Lie to Me (Pearl Island Trilogy #4)(56)
She shook her head in disgust. “What’s going to happen when he figures out what this family is really like?”
“I don’t know! That’s why I had to get you here. To keep him from suspecting too soon.”
“Jesus.” Chloe shook her head and started for the front door. “I need some fresh air.”
“Wait!” Diane grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”
“I have no idea.”
“Chloe, please, I need you to help me. I can’t afford for you to get mad and throw one of your little snits right now. Not in front of Harold.”
“Well, then,” Chloe smiled, “if that’s the case, I think it’s best for all of us if I go for a walk.”
With that, she turned and strode through the house and out the front door. Force of habit made her cross the street to the trolley stop. What she needed right then was her old haunt, the French Quarter.
Chapter 15
Chloe realized her mistake the minute she reached Jackson Square.
Subconsciously, she’d been heading for her uncle’s townhouse, the refuge of her youth. But the townhouse was empty. Scott was in Galveston with Allison and the children. Even if he were there, she wasn’t that little girl any more. She’d learned to sort things out on her own.
Hoping to calm the turmoil in her head, she entered the park. The gaiety of the French Quarter surrounded her on all sides, but the park itself offered a small reprieve. A group of children ran and tumbled over the grass under the watchful eyes of their parents. Hearing their laughter gave her a pang of homesickness for Pearl Island. Ignoring it, she started along the circular path, passing tourists on benches with cameras hanging from their necks and shopping bags at their feet. She wished she’d taken the time to go upstairs and grab her camera, since focusing her mind on taking pictures always helped settle her.
When she reached the tiered fountain before St. Louis Cathedral, she perched on the edge to trail her fingers in the cool water. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a sax player belting out the blues. The sound triggered a memory of Luc’s sketchpad and the drawings he’d done of Jackson Square. Glancing around, she saw reminders everywhere, from the statue of Andrew Jackson in the center of the park, to the horse drawn carriages lined up along Decatur Street.
A quick stab of regret hit deep, along with a sudden, intense urge to see him. For two days, she’d felt so comfortable with him, as if she’d finally found someone she could relax around. Someone she could trust.
She longed to feel that way again, but didn’t know if she could. What if he really had been leading her on so he could use her? Or worse, what if everything leading up to that moment on the pier had been real, and her chance of a future with Luc had gone flying into the cove along with his sketchpad?
With Luc foremost on her mind, she thought she was imagining things when she spotted a man who looked just like him walking down Charles Street, right in front of the cathedral. She froze, willing him to look her way so she could see his face, but terrified he’d do just that and spot her. He didn’t, though. He kept walking toward St. Ann Street, weaving his way through the crowd. In contrast to the fashion-conscious Luc who had visited Galveston, this guy wore a slightly rumpled short-sleeve shirt that hung open over a T-shirt and jeans. She tracked his movements in glimpses through the banana trees that lined the park, but lost him when he reached the corner, where the trees and shrubs grew denser.
Would he continue straight, or turn onto St. Ann?
If he turned, and if she hurried, she could make it to the park entrance on St. Ann just in time to “bump into” him.
Before she could change her mind, she rose and hurried toward the park entrance. Half her mind screamed at her to stop, while the other half assured her she wasn’t committing to anything. She just wanted to see if it really was him.
Reaching St. Ann, she peeked through the vegetation and rails of wrought iron. Her heart skipped when she spotted him. Dang it, though, she still couldn’t see his face. He’d stopped to talk to one of the street vendors, an older woman who sat at an easel.
The woman looked up and broke into a broad smile when she saw him. A sense of recognition tickled Chloe’s mind. Wasn’t that the woman she’d seen in Luc’s sketchpad? His grandmother? The drawing had depicted her wearing the clichéd paisley scarf of a fortuneteller. Without the scarf, her gray hair sprang out in curls about her soft features. This woman simply looked like a grandmother, albeit a rather cool grandmother, in her colorful, oversized top and playful jewelry.
Luc had been right. Mawmaw didn’t suit this woman. She had a flare that better fit being called Mémère.
But what was she doing sitting on St. Ann Street? Luc had said she’d stopped telling fortunes when she lost the necklace. Had she joined the artists in Jackson Square, instead?
The guy who looked like Luc held out a small paper bag he’d been carrying. Food? Chloe wondered as the woman took it. The woman opened the bag and pulled out several colored pencils. Art supplies, Chloe realized. Luc—she was fairly certain it was him—had taken time out of his day to buy art supplies for his grandmother.
Watching them, she saw concern wash over the woman’s face. The words, How are you? moved across her lips, spoken in earnest. Luc nodded as he answered, the way people do when they say they’re okay even though they’re not. His grandmother said something clearly meant to reassure. She had the demeanor of a nurturer, a woman who listened without judgment and loved her grandson without condition.