and provide the updates.” Nicolas stood and reached for his blazer. “I also made notes on the two missions we have on deck. We can look together tomorrow.”
Lauren glanced at her watch. It was hardly even nine in the morning. “Tomorrow? Where are you going?”
Nicolas looked toward the door. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
Only after he left did Lauren realize he’d left his car keys on the desk.
Lauren couldn’t say why she followed him. Wherever he was going wasn’t her business, just like her connection to Cameron wasn’t his. She believed him when he said he wasn’t upset with her, but thought maybe that was only a half-truth, his feelings where she was concerned buried beneath whatever troubled him now. Something was troubling him, that was clear, and though Lauren liked to throw their relationship back at him, that they “weren’t even friends,” that wasn’t quite the whole truth, either. When she was focused on other things, friends was exactly what they’d evolved into.
Nicolas left Jackson and headed west down Coliseum. He moved along at a brisk clip, hands shoved in his pockets. Lauren struggled to keep up on the uneven brick sidewalks, upended by roots and foliage, and launched into bouts of jogging, only to remember he didn’t know she was behind him. She wanted to keep it that way for the moment.
After five blocks, as they neared Fourth Street, Lauren started to think following him might be a fool’s errand. Maybe the man just wanted a walk. He mentioned before that he enjoyed the solace of Audubon Park, and if that was his destination, they had another three miles ahead of her, ducking behind dense foliage whenever he turned his head to the side.
Lauren was lost in these considerations when Nicolas disappeared. She stopped short of Washington Avenue. Right or left? Right was Commander’s Palace, the Garden District Book Shop, and St. Charles Avenue and the streetcar. Left was a few residential blocks until Magazine Street.
Lauren stood in the center of the sidewalk, perplexed. Right or left? She had to choose, because further inaction would mean losing him altogether.
When Lauren rounded the corner, choosing to go right, she suddenly knew exactly where Nicolas was going.
Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was morbid and beautiful, an amalgam of rotting stone tombs and crumbling inscriptions. Of history and wealth and stories upon stories. One of many Cities of the Dead, as those from New Orleans liked to call them, with the towering stone artifices each holding generation upon generation, changing hands and families when the price was right.
There was a Weatherly tomb somewhere in here. She’d visited it once as a child. A great uncle’s line, if she recalled. But the rest of her family was in Lake Lawn Metairie.
The Deschanel Tomb was both one of the largest and most visited in the many tours that came through the cemetery each day. It was located in Square Three, a large plot in the shaded corner of the Sixth and Prytania side of the cemetery. It was more like a small park than a plot, shaded by the waxy leaves of bowing magnolias and fronds of bowing palms. A greenspace with benches offered a convenient and welcoming place to visit the departed.
The tomb was as broad as four tombs, with names and inscriptions wrapping around the sides, covering most available real estate. The center slab was for the current heir’s family, Lauren remembered that from a tour she’d been on not so long ago, and the side ones for the past generations. As more Deschanels were added, the marble tablets were rearranged, just as the bodies were dropped to the bottom as they transitioned from organic matter to crumbling bones.
Along the sides, she saw so many names. Our Darling Madeline, aged seventeen years. August Deschanel, he died as he lived, an honorable man. And so many biblical passages about death and dying. For so he giveth his beloved sleep, and because I live ye shall live also. Angels wrapped around the Victorian spired crosses spanning the top circumference.
Nicolas stood before the tomb without moving, arms straight at his sides like a soldier. Lauren didn’t breathe. She was frozen in place.
He sank to the ground, on his knees, on the shaded greenspace inside the wrought iron gate that ran the circumference of the large plot. One of his hands pressed, fingers spread, over one of the plates.
And they will dwell in the house of the Lord forever- Psalm 23:6
Charles Deschanel, aged 46 years
Cordelia Hendrickson Deschanel, aged 45 years
Nathalie Deschanel, aged 19 years
Giselle Deschanel, aged 18 years
Lucienne Deschanel, aged 17 years
Adrienne Deschanel Sullivan, aged 26 years
Nicolas’ head bowed. His shoulders rose and fell. A group of tourists headed in his direction paused with an uncomfortable reshuffle and the guide routed them another way. One groused about wanting a picture and Lauren shot him a barbed look, willing her eyes into deadly icicles. She stepped closer to the tomb to be a more effective block against further intrusions.
Her vision blurred. Stay. Go. She couldn’t decide, and both sides of her mind and heart competed for the right answer. Empathy wasn’t love, and she could feel this for him without loving him, or confusing matters further. Nicolas was ultimately a man like all other men, like other human beings, who had experienced love and loss, and his life had been shaped by both. Lauren understood this as someone whose life had been as well.
She checked to ensure the next group wasn’t coming their way. No, not yet. When she turned her eyes back to Nicolas, he was staring back at her.
Lauren’s heart jumped. Walking away undetected wasn’t an option now. He should be angry at her for imposing on what was a deeply personal moment, and she could weather that, but she hoped he was not also ashamed for his display of feelings.
Nicolas looked away, to the side, off into the distance. If she walked away now, she could no longer skate by on the vague notion that she was protecting herself. She had never seen him so vulnerable. The power was entirely hers.
Lauren kicked her foot at the dirt. She looked around and swallowed a gulp of humid air before heading in the direction of the Deschanel plot.
She reached forward and eased herself onto the grass next to him. Nicolas tilted his head back and aimed his face to the sky. Tears stained his cheeks, fresh ones replacing the drying ones. From this angle, the tomb stretched on forever, into the endless sky. If she stood, she couldn’t reach the top, even if she perched on the tips of her toes.
Lauren stayed at his side in his silent grief. He didn’t ask her to leave, or to stay, so she took her cues from the trust he must have in her to leave himself so open and bare before her.
When his hand dropped to his knee, she laid hers on top. His lips tightened in recognition, but he showed no sign he wanted her to withdraw, so she left it there.
The breath he pulled in faded to a moan. He sucked both lips in to stop the sound. To trap it within.
Lauren wiped at her own tears. Her head fell on his shoulder, and moments later, his head came to a rest over hers. His tears blended into her hair, staining her scalp. Hers melted into the fibers of his jacket. Their individual emotions mingled into a single one, and it flowed freely and safely.
The rest of the world dissolved into the land beyond the magnolia canopy and the wrought iron fence.
Charlotte
Charlotte stood at the base of the great pyramid of glass and metal. The diamond and triangle arrangements glittered like jewels against the waning darkness in the hour before the dawn. She lost herself in the effect, as she had lost herself in the moments that brought her here.
Steps sounded behind her in the courtyard. They slowed, then stopped. She didn’t need to turn. His heavy breaths were the only sound on the sleeping palace grounds.
Lawrence drew closer, more slowly than his initial approach. Tentative. The longer they went without the words, without addressing the moment, the more Charlotte questioned whether her instinct brought her here or something else entirely.
He stopped directly behind her, close enough to transfer his warmth. The urge to fall back against him was so powerfully strong that Charlotte had to steal a large breath of cold air to steady herself.
“Did you know this main pyramid of the Louvre was built in the exact proportions of the Great Pyramid of Giza?”
Lawrence’s hands hovered over her shoulders. He sighed, then slipped them over her shirt, down her arms. His voice wilted and elevated in quick sequence. “Charlotte.”
“It was something of a scandal when they built it, really. Mitterrand picked a Chinese-American architect, and the nationalists were up in arms. How dare he hire a foreigner without even so much as a bidding process?”
Lips pressed into the back of her head and came to a gentle rest. His breath passed through her hair. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“This was in 1981, I think, and this was also when the Richelieu wing was annexed into the museum, which of course houses the famous, or famously tiny, Mona Lisa. But also my personal favorite, The Coronation of Napoléon, which is also known as The Coronation of the Emperor Napoleon I and the Crowning of the Empress Joséphine in Notre-Dame Cathedral, but that’s quite a mouthful. I assume you’ve seen it? I know the focus is Napoléon and his epic ego, but I think the real treat is Joséphine. She steals the show here, and if women wrote the history books, I think she would have stolen the show as far as history was concerned, too. She was a rich and fascinating woman.”
Lawrence’s hands slid across her arms and around her as he stepped in front of her. His crystal blue eyes implored her. “I chased you away and then it worked, and I’m so conflicted right now.”
Charlotte kept her composure, as she had when reciting textbook facts. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”
Lawrence pulled his running gloves off, and they fell to the ground. His palms caressed her forehead as he pushed aside the stray hairs at her temple. Her lips parted to say anything at all that might restore her nerves, but then Lawrence’s mouth was upon hers. His passion transferred through her and a jolt of something scary and wonderful passed through each one of her limbs, bouncing around. She gasped into his mouth and then surrendered her vulnerability. He wrapped his arms around her in a protective blanket, as if he were afraid the world beyond might steal her away.
Charlotte lost herself so completely that she didn’t know if the kiss lasted seconds or minutes. In the space of her heart, it never ended. At last, she dropped from her tiptoes back to flat ground. She angled her face away. She could stay here forever, but she also couldn’t, and she had things she needed to say.
Her lips were still aflame from the welcome assault. Her breath swirled in the foggy morning air. “If you can tell me your life is complicated, and then kiss me like that, you can tell me why, Lawry.”
“My mother used to call me Lawry,” he mused. He went elsewhere for a moment at the recollection. His mouth played with a smile, and then turned it away. “I can’t, especially after that kiss. I know you think I’m being obtuse and difficult, and I’m sure you’re wondering if I have a wife back home.”
“I know you don’t have a wife back home,” Charlotte said. “And I know Gabrielle isn’t your sister. I know when you say your life is complicated that it has to do with her and some kind of hold she has on you. And if you told me, I could help you. My family could help you.”
His mouth twitched as it formed around how to ask how she could know these things. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“Then tell me!” Charlotte shouted the words in a desperate cry. “If you know the Fontenots, then you know the Deschanels. You know we have endless resources. There’s nothing we can’t do.”
Lawrence passed his thumb over her cheek. He blinked a glassy sheen from his eyes. “I don’t know how I feel what I’m feeling for you, but I feel it. It came at the worst time, and for your sake I wish—”
“Stop saying things like that. I’m a woman, not a sickly puppy, Lawry, and I do not need your protection!”
Lawrence kissed her again, this time a more desperate, forceful assault. “I know. I know.” The words passed into her mouth, and he kissed her once more. “You don’t… you don’t know who she is. What she can do. What she will do if she learns about you.”
“What does she have over you?”
“It isn’t about me.” Lawrence pulled the strands of her ponytail through his fingers. He watched her blond hair fall away as it cascaded back into place. “It never has been.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “This might be the last time I see you. I just want to hold you, Charlotte. For a little while longer.”
Charlotte tensed as she lowered her face to his chest and nestled against his running jacket. “Why would you say that? Why does it have to be the last time? You’ll come home to New Orleans.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
She withdrew and looked up at him. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you come home?”
Lawrence’s kiss this time was brief. “I feel something for you, Charlotte. Something real. Like I was always meant to meet you. I’m a logical man, and this is the most illogical thing, but I can’t deny any of it.”
Charlotte gripped his chin between her forefinger and thumb. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to tell me that and then shut me out like a child. That isn’t fair, and I won’t let you. No. It’s bullshit.”
“It is bullshit. You deserve better,” he agreed. “But I’d rather you hate me than expose you to the hell ‘Gabrielle’ has waiting. Just because I can’t tell you doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
“The danger or your feelings for me?”
“Both.”
Charlotte broke away and crossed her arms. She paced across the pavement. “Goddammit, Lawry.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I came back because I thought… just maybe… you might open up to me and let me help you. That, I don’t know, there was still a chance to save you before I left Paris.”
Lawrence’s voice was soft, with a slight break at the end. “You want to save me, Charlotte?” He enveloped her in his arms from behind, leaving kisses on her hair, her forehead. “Leave Paris. Go home, safe and sound. Forget about me, forget about this, forget about this notion you have of beating Gabrielle at her game.”
“I hate you.”
“If that makes it easier.”
She spun and faced him in her tears, which she loathed; every last unwelcome drop. “You’re stubborn and impossible. And why? For what? What does that ever really gain for anyone? Ever?”
Lawrence’s whole face was a mask of tragic sadness as he listened to her barrage of barbs and questions. He glanced at his watch, and his expression switched to panic. “I have to go. I guess by now you know why.”
“I know who, but not why. Because you won’t tell me.”
Lawrence moved to embrace her again, but Charlotte pivoted away. “Charlotte. This is probably the last time we’ll see one another.”
She faced away from him. She couldn’t look at his face. Her strength was all she had now as the moment dwindled into history. “You want me to hold you? Kiss you? Tell you what I feel is real, too?” Her hand swiped away her tears. “Well, I guess neither one of us will get what we want this morning. Goodbye, Lawrence.”
Charlotte left him standing at the pyramid as she launched into a sprint. She didn’t know where she was going, she only knew it was away from Lawrence, from her vulnerability, and the terrible feeling her failure would cost him dearly.
“That was foolish, Charlotte,” Lauren scolded. The edge fell away from her voice. “But I understand why you felt it was necessary. I’m sorry it didn’t work out as you wanted.”
“Sorry? He’s in danger, Lauren!” Charlotte tossed the phone on the bed as she changed into a sweater. Julian had left a note saying he went to the market. “My failure to persuade him might have cost him his life.”
“You don’t know that,” Lauren said reasonably. “That’s a pretty long leap.”
“And you don’t know half of what you think you know, sitting safely in New Orleans, dishing out assignments from your cozy office.”
Lauren didn’t rise to the barb. “I’ll tell you what I do know, Charlotte. I know that Lawrence Henry’s father is a bad person. He’s a criminal, and that behavior has caught up to him in an unfortunate and serious way. I also know Lawrence works for his father, and as both his son and an executive at the company, there’s a next to zero chance that he doesn’t know what his father is into. I’d say there’s a fair chance he’s involved as well, because why risk your career if you aren’t in on the gain? So, you can throw your anger at me if it helps you. If sitting here in New Orleans in our cozy office also comes with additional perspective that assists you and keeps you safe, then I won’t apologize for that.”
“You sound like Colleen,” Charlotte hissed, and the irony was not lost on her that she was both insulting and complimenting Lauren in the same breath.
“I’ll take that,” Lauren replied. “Look, even though you’re coming home, we’re not easing on this mission from a research standpoint. We have our telepath finally going back to meet Henry tomorrow, and we haven’t given up on the blurry photos, either.”
“Wow, it’s astounding we haven’t cracked this case already.”
“Your sarcasm is noted, but if we get enough to feel comfortable sending you back, we will.”
Charlotte released her ponytail, working her hands through the tangles in furious pulls. “Yeah? Hopefully, it won’t be too late for Lawrence.”
“We aren’t giving up, but coming home is best. For now. I’m sorry.”
“Sure, Lauren. Whatever you say.”
