Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(38)

The steady trickle of the water, soothing breeze, and gentle sunlight made Celia drowsy. She leaned back against the wall. Lysette had told her that Philippe had often frequented this place, reading books of philosophy and poetry. Celia tried to imagine him sitting here, the sunlight illuminating the chestnut brown in his dark hair, his body sprawled on the bench, long legs crossed.

On impulse she began to sketch his face, the lean jaw and high cheekbones, determined nose and heavy slanting brows. His head was set upon a strong neck, his hair brushed back except for the cowlick that caused a few heavy locks to fall over his forehead. The charcoal moved over the paper as if guided by a force other than her own. In a trance, she watched other details taking shape, wide, firm mouth, laugh lines around his eyes, shadows and indentations that had given his face that singular look of confidence and intensity.

Celia frowned as she surveyed the drawing. Something was wrong…The eyes…They were flat; the shape wasn’t right. She slanted the outside corners upward, darkened the irises until they nearly blotted out the pupils, added heavy strokes to the brows. Chewing on her lower lip, she worked diligently. Finally she held up the sketch and squinted at it, shaking her head. Vesta mewed at her questioningly. “It’s not right,” Celia said aloud. “Not quite. Why can’t I remember how Philippe…”

Suddenly the paper trembled in her hand. The eyes were more lifelike now…but they did not belong to Philippe. She felt cold sweat collect on her forehead and upper lip. A mocking glint had entered those eyes, and they seemed to stare at her knowingly.

Look at me, Celia…

Swallowing with difficulty, she forced herself to let go of the sketch, and it fluttered to the ground. Vesta pounced on it immediately, puncturing the rustling paper with her claws. Celia put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart racing out of control. Don’t be a fool, she told herself fiercely. He’s not here, and you’ll never see him again. How can you upset yourself so easily? But the feeling remained. She closed her eyes.

Sometimes the memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday, the past months dissolving into nothing. She could still feel Justin’s hands closing over her br**sts, his thighs pushing hers apart, his hot breath striking her skin. As his body had filled hers he had looked into her eyes, drinking in her intense pleasure. He had made no concession to weakness or fragility—indeed, he had taken ruthless advantage of it. I couldn’t have stopped him had I wanted to, she thought, and flushed with angry confusion. The point was, she hadn’t wanted to stop him, and for that she would always despise herself.

Celia took the scraps of paper Vesta was toying with and crumpled them in her fist.

Feeling restless, she deposited her art materials in the garçonnière and went to the kitchen of the main house, which was buzzing with activity. The morning air was saturated with a yeasty smell. Tables were loaded with stone crocks that had been greased with lard and filled with rising bread dough. Women dexterously kneaded and shaped the dough before placing it in sheet-iron molds. Noeline, the Vallerands’ housekeeper for many years, murmured a greeting to Celia as she brought in a tray of flour that had been sunned and aired.

Lysette was at the bread block in the corner, twisting bits of dough into rolls that would be eaten at dinner. Her daughter Evelina stood over the unbaked loaves, brushing the tops of them with a feather dipped in lard before they were placed in the ovens. Angeline sat at the table gnawing on a heel of crusty bread. Celia smiled as she saw how the daughters resembled their mother, all of them with cinnamon-red hair twisted at the napes of their necks.

“Tante Celia,” Angeline cried, and hopped down from the table, wrapping her slim arms around Celia’s waist. “We are helping Maman with the bread.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Celia replied, smoothing the child’s hair.

“You are not helping,” Evelina said to her younger sister. “You are only eating.”

Angeline’s face was wreathed in a scowl. “Maman said I could.”

“Well,” Celia interposed reasonably, “it is necessary for someone to make certain the taste is agreeable, non?” She took the slice of bread from Angeline’s small hand and bit off the corner. “Mmm…What is it the Americans say? It is grand.”

The little girls giggled and chimed in to correct her pronunciation. Lysette regarded them disapprovingly. “Do not be disrespectful, my girls.”

“Non, I have asked them to help me,” Celia said with a laugh. “Their English is much better than mine.”

“It took me a long time to learn the language,” Lysette confessed. “But in New Orleans it is necessary. There are so many Americans here, more and more every year. Of course, some Creoles would never condescend to speak a word of English. They will not even allow it to be spoken in their presence. Max insists that the children be able to speak both. He says it would put them at a disadvantage to be isolated from either culture.”

“Philippe had an ear for languages,” Celia said absently.

“So does Justin, but…” Lysette stopped in mid-sentence, looking uncomfortable as she saw the other woman flinch. “Pardon, Celia.”

“It is all right,” Celia murmured.

“I don’t know why I mentioned him. For the past day or two I have thought about Justin several times. I even saw him in a dream.” Lysette shrugged and smiled whimsically. “Noeline says it’s a sign from a loa.”