did!” Christi had never seen a picture of her mother as a child. And her mother had categorically refused to speak of her past. All of Christi’s questions had remained unanswered, brushed aside like pesky fruit flies. As she scooted her chair closer to the table, anticipation warmed her.
A gold L was embossed on the cover. As he turned to the first page, the leather creaked. She wrinkled her nose at the scent of dust and history that rose into the air like fairy powder. He glided the album across the table until it rested between them. She wrapped her feet around the chair’s legs and leaned in for a closer look.
“This is your grandmother, Catherine, and her husband, Henri.” Armand seemed as eager to share the album’s contents as she was to view them. “Henri died young—only a few years after your mother was born. Marguerite and I came to live with Catherine and Caroline soon after when our own parents were killed in a train accident.”
“How awful!”
Although she could not mistake Catherine for Caroline, Christi noticed the strong resemblance between her grandmother and her mother, between her mother and herself. A quick glance at Rosane showed her the resemblance was passed on. Alike, yet so different.
Even the flicker of the imagined woman sitting at the vanity bore a certain likeness to the women in the album’s pages. Had her tired mind invented a distant relative? With a shake of her head, Christi scattered the question and concentrated on Armand’s stories.
“This one,” he said, laughing easily as he pointed to a picture of her mother in a gauzy summer dress and a floppy hat, both soaked and dripping, “was taken after Caro insisted she could row the boat all by herself. She was very bossy even as a ten-year-old. The canoe tipped over as she got in and she fell into the lake.”
Some things didn’t change. Her mother had disguised an iron will with a soft voice. “And you were waiting with a camera?”
“Of course. I showed this photo to all her potential boyfriends. Until she took one of me in a rather ungraceful position after I had fallen while sledding.”
As Armand told her stories of his youth, Marguerite placed a plate of scrambled eggs and ham next to her brother. He ignored it.
A vignette fell before Christi of places and people that were part of her, yet alien—a picnic with Catherine holding a young Caroline on her lap, Armand and Marguerite stood behind them, hamming it up for the camera. Birthday parties. Graduations. Vacations. Family together, sharing, feasting, laughing.
She drank in every detail. Each new glimpse into her mother’s world clicked a missing piece in the puzzle of her past into place. And with each space filled came a growing sense of a form wanting to finish itself.
Daniel was wrong. Armand didn’t want to take anything from her. He wanted to give her what should have been hers all along.
Rosane climbed on Christi’s knee for a while, commenting on the funny outfits in the pictures, but soon returned to the floor with her kitten.
As Armand closed the cover of the album, Christi sighed and sank contentedly against the back of her chair. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Leaving the album before her, he shook out a newspaper and puffed on a fresh cigarette. A moment later, the newspaper convulsed in time to a coughing fit.
Christi fingered the album’s leather, loathe to sever her connection with her missing past.
Armand crumpled the newspaper beside his ignored plate of food. “Has your mother ever told you of the legend of Rose Latulippe?”
“No, she believed fairy tales were too violent for children.”
“Pity.” Armand took out a handkerchief and coughed into it. “It is such an interesting story about a young girl who danced with the devil on Mardi Gras.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Did you know that legends have a basis in fact?”
“I’ve heard that.” With slow movements of her index finger, Christi traced the gold L on the cover.
“One of your names is Rose, is it not?”
“Y-yes.” Her finger hesitated on the downward curve of the L.
Armand’s gaze drifted to Rosane who tested the kitten’s pouncing skills with a piece of string. “Did you have a strong impulse to name her Rose?”
How could he know such a thing?
“And her father, was he not a handsome stranger?”
She gasped, snapping her finger from the album. “No, of course not.” The quick denial was for Rosane’s benefit.
Christi had woven her memories of Daniel into a mantle of fantasy for her daughter. She’d worn that same fantasy as comfort against the pain his disappearance had caused.
Armand’s eyes twinkled with devilish delight, sending a swell of confusion sweeping through her. He was an old man, one of her only living relatives. He couldn’t possibly want anything but her well-being, could he?
“There’s no need to protect the child.” For once, Armand’s silken voice did nothing to smooth the goose bumps skittering up her arms. Nor did the cup of hot tea Marguerite placed before her. “Rosane is part of the legacy. In time she, too, will take her rightful place.”
“Rightful place? What do you mean? What legacy?”
“All in good time.”
What was happening? Why did Armand’s charm suddenly make her tense? She grabbed the photo album with both hands and hugged it to her chest like armor. She couldn’t have explained the feeling of abandonment that keened through her. Was she in danger? More important, was Rosane? There was no estate, no inheritance, no money other than her pitiful salary. Damn Daniel for planting doubts into her mind.
“Does it give you a thrill to scare people?” Daniel’s frame filled the doorway. His shirt and pants looked slept-in and his hair finger-combed. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Fear or love? One snowballed right into the other.
Her gaze automatically sprang to her daughter, gauging whether she or Daniel was closer to the child. Then a flush of heat brushed her cheeks at her foolishness. Daniel wouldn’t hurt her. He’d promised.
“Ah, Daniel, it is a bit early for you, is it not?” A crooked smile spread over Armand’s lips that somehow now seemed unnaturally red.
Daniel sat in the empty chair across from Christi. “It’s never too early to deal with the devil.”
Marguerite banged a frying pan onto the stove and snapped on a burner. She jerked open a drawer and with a loud rattle, extricated a whisk. From a low cupboard, she clanked a bowl.
“The devil exists only in legends, dear boy.” Armand looked much too pleased with himself. He turned to her. “Have I scared you, ma chère?”
“Of course not.” Christi shrugged, letting the album slip to her lap, and sipped her tea. She wasn’t sure what she felt about anything at the moment.
“I was merely trying to
