Midnight Bayou

joke, so you must be feeling better.”
    “Considering I gave birth less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d say I’m doing great.”
    Lena pursed her lips. “ Cher , just how much have you had to drink this evening?”
    “Not nearly as much as I plan on having. You know how you had this theory that I was Abigail Manet? Well, I’m starting to think you’re onto something seeing as I dreamed I was in that room down the hall, in the bed I’ve seen in there—that one that isn’t there. I wasn’t seeing Abigail on that bed, in the last stages of labor. I experienced it, and let me tell you, it ain’t no walk on the beach. Any woman who doesn’t go for the serious drugs is a lunatic. It beats anything they dreamed up for that entertaining era known as the Spanish Inquisition.”
    “You dreamed you were Abigail, and you—”
    “It wasn’t like a dream, Lena, and I think I must’vebeen in that room when I had the—flash or hallucination, or whatever we call it. I can remember the storm—the sound of it, and how scared I was, how focused I was on bringing that baby out.”
    He paused, replayed his own words. “Boy, that sounded weird.”
    “Yes. Yes, it did.” She sat beside him.
    “I heard the voices. Other women helping me. I can see their faces—especially the young one. The one close to my age—Abigail’s age. I can feel the sweat running down my face, and the unbelievable fatigue. Then that sensation, that peak of it all when it was like coming to the point of being ripped open. Bearing down, then the relief, the numbness, the fucking wonder of pushing life into the world. Then the flood of pride and love when they put that miracle in my arms.”
    He looked down at his hands while Lena stared at him. “I can see the baby, Lena, clear as life, I can see her. All red and wrinkled and pissed off. Dark blue eyes, dark hair. A rosebud mouth. Tiny, slender fingers, and I thought: There are ten, and she is perfect. My perfect Rose.”
    He looked at Lena now. “Marie Rose, your great-great-grandmother. Marie Rose,” he repeated, “our daughter.”

20
    T heir daughter. She couldn’t dismiss it, and something deep inside her grieved. But she couldn’t speak of it, wouldn’t speak of it, not when her head and heart were so heavy.
    Lena threw herself back into the crowds, the music, the laughter. This was now , she thought. Now was what counted.
    She was alive, with the warm evening air on her skin, under the pure, white moonlight with the fragrance of the flowers and gardens rioting around her.
    Roses and verbena, heliotrope, jasmine.
    Lilies. Her favorite had been the lily. She kept them, always, in her room. First in the servants’ quarters, then in their bedroom. Clipped in secret from the garden or the hothouse.
    And for the nursery, there were roses. Tiny pink buds for their precious Marie Rose.
    Frightened, she pushed those thoughts, those images, aside. Grabbing a partner, she flirted him into a dance.
    She didn’t want the past. It was dead and done. She didn’t want the future. It was capricious and often cruel. It was the moment that was to be lived, enjoyed. Even controlled.
    So when Declan’s father took her hand, she smiled at him, brilliantly.
    “This one here’s a Cajun two-step. Can you handle it?”
    “Let’s find out.”
    They swung among the circling couples with quick, stylish moves that had her laughing up at him. “Why, Patrick, you’re a natural. You sure you’re a Yankee?”
    “Blood and bone. Then again, you have to factor in the Irish. My mother was a hell of a step-dancer, and can still pull it off after a couple of pints.”
    “How old’s your mama?”
    “Eighty-six.” He twirled her out and back. “Fitzgeralds tend to be long-lived and vigorous. Something’s upset you.”
    She kept her cheerful expression in place. “Now what could upset me at such a lovely time and place?”
    “That’s the puzzle. Why don’t we get a glass of champagne, and you can tell me?”
    He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. Like father, like son, she thought as he kept her hand firmly in his. He drew her to the bar, ordered two flutes, then led her outside.
    “A perfect night,” she said, and breathed it in. “Look at those gardens. It’s hard to believe what they were like just a few months back. Did Declan tell you about the Franks?”
    “About the Franks, Tibald. About Effie and Miss Odette. About the ghosts, about you.”
    “He bit off a lot here.” She sipped