Author: Anne Stuart
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/26005_9
He had no reason to be tormented. His job at the ministry was a good one, with ample money to support him. Jeanne was a good woman, affectionate, sexually inventive, and if she was a bit too Catholic he could overlook it, as long as she didn’t try to drag him to mass. He hadn’t been to church since he was nine years old and the orphanage had burnt down, and he knew he could never go again.
There were times he missed it. Times when he longed for confession and absolution, longed for a penance to wipe some of the evil from his tainted soul.
But then the sun would shine, and he would put such dark memories behind him and think ahead to the good life that awaited him. He would marry Jeanne next month, and they’d have children, lots of children. He was in line for a promotion—with luck they might be able to afford a small house in the suburbs, one with room for the children to play.
But there’d be no garden.
He still couldn’t walk into a formal garden without feeling nauseated. It was the smell of roses that got him, he realized. The sickly sweet scent of pink roses in summer that reminded him of pain and fear and death. And the stench of flesh burning his nostrils.
Whispers: Interactive StoriesMake your own choices and decide what happens next!
The roses had burned along with the orphanage. Everything had been destroyed by the fire—he could remember the blackened timbers of the old wooden building that had been his home for three years, the skeletal branches of the rosebushes, pointing at him, the ashes of the gardener’s shed in one corner of the decimated garden. With the
remains of the gardener lying there in the embers.
Grand-mère Estelle had been found in the basement of the main building. The authorities had decided she’d fallen through when all the debris from the upper floors had collapsed. There was no need for Madame Marti to be in the cellar of the building. It hadn’t been difficult to identify her—who else would be found dead in the orphanage she’d run for more than forty years? What remained incomprehensible, and was finally dismissed with a Gallic shrug, was the peculiar condition of her body. It had taken a strong-stomached employee of the district three days to find all the pieces of Mme. Marti. They never did find her feet.
Yvon sat up, nausea churning in his own stomach. He hated remembering, hated the sick, dark clouds that beat around his head. If only Jeanne had stayed, her incessant chatter could have drowned out the steady beat of the rain against the windows. Could have drowned out the things he didn’t want to remember, drowned out what he had to do.
He moved over to the window, looking down into the wet, dirty streets. Maybe if he quit his job, moved to the country, maybe somewhere in the south. His employers thought highly of him—they’d write him a good letter of recommendation and he’d be able to find something suitable. In the south, in a climate where it seldom rained.
But he knew he couldn’t do that. It would follow him, the memories, the nightmares, the pledge he’d made so many years ago. The longer he delayed the worse it got. There was no sleep for him on rainy nights.
And every now and then, when he least expected it, he’d catch the faint, inexplicable scent of pink roses.
The rain turned to spring snow flurries that scattered in front of the fierce wind. The sun was bright yellow in a clear blue sky, and the puffy white clouds scudded along, carrying the smog with them. It was a glorious day, Claire thought as she heated the milk for Marc’s coffee. Surely nothing terrible could happen on such a beautiful day.
Nicole sat in silence, sipping at her hot chocolate, her small, spotless hands careful around the Limoges cup. Claire had wanted to get her something less fragile, but Marc had refused. “She must learn to eat and drink like civilized people, darling. It will do her no good to coddle her.”
Claire nodded, disagreeing. As far as she was concerned, Nicole could have benefited from some coddling. Not that the child would let anyone close enough to do so. Maybe her grand-mère would be allowed to dispense affection. Someone to fill the terrible gap left by the loss of her mother.
Nicole fixed her flat dark gaze on Claire’s face. “How did you cut your lip, Claire?” she asked, and Claire felt the color flood her face as the memory of the night before swept back through her.
Unfortunately Marc was there, listening. He dropped the paper and spoke to her in a cold, emotionless voice, and Claire flinched in silent sympathy. The relationship between father and daughter had gone from bad to worse. Marc no longer attempted to charm Nicole out of her bad moods. He was cold, clipped, distant with her, reserving his warmth and affection for Claire and Claire alone.
Whatever he’d said to Nicole had been effective. The girl’s sallow face had turned pale and her opaque eyes grew even more blank. He might just as well have slapped her across the face, Claire thought dismally.
Once more she felt that clinging sense of desperation. She knew how much Marc loved his unpromising little daughter, and yet he seemed unable to show it. He seemed removed and judgmental, yet Claire knew it was all the act of a loving man who simply didn’t know how to treat children.
During the last few months she’d tried to help, but had quickly learned not to interfere. The best the two Bonnards could do was muddle along, misunderstanding each other, wrapped in coldness, until something broke through. And that something wasn’t going to be Claire MacIntyre, no matter how much she wanted to help them bridge the gap. They simply wouldn’t let her.
Nicole muttered a graceless apology, and Marc once more disappeared behind the newspaper. Claire tried to give Nicole an encouraging smile, but Nicole swiftly turned her head away. In another, less stalwart child Claire would have thought she was blinking back tears. But as far as she knew Nicole never cried when she was awake. It was only during sleep that her formidable defenses gave way.
Claire glanced toward Marc, then looked swiftly away. The headlines of the paper were dark, bold, screaming of something ghastly. The photograph needed no translation. Another old woman had died.
It was a cold, blustery day. Not a day for a casual stroll in the park, but Marc, blessedly high-spirited, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d bundled Nicole off to her grandmother’s shortly after breakfast, then took Claire back to bed for another hour. It almost wiped out the memory of the night before. With the bright, chilly sunlight streaming in the windows Claire could almost forget the refined torture of the rain-swept night before.
The streets were empty. The day was more like January than early April, with a sharp wind whistling down the streets and around the buildings, sending a chill straight into Claire’s heart. Her silk dress provided little protection against the cold, and the high, high heels on her leather shoes were making her ankles ache as Marc drew her along at a pace just a shade too brisk for a Sunday afternoon stroll.
“Where are we going, Marc?” she demanded, pulling back. “I’m not dressed for this weather.”
He stopped, his hand still possessive on her arm, and looked at her with affectionate criticism. “Darling, my grandmother dressed in clothes that were no warmer than what you’re wearing every day of her life, and she never complained about the cold. It’s all that ridiculous central heating in America. Your blood’s gotten too thin.”
“My legs are freezing,” she protested. “At least you should have let me wear jeans.”
“You know I can’t abide trousers on women,” Marc said, his bright smile taking the sting out of the words. “Don’t complain, sweetheart. It’s just another block or two, we’ll take a quick turn around the park, and then I’ll take you home and warm you up properly. I don’t know what’s gotten into me—I’m quite insatiable.”
Claire ignored the little pinch of dismay, smiling into those dreamy eyes that were on a level with hers. “It’s probably because you’re going away,” she said. “You know you’re not going to be having any for a while.”
“What makes you think I’m celibate when I’m away from you, Claire?” he countered gently. “Perhaps I have a new woman every night.”