to her book, Sara was once again lost in the author’s imaginary world when a slight movement to her left disturbed her again. This time it was a solitary female, upwards of eighty, she’d guess, with the patrician bone structure that reflected beauty regardless of age, and pale, almost translucent skin.
But it wasn’t the older woman’s beauty that held Sara’s attention; it was the way she was clutching the edge of a table, swaying slightly on her feet.
Hesitantly, Sara asked, “Are you all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you.” The crisp words were delivered with just an air of haughtiness, and usually would have been enough to deter Sara from inquiring further. She guarded her own privacy too zealously to be at ease poking into others’. But for some reason memories picked that moment to swarm to the surface. Sean had had a grandmother he’d loved dearly. She’d been, he’d often claimed, the only member of his family who’d given a damn about him. Hundreds of times over the years Sara had reached for a phone, longing to dial that rest home in Illinois just to hear someone else mention his name. Each time realization of the risk had overpowered the emotion. Sara still made sure the woman knew she hadn’t been forgotten, but she did so anonymously. It was safer, far safer for all involved.
The flicker of memory was enough to have her rising. Pulling up a chair, she said, “Why don’t you sit down until it passes?”
The elderly lady aimed one fierce look at her, visibly battling her infirmity through sheer force of will. Then, the struggle obviously decided for her, she sank into the chair with a frustrated sigh. “Darn dizzy spells,” she muttered, her eyes closing for an instant. “There’s little I despise as much as the weakness that comes with the years.”
“I suppose none of us like to show our vulnerabilities, regardless of age.”
The woman’s eyes snapped open again. “No,” she murmured, studying Sara closely. “I imagine not. What’s your name, young lady?”
“Amber.”
“I’m Celeste. And since I’ve inconvenienced you this much, perhaps you wouldn’t mind lending me your arm and walking me to my car.”
Sara leaned forward and Celeste rose, clinging to her arm for support. “You aren’t expecting to drive, are you?” she asked dubiously.
The older woman gave a surprisingly strong laugh. “Good heavens, no. My husband considered it extremely gauche for women to drive themselves, and although times have certainly changed, I suppose it’s a bit late for me to learn driving skills.” As they spoke they moved slowly through the door and down the wide steps outside. At their appearance, a gleaming black Rolls pulled to a stop beside the curb, and a uniformed driver got out, opening the back passenger door to the vehicle.
Once Celeste was ensconced in the back seat, she looked up at Sara. “I’d like to repay you for your kindness. Would you care to accompany me home for tea?”
The invitation took Sara aback. “I…I’d better not. I have to get back to work soon.”
Celeste waved a hand and the driver went around to the other side of the car, opening the passenger door. “I’ll have Benjamin drive you when you have to go. Please don’t waste time arguing, dear. I make it a point to get my own way. It’s one of the few pleasures left to me.”
Studying the woman, Sara noted the flush in her cheeks, which couldn’t be blamed on the heat. They’d merely exchanged one air-conditioned environment for another. No doubt Celeste had a full staff and a family at home to see to her health. But Sara still felt compelled to accept, if only to see her home safely. There was little risk. Surely this sweet, frail woman wouldn’t lead her to danger.
So she engaged in uncharacteristic small talk with the woman as the car made its way across town. After several minutes it turned off the street through an open gate and up a long winding driveway.
Sara fell silent in something approaching awe. The sprawling, ancient mansion was white, with small dormers marching along the roofline proclaiming its French architecture. She could almost imagine the centuries falling away to reveal hoopskirted ladies and gentlemen in cutaway coats sipping mint juleps on the wide veranda.
“Impressive, is it not?” Celeste said as the car drew to a stop before the house. “It was built by my ancestor Claude in 1722 for his wife, Pauline Fontenot.” Simple pride rang in the woman’s voice as she was helped from the car by the driver. Sara rounded the vehicle, and Celeste set her hand lightly on her arm as they climbed the steps. “Claude brought his young bride to New Orleans, after it was settled for King Louis XV. This house was damaged by the fire in 1794, but my great-great-grandfather, Jean-Paul, presided over the restoration himself, and made sure the structure was duplicated exactly, rather than allowing the Spanish style of architecture to influence the rebuilding. My grandson is the ninth generation to live here, although—” she made a moue of disappointment “—he doesn’t spend nearly enough time here.”
The long lineage the woman cited was difficult for Sara to comprehend. She hadn’t known her own grandparents. Family hadn’t meant a whole lot to her mother. Janie Parker had been most concerned with good times and handsome, fast-talking men. She’d made it her business to fill her life with both.
When they reached the huge, double front doors, Celeste showed Sara inside to a graceful tiled hall with vaulted ceilings supported by carved beams. After ordering iced tea from the servant who met them at the door, the older woman led Sara into an old-fashioned parlor, complete with furniture that looked as though it had traveled from France with Claude himself.
Celeste waved her to a chair facing the tall narrow windows gracing one wall. “This is my favorite room, partly because of its view of the gardens. If I were feeling more stable today I’d take you on a tour of them. It’s this awful blood pressure medication I’m on, of course. It sometimes causes the worst dizzy spells.”
“The gardens look lovely.” There was a note of wistfulness in Sara’s tone.
“They can be very peaceful.”
“Sometimes peace can be hard to find.”
“You are quite young, I think, to be so wise.”
“I’m twenty-one.” The lie came to her lips automatically as she shaved two years off her age. Amber Jennings was twenty-one. And Sara Parker’s age no longer mattered, since she’d ceased to exist six years ago.
“Ah, to be twenty-one again.” Celeste smiled at her, a dazzling display of charm that transcended her years. “I would be tempted to envy such youth had I many regrets.”
“But you have no regrets, have you?” The words came from behind them, the voice amused. Sara stilled, finding something about it ominously familiar. “Shall we credit that to clean living or a convenient conscience?”
“Nicky!” Delight sounded in Celeste’s tone, sparkled in her eyes. As the older woman offered a cheek for the tall, dark-haired newcomer to kiss, Sara stared, her feeling of foreboding changing to disbelief. Life, she’d often found, contained the cruelest of ironies. That had never been so apparent as right now.
Because the man straightening to greet her was none other than Nick Doucet.
“Amber, I’m thrilled that you will get to meet my grandson. Nicky, this is—”
“Amber Jennings,” Nick murmured, an
