Harry glanced over his shoulder and turned back quickly. “Ah…distant cousins of Julian and Andre’s. They are Conrad and Cecily Garceau.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sure it’s just idle curiosity. Long lost relatives can be intriguing.”
“If you would excuse me,” Andre nodded and backed up a step or two. “But I’d like to visit my mother’s grave before we leave.”
After a brief turn of pleasant goodbyes, Andre looked at his brother. “You coming?”
“We’ll catch up in a moment,” Julian said.
That was enough for Andre. He gave the attorney one last friendly nod and let the hand holding the bouquet of flowers drop to his side as he headed off.
Two rows over, he found his mother’s grave, which had been adorned with a fresh spray of yellow roses. His stepmother Claudette’s doing, no doubt. She was always attentive to Andre and Julian’s feelings, making sure there were fresh flowers on their mother Naoma’s grave on her birthday and at Christmas. Andre would have to remember to thank her.
He knelt and deposited the flowers into the vase-like hole at the bottom of the headstone. The yellow calla lilies in his bouquet complemented the roses in Claudette’s spray.
Andre traced his fingertips over his mother’s image—infinitely young and beautiful—permanently encased in the marble stone. He smiled, then tightened his lips to keep from tearing up.
A longing ache tore at his chest, even though he had so few memories of his mother that he couldn’t remember what she looked like. The only thing left of his tattered recollections was being held lovingly in a woman’s arms. By now, her face had faded from his mind. But not the scent of her. His mother had always smelled like a garden of roses dampened by rain. To this day, the scent lingered in his memories.
If Andre had needed a reminder that fairy tales don’t come true, a visit to his mother’s grave would always do it. His mother’s life, after she married his father, had been anything but a fairy tale. Otherwise, why would she have killed herself? She hadn’t left a note, so they had no way of knowing, and that troubled Andre each and every day of his life.
Why was she so unhappy? She’d loved Julian and Andre, evident by the pictures. Was it because marrying Papa had devastated her dreams?
Naoma had been a wonderful ballet dancer, but there was no room for dancing when she became the wife of Maurice de Laurent. She’d left that world behind, right along with her maiden name.
Had marrying Papa killed her spirit?
“Little brother…” Julian laid his hand on Andre’s shoulder and said no more. Words strong enough to comfort a long-grieving son did not exist.
Still kneeling at the grave, Andre looked back over his shoulder. Julian wore a satisfied smile, hanging on to Camille’s hand. She seemed utterly content, standing at his side. Andre hoped his sister-in-law didn’t live to regret her decision to marry into the de Laurent family.
Big brother had guts. Andre didn’t have aspirations to curse a woman like that—which was why he’d never marry.
Andre remained nearby while Julian and Camille offered a moment of silence before they headed back to the car.
Claudette, Lecie and Papa were already in the limo. Andre, the last to climb in, sat next to Julian and avoided looking at Papa sitting across from him. Papa was up to something. Andre didn’t know what, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Papa opened his lapels and fiddled with his tie. Papa, nervous? Now that was a novelty.
“It was a very nice service,” Claudette said.
“Yes, but I still don’t understand why we were there.” Julian shook his head. “We barely knew the man. Andre and I haven’t seen him in more than twenty years.”
“You two—” Papa’s voice grew stern. “—are the nearest living relatives the man had.”
“What about our long lost cousins?” Andre asked.
“They’re very distant relatives. And of little consequence.” Papa looked at Andre, which surprised him, because Papa always looked at Julian when he talked to them. “Clear your schedules for next Wednesday. You have an appointment scheduled with Harry Martel. You too, Lecie,” Papa added glancing at her.
“Wait…” Andre said. “Wasn’t that Edouard’s attorney?” He waited for Papa’s nod, then added, “Why are we meeting with him?”
Papa shrugged. “Who knows…” He feigned nonchalance. “Maybe he left a little something to each of you.”
“Why would he leave me anything?” Lecie asked. “I’m not related to him.”
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in inheriting a fortune from our long lost uncle.” Julian laughed. “It’s more likely that he’s left us a mountain of debt.”
Andre didn’t care why the attorney wanted to see them. Debt or fortune, he wouldn’t be the one to inherit. So why did he have to be there?
He’d much rather go see Tasha. He needed the kind of comfort only she could bring.
CHAPTER THREE
IN TASHA GORDON’S OPINION, Electric Avenue had to be the dumbest name ever for a restaurant. But it did have a couple of things going for it. One, it served superb food, and that brought about the second benefit—customers who tipped really well.
That’s what kept Tasha going while she pursued her real dream. Acting.
This year, she’d been in several commercials and a handful of bit parts, enough to feel satisfied that it was sufficient to keep her name in the loop. But, so far, she hadn’t landed that big break. Not yet.
She wasn’t deterred. Not in the least bit. She had two auditions lined up for later this week, and she hoped the buggy feeling that had swooped down upon her a couple of days ago would be gone by then.
It wasn’t so much a sickly sensation as it was a heavy feeling in her gut. One that hadn’t quite progressed into nausea, but it was still there, just the same, waiting to graduate.
Tasha strolled through her station, leaving checks on tables that she’d already served, and offering more services and making small talk with her customers.
The couple at table twenty-four were tourists, from somewhere deep in the heart of Europe—perhaps Hungary. Their accents reminded Tasha of the Gabor sisters. Taking their orders had been a little iffy at first because they were talking so fast, but Tasha rose to the challenge and guided them with expertise into a cadence that she could understand. By the time she placed their check on the table, they were old friends. Much like the elderly couple at table seventeen. Don and June came into the restaurant every Tuesday and Friday, without fail. Tasha loved it when Beverly, the hostess, seated them in her area. They were fun to chat with and they tipped well.