Crescent City Connection

‘grandpa’—but don’t say his name, okay?”
    “Why?”
    “Humor me,” he wrote. “Just please humor me.”
    He sent her to freshen up while he put on some rice and started cutting up carrots, celery, green pepper, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, mushrooms—everything he could think of for a nice stir-fry.
    Isaac was one of those people for whom cooking is like a meditation. He used this time alone to figure out what he thought about this peculiar situation. He was crazy about the girl, he always had been—that he was glad to see her wasn’t in dispute.
    But he was trying to hold his fear at bay. His father was a dangerous, dangerous man, and his brother was nearly as bad—Lovelace had no idea, really. What the hell did they want her for?
    His father was always getting together some crackpot following—perhaps his ego demanded that he be surrounded by family, however unwilling.
    But that didn’t hold water, or he’d have come after Isaac, too.
    Would have if he could have, Isaac thought. Nobody knows who the White Monk is—just another street-corner weirdo. And anyway. New Orleans had to be the last place he’d look for his son.
    He had other problems with Lovelace. She was grown-up and attractive, for one thing—that was dangerous enough in any woman, considering his vow of celibacy, but this woman was his niece. Being attracted to his own niece wasn’t a crime, but considering his vow of celibacy, he was probably more frustrated than the average uncle, and having her around might be something of a challenge.
    Then there was the dirt. He never let anyone into his house because of possible contamination. He wouldn’t be able to take a shower now without bleaching out the tub; if he let her use his bed, he’d have to find a way to sterilize everything afterward.
    Actually, he’d known all that when he went after her, and bringing her here had simply seemed to outweigh it. Now he was getting scared. He chopped a bit of his finger off.
    Not much, just enough to bleed a little. Blood carried contamination. He needed a Band-Aid, only Lovelace was in the bathroom. What was he to do? He started to hyperventilate and wondered if he was going to get hives.
    Better sit down. He grabbed a paper towel and applied pressure to the cut, rocking in his white rocking chair.
    He’d taken the same vows he’d always heard that priests took—poverty, chastity, and obedience—but the vow that really mattered to him was silence. If he couldn’t have the others, at least he’d want that one. Poverty was his next favorite. Being an artist, he was bound to be poor; it added up nicely.
    Chastity wasn’t too hard, usually, till Lovelace came along, and it wasn’t as if the vow was in danger even now—he wasn’t about to try to seduce his own niece. It was just that it was going to weigh on him.
    Obedience, however, required that he take her in. Since he didn’t have the Catholic church to tell him what to do, his form of obedience was a little loose. The way he saw it was the way somebody else might see flowing with the river or rolling with the punches, something like that. He was working on acceptance—whatever the gods sent him, he wanted to accept, even embrace, and nurture if it needed nurturing.
    They had sent him Revelas, a convicted murderer, and he’d accepted him. Now they’d sent him his own Angel—surely he could accept her.
    Little Lovelace. A name so ironic … given to her by her parents, maybe because it had “love” in it, yet considering Daniel and Jacqueline, what a life she’d probably had.
    Certainly had.
    She was here now because her mother was out of pocket and her father had done violence to her.
    His heart surged with pity and affection for her. And fear. This was a girl who had to be protected.
    If she was an angel, he’d be an archangel—Michael, the defender. He’d keep her from her enemies.
    He needed to make her feel welcome. What could he do?
    Flowers. That would be good. His were white only, but there were some nice ones—plenty of calla lilies, for instance. He got a pair of scissors and was halfway out the door when he felt his feet dragging. Did he really want to do this?
    No!
    He did not.
    He wanted to do the minimum so that he could feel as if he was keeping his vow, yet she’d get the hint that he wished she’d be on her way.
    Cold, nasty bastard
, he thought, so disgusted with himself he clipped half his Confederate jasmine to go with the calla