Page 7 of The House on Prytania
“Seriously, Beau? I thought I made it clear that door is closed. Permanently. I still can’t even believe that you asked me to rekindle my relationship with Michael for some misguided sense of revenge. But there’s no reason for us to even have anything to do with Michael or his extended family. Sunny found us, so there’s no more need for me to do the one thing I told you I wouldn’t do. I understand your desperation, but I don’t think I can forgive you.”
His fingers stopped tapping. “Yes, well, I’m not asking you for forgiveness.”
I froze, afraid of what he would say next. Almost unaware, I began snapping the band around my wrist. He reached over and pressed his hand against mine, stilling the movement.
“I’m sorry.”
His words didn’t alleviate my fear and doubt. Because it was abundantly clear that he wasn’t done.
“Sorry for asking me in the first place, or sorry because you’re about to ask me again?”
“Both.” He looked at me without moving, the only sound that of the wind chime singing out in the tranquil night. Even the ever-present Christmas trees, now decked out in full Halloween regalia in their coffin planters in the yard across the street, remained still. Their orange twinkling lights highlighted the plastic ghosts and flying witches on broomsticks with a firelike glow.
“You can’t possibly think...”
“I know. And I’ve been trying to work out in my head if there might be a better way. But the bottom line is there isn’t.”
“But Sunny is back. We know Michael’s great-grandfather was responsible for her kidnapping, even though we can’t prove anything because all the evidence we have is contained within a door nowfloating in a swamp. And it can only be revealed by someone like Mimi, with psychometric abilities. Which, I can only imagine, is worthless in a court of law.”
“You’re right,” he agreed, surprising me.
“Then why are you asking me to reach into my heart and rip it out again? Are you trying to drive me back to drinking?” Beau was one of the few people who knew about my inner demons and my ongoing struggle to keep them at bay. I was sober now, for good. I hoped.
“I understand. I do. And I won’t force you into saying yes.”
“But what would I be saying yes to? As much as I loathe Michael, what he did isn’t a punishable offense.”
Beau leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “No, it’s not, although it probably should be. But what his family has gotten away with for years definitely is. Including driving my grandfather into an early grave and making my grandmother and me suffer for over two decades wondering what happened to Sunny.” He drew a deep breath. “I want to bring them down.”
“With what?” I wasn’t following his line of thought. “There’s no real evidence of wrongdoing. And the family still wields enough power to discourage even retired cops like Jaxson’s uncle Bernie from participating in any dirt digging. He told us that himself.”
Beau faced me, his pupils reflecting the orange lights. “I think there is real evidence. There’s a reason why my dad stored the Maison Blanche door here instead of destroying it. Probably the same reason he saved Jeanne’s clientele book and the other items in the hatbox hidden behind a sealed closet door.”
I thought about the tie clasp and pipe that had belonged to his grandfather, as well as the photograph negative and yellow hair ribbon that could have been used as evidence if the case had ever made it to court. But it hadn’t. Hurricane Katrina and the years since had intervened, and the case had been conveniently closed.
The faint scent of pipe smoke once again flitted through the air,my skin responding with goose bumps rippling down my arms beneath Beau’s coat. “Your grandfather isn’t alone.”
“I know.” He studied his clasped hands before turning his attention back to me.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your mother,” I added quietly.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve seen her footprints. I thought they would both go once we found Sunny.”
“Me, too. You should ask her why she’s still here.”
Beau sat up in his chair, the metal frame groaning in protest. “No. I can’t. I’m still so... angry with her. For leaving me.”
I knew that wasn’t the whole story. I’d heard too much of his conversation on a disconnected landline phone with Adele, his mother, who was presumed dead during Katrina. Either he didn’t remember asking her for help or he didn’t want me to know he had.Can you help me find her? I know she’s alive, or she’d have told me. I’ve been searching for so long and I can’t do this on my own.And then his response to her unheard question.Not her. I want her too much.I’d known he was talking about me.
I wanted to take his hand, to let him know I understood. I had been angry at my own mother for a long time after her death following a short life full of bad choices. I kept my hands in my lap, not wanting to complicate our already complicated relationship. But I’d learned a few things from my therapist and the never-ending road to recovery.
“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, Beau. Loving someone and being angry with them at the same time is actually a thing. Maybe your mom is still here because she needs to know that you’ve forgiven her.”
I heard the sound of him swallowing, then waited for him to speak. “It’s more than that. And I think there’s something else, too. I think it’s the same reason why my grandfather is still here.”
I took a deep breath, needing to voice the one thought that hadn’t left me alone since I’d first smelled the pipe tobacco long after Ithought Beau had sent the restless spirits in my house into the light. “Maybe they’re still here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. Like poking a stick in the lion’s cage.”
He exhaled, a small puff of air rising from his mouth. “Or maybe he’s here to protect me while I expose the truth and see that someone is punished. Antoine Broussard got away with murdering his own daughter while incriminating my grandfather for the crime. And his family is still benefiting from his evil deeds from decades ago. I want justice. Accountability. Even now, the family business, the Sabatier Group, goes against everything you and I believe in. Tearing down older buildings to replace them with cheaply built, less sustainable structures. Why should they be allowed to have any say in the rebuilding of the vernacular architecture of New Orleans when they’ve been sucking this city dry of everything of value for generations? Their greed is why they’re where they are now, and it seems I’m the last man standing who can bring them down.”
