***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2016 Juliet Blackwell Prologue Sabine February 27, 1898 He sleeps. Sabine creeps across the dark studio before dawn, beseeching the silent faces not to betray her. They watch her every move, mute witnesses to her crime. Slipping through the door, she winces at the scraping sound of metal on metal as she pauses to latch it behind her. Fog envelops her, the mist cutting through her threadbare blouse and underthings, wet needles of cold air piercing her skin. Sabine thinks longingly of the two dresses she left behind in the cupboard. He''d bought them for her. They are the finest garments she has ever worn: one blue, one green.
Made of the softest lawn, a material so lush and supple it beckoned to her the first time she donned the garments; often she would caress the skirt, reveling in the sumptuous sensations that tickled her palm. He teased her for that. Take nothing with you. She has donned the heavy black skirt and thin gray blouse she wore when they''d met in the square in Pigalle. When she thought he was her salvation. Before. Her feet are clad in her ancient black boots. The dove gray shawl her mother had knit for her sixteenth Christmas is her only defense against the night''s chill.
She wears her hair pinned back in the style he likes: an old-fashioned twist on either side of her head. As though she stepped out of another time. Also abandoned is a gold armband, still in its nest of fine black velvet, in a blue box upon the nightstand. The tortoiseshell comb for her hair. Her little hand mirror. The candle stubs and pocket-sized book of sonnets, her sketchbook and charcoal. She even leaves behind the pillowcase in which she had packed her few belongings when she''d fled her childhood home in the countryside so long ago. Before Paris.
Before she was an artist''s model. Before Maurice. Before. The damp air stings her cheeks with cold kisses. Dim light from the gas streetlamps casts an amber glow on the cobblestones, glinting off puddles from last night''s rain. They seem to flash a warning: You will never get away with it. You will never get away. Sabine keeps her head down, walking as quickly as she dares.
Listening. She hears water dripping from a gargoyle at the side of the church. A horse whinnying a block or two away. A dog barking behind a stout wooden door. The tapping of her boots on the paving stones, echoing the pounding of her heart. Her own harsh breathing is the loudest sound. And . something else? She freezes.
Holds her breath. Listens. Footsteps. Sabine runs. Runs for her life. She makes it as far as the quai du Louvre. To the Pont Neuf. The bridge that crosses the Seine.
Chapter One This was probably a mistake, Claire thought to herself as she wrestled her luggage cart--why did she always choose the one with a wobbly wheel?--out the exit of the New Orleans airport. The sliding glass doors whooshed closed behind her, cutting her off from the terminal''s unnatural coolness and leaving her mired in the soupy atmosphere of July, Louisiana-style. Louisiana. It occurred to Claire that had she been blindfolded and her ears covered, she would still know where she was. She could feel it, smell something achingly familiar in the air. Humid tendrils of heat reached out and wrapped around her, dampness whispering along her skin, greeting her like an old lover. A lover she''d left many years ago with a mix of regret and relief, an abstract fondness tangled up with the fervent desire to move on. Claire took a deep breath of the hot, moist air, blew it out slowly, and searched the vehicles vying for curb access outside of baggage claim.
When she''d cosigned the loan for her cousin Ty''s new rig, he''d told her it was "huge, black, and shiny." One good thing about having more cousins in Plaquemines Parish than she could count: there was always someone to give her a ride to or from the airport. A small group of already inebriated twentysomething tourists, apparently intent on finding Mardi Gras out of season, jostled Claire on their jocular way to the taxi st∧ she barely managed to grab her computer case as it was knocked from her shoulder. A drip of sweat rolled down the small of her back. She stood with one hand on her lugga≥ other than a few boxes of books and souvenirs she had sent through the mail, the two big suitcases, one duffel bag, and huge purse were all she owned in the world. She''d sold or given away the rest before leaving Chicago. This was probably a mistake, Claire thought again. The phrase had become something of a mantra ever since her cousin Jessica had phoned the week before last to say their grandmother was at death''s door.
"Mammaw needs you, Chance," Jessica had said. Claire''s relatives knew her as Chance; their grandmother went by Mammaw. "She''s speaking in Cajun; no one can understand her but Uncle Remy. And you know how he is." When Claire received the call, she had been sitting in her climate-controlled office in Chicago, wondering what a person wore to the opera. Was her standard black office garb--perhaps dressed up with some chunky ethnic jewelry and a colorful pashmina--enough, or was this more of a sparkles-and-tulle situation? From the vantage point of her desk she could see acres of taupe carpeting and a maze of cubicles, old brick factory walls chicly renovated with skylights, and steel-and-glass dividers for "No-Miss Systems: A Software Company." She looked out over the muted officescape, imagining Mammaw''s house and thinking: If Jessica''s was a voice from her past, what was her future? A night at the opera? Really? You''re getting pretty big for your britches, Chance Broussard. As her newly ex-boyfriend Sean would say: in this, as in most things, Claire was just the teensiest bit conflicted.
Claire finally spotted Ty''s truck, looming large and new in a sea of smaller cars and dented pickups. Ignoring the blare of horns, he double-parked, hopped out, gave Claire a bear hug, then tossed her leaden bags in the bed of the truck like so much kindling. Ty drove toward the small town in Plaquemines Parish where they had been raised. They chatted a little about her life in the "big city," his new truck, the job situation out on the oil rigs, and the precarious state of Mammaw''s health, but further conversation soon fizzled out. Claire''s relatives worked hard, disdained complainers, saluted the flag, and enjoyed their football. When they started drinking, the young men might get raucous and the old folks were prone to spinning long, involved tales in which layers of fact and fiction, history and fantasy merged and overlapped. But unless they were in storytelling mode, her cousins remained largely silent, their thoughts and hopes and dreams kept locked away under sweat-stained New Orleans Saints or Ragin'' Cajuns ball caps. So Claire was free to watch the scenery--flat, full of brush and low trees and crisscrossed by creeks and bayous--and to ponder.
After hanging up with Jessica, Claire had finished up the day''s work, talked to her team supervisor, and hurried to meet Sean for a drink at the latest trendy lounge, a former dive bar that had been revamped with an ironically 1950s décor à la Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack. They ordered craft cocktails made with locally sourced ingredients that took about ten minutes apiece for the bewhiskered "mixologists" to produce and that cost easily four times as much as the drinks had in the bar''s former incarnation. After their cocktails arrived, they settled in at a table and Claire told Sean she had given notice at No-Miss and was going home to take care of her grandmother. "Just like that?" Sean asked, a stunned look on his handsome face, grapefruit-bitters-inspired cocktail held aloft halfway to his mouth. "Well, as soon as they can replace me at work." "But . what about me? What about us?" "I ." Claire trailed off.
The sorry truth was, she hadn''t thought much about Sean''s reaction to her sudden news. Of course he was important to her. Claire cared for Sean. A lot. They''d met not long after graduating college, and Sean--an Evanston native--had introduced Claire to the wonders of city life. Sean took her to fancy restaurants and cocktail parties; he taught her how to hail a cab and gripe about the El and stroll through the Museum of Art while making the appropriately erudite comments. With Sean by her side, Claire developed a taste for Thai food and Ethiopian food and learned to eat raw fish--who knew?--at sushi bars. She even became accustomed to paying the equivalent of an entire breakfast back home for a simple cup of French roast at the chic café on the corner near her downtown office.
They were young and well paid; it was fun. But lately Sean had been pushing for more. Their friends were starting to marry, settle down and buy houses, have children. Claire liked Sean and enjoyed being with him. But there was something lacking. For years she''d been driven: first to get out of her small hometown, then to finish college, then to get a job, then to make more money. Now what? Sitting hunched over her keyboard ten hours a day, going out to trendy clubs on the weekend, able to afford a nice place to live and new clothes, and getting her hair done in a salon . Was this what she had worked so hard to attain? Claire used to be able to lose herself down the rabbit hole of her work: writing code, beta testing, and resolving glitches.
But now she wondered: Did any of it matter in the long run? Is this all there is? An.