Lie to Me (Pearl Island Trilogy #4)(51)
“Not all men.” Allison gave her a sympathetic look. “Some men have amazing honor and can be trusted.”
“But how can you tell the difference?” she asked, turning to Allison, desperately wanting to know.
“Your gut, for one thing,” Allison said.
“Well, my gut told me Luc was the real deal, so I’m not sure I’m trusting it these days.”
“Then time is the only answer.” Allison came to stand beside her by the dresser. “People can lie with words, but not with actions. At least, not for long.”
“Except, by the time you figure out whether or not they can be trusted, you’ve let them in far enough for them to destroy your heart.”
“Oh, Chloe.” Allison squeezed Chloe’s hand. “You, my dear, have major trust issues.”
“Now, there’s a news flash.” A humorless laugh escaped.
Allison cupped her face. “When it comes to love, at some point, we all have to take a leap of faith.”
Chloe looked into Allison’s serene blue eyes, longing to believe, but afraid to try. “What happens when you land on your face at the bottom of a deep ravine?”
“Maybe the question you should be asking is, what happens when you don’t?” When Chloe just frowned, Allison smiled. “You fly, Chloe. You fly.”
Chapter 14
A weight as heavy as the New Orleans humidity descended over Chloe the instant she stepped out of the cab and looked up at the LeRoche mansion. To her, the white Greek revival with black shutters looked like a beautiful beast lurking behind the massive oak trees. How appropriate that a wrought-iron fence enclosed the pristine grounds around the mansion, like a cage.
It won’t be that bad, she told herself for the hundredth time. It’s only for a few days.
The trunk of the taxi slammed behind her.
“Here you go, miss,” the taxi driver said as he set her suitcase on the sidewalk.
“Thank you.” She fished in her purse for a tip.
When he’d gone, she squared her shoulders, took a firm grip on the case’s handle, and rolled it through the ornate, wrought-iron gate that admitted only a privileged few. The case’s wheels clattered on the red brick walkway that led up to the wide front steps. White wicker furniture made the elegant porch look ready for a Southern Living photo shoot.
As she dug out her key, she thought of how the place must look to others. How many times had people expressed awe and even envy when they learned she was part of the family who had owned this impressive mansion since before the Civil War.
Yeah, lucky me, she thought. She rarely said anything to change people’s perception. Keeping up appearances, even in the midst of scandal, was practically the LeRoche family motto. The LeRoches, after all, had been a part of New Orleans society since before Andrew Jackson defeated the British in the War of Eighteen Twelve. They had a grand appearance to maintain.
Of all the things Marguerite had written in her diary, her description of the LeRoche mansion struck the deepest chord with Chloe. Unlike most outsiders viewing the house, Marguerite hadn’t focused on the grandeur. She’d seen a home for a family that spanned generations and had yearned to be part of something so enduring and secure. After Henri, a younger son in the LeRoche family, had come knocking at her dressing room door, Marguerite disguised herself and slipped away to the Garden District to see his world for herself. She’d stood across the street from the mansion and imagined how it would feel to be welcomed into such a house.
Being the unwanted daughter of a prostitute, Marguerite had craved everything she imagined the LeRoche mansion represented. Not just respectability, but belonging and love. No wonder she’d said yes when Henri took her to Pearl Island and promised to build her a house as grand as this one. Marguerite had yearned to fill the mansion on Pearl Island with all the warmth and welcome she’d imagined filled this residence in New Orleans.
If only she’d known the truth before it was too late.
With a sigh, Chloe unlocked the black door and stepped inside, into a world of calculated elegance. The formal living and dining rooms lay to either side of a long hall. DeeDee LeRoche had a love for white that showed in the miles of damask draping the windows. While John had forbidden his wife to replace any of the family’s heirloom furniture, DeeDee had reupholstered the ornate Robert Adams sofa in white, along with the two Louis XIV armchairs that flanked the fireplace. In the dining room, a crystal chandelier sparkled over the nineteenth-century dining table that gleamed with polish.
Everything looked so perfect and peaceful, but in the hush, she could almost hear echoes from the past. John’s low, authoritative voice commanding, You will do as you’re told, or by God, I’ll take that little red Miata I gave you back to the dealer.
Diane screaming back, You can’t order me around! I’m not your puppet!
As long as I’m paying for everything you have, you will do as I say.
Sometimes the fights ended there, after a few more screams and tears from Diane. Other times they continued with, I don’t need you! I have a husband who has plenty of money.
You have a husband who will find himself bankrupt and blackballed if the two of you cause so much as one more breath of scandal with your behavior. Do I make myself clear?
You can’t do that. Even you don’t have that much power.