Chapter Three

three

JEMMA WAS BACK IN THE one-bedroom walk-up in Chicago, the dingy space she'd shared with Marvin.

She'd been wrestling her key in the front door, a bag of groceries balanced in one arm, the sound of ringing from inside rushing her. She'd made it in, set the bag on the small kitchen table and snatched the phone up.

"Hello?"

"Is Marvin there?" a woman's voice asked.

"Who is this?"

"You tell him that I couldn't go through with it, okay? I'm gonna have this baby. He can either be a man about it or not. Either way, me and this baby gonna be just fine. You tell him that."

A loud click ended the call.

Jemma didn't know the woman's name, but she knew it was the same one from the pool hall, the one in the red dress, with the red lipstick and the long neck, head thrown back in laughter at something Marvin said.

No one had been arrested that night, not him for splitting her lip or her for whacking him across the back with a cue. People in the neighborhood knew when to get gone. He'd run in one direction and she'd run in another, but they'd both circled back to their apartment, where Jemma's mind broke and bled, same as that one wrist. If Marvin hadn't come in when he did, she would've finished the job. Her anger at his interruption was worse than her fury at his deception.

Afterward, her friend Betty had been there. And now, Jemma reasoned that had she listened to Betty, she'd still be there and not here, surrounded by an eerily beautiful group of people who, despite their charms—with the exception of that rude Simone—struck her as more than a little odd. She'd probably still be in Chicago, never mind the nervous breakdown, the suicide attempt and the firing from her teaching job.

If she could have forgiven Marvin.

"A man's going to do what a man's going to do," Betty had said after Jemma told her about the other woman. "Ain't no changing that, and the sooner you realize it, the sooner you can go about your life. Take what happiness you can, but don't depend on a man to give it to you."

Jemma had been in bed, her wrist heavily bandaged, her bottom lip swollen. Betty had just come back into the bedroom with a fresh, cool washcloth, trying to press it to Jemma's mouth, but she put her hand up.

"He promised me a family, that we'd make a family together. He knows my daddy just died. Why would he…" Unable to find the words to complete her mixed-up thoughts, Jemma took the washcloth and put it to her aching lips.

"Why do they do anything? You'll go crazy for real trying to figure that out. Half the time, they don't know why they do the shit they do. Marvin loves you, right? I know, I know, it don't seem that way all the time, but you're here, ain't you? And where's that chick? It's some men would've kicked you out, so think about that. What you can live with and what you can't. If you can forgive him…yes, find it in yourself to forgive him. It's freedom in that."

And while Jemma had taken the first chance she'd been given to run, to break free, she hadn't done it by forgiving.

Betty, Chicago and the mess she'd left behind faded. Her current surroundings included sea green floral wallpaper, creamy wainscoting and gilded mirrors. If she didn't inspect things too closely, she didn't see the peeling corners or the cracks.

—

ON JEMMA'S SECOND DAY IN the house, she'd been disappointed to learn that she hadn't been hired as a tutor at all. Instead, she was an assistant of sorts to Honorine.

"You'll keep track of my calendar, be on call should I require anything further and eventually organize the shelves in the library," the matriarch said after breakfast. "Other times, please keep Fosette occupied. She loves having a young lady her own age here."

It didn't take Jemma long to see that Honorine's calendar had very little on it. No visits from acquaintances, no trips into town. Instead, many of her days consisted of morning and afternoon tea, croquet with the family and short siestas before dinner. Jemma couldn't imagine why Honorine couldn't set these appointments herself.

Chicago had been a bustle—of work, transportation and people. Jemma had often felt like she had no spare time for herself, no quiet.

Here, she was kept busy but in different ways.

When Jemma wasn't assisting Honorine, she played card games or assembled puzzles or helped Fosette decide what to wear for dinner. It was nothing like preparing lesson plans and taking two buses in the morning and two more in the afternoon to go to and from work. Once, after Fosette pulled a frumpy light green gown from her armoire and pressed it against herself while she admired her reflection in the long mirror, Jemma caught herself staring at the young woman's hair, hanging in a thick sheet down her back. Not fashionable at all, but still beautiful, the type of hair that could turn a plain girl into a pretty one in Jemma's neighborhood. She studied Fosette's pale arm, wondering why she wasn't married and why no men her age came around to ask after her.

Jemma thought about her first day in New Orleans, about Lulu at the café and Charlie who'd driven her here. She couldn't imagine why they'd reacted so strangely when she'd told them she was working for the Duchons. They might be a little odd, and yes, they did keep to themselves—not one visitor had come to the door since Jemma had been there, and none of the Duchons left the property—but they seemed harmless.

Each morning was the same. Ever since Fosette had invited Jemma to sit with her at breakfast the day after she arrived, she'd been taking all her meals—not just dinner—with the family, marveling at how they greedily pored over the Times-Picayune in the morning and the States-Item in the afternoon. Each read a section of the newspaper from front to back before silently exchanging it with the person next to them. And while the family didn't treat her as they did Agnes—as if she were almost invisible—the only Duchon who made her feel truly welcome was Fosette, with the endless chatter about nothing and the laugh bubbling up at things both amusing and serious. She kept Jemma occupied with games of cribbage or rummy. Sometimes Laurence joined them.

This afternoon was the first she'd had to herself, begging off Fosette's request for yet another game of cribbage. As soon as Jemma heard the woman go into her bedroom and shut the door, she'd raced downstairs, relief spreading over her at not running into anyone. The older family members often napped before dinner; maybe Fosette would do the same, or whatever she did when she hummed that song in her room. Jemma usually heard the humming through the wall that separated their rooms late at night, when quiet settled over the rest of the house.

But now, all that mattered was that Jemma finally had the chance to explore the grounds on her own.

She made her way outside, the heat sticking to her skin like suckling lips despite the lightness of her cotton dress, one of the few items of clothing she had suitable for the climate. She hoped to run into the gardener, a brown-skinned man she'd spied from upstairs a couple of days ago. By the time she'd rushed downstairs, with no idea what her intentions were besides to talk to someone different, someone who looked like her, he'd disappeared.

Several buildings dotted the huge expanse, including what Fosette had explained were the carriage house, chapel and old washhouse. She'd briefly mentioned a family burial vault, and Jemma recalled the way Fosette's gaze had shifted then. At the time, Jemma assumed it was a painful subject; maybe she'd lost a beloved family member recently. Jemma approached the one-story structure, behind the croquet pitch and set off against a jumble of bushes that appeared ready to overtake it.

Over the door was the family name DUCHON etched in stone. Bronze plaques dotted the exterior in neat columns.

LUCIE DUCHON LEMONT

OUR LITTLE ANGEL

JANUARY 4, 1932–MARCH 12, 1935

Lemont, Jemma thought. Simone's surname. This must be her daughter, gone so young. Jemma frowned at the date of death, which so happened to be her exact birth date.

She scanned nearby plaques.

RAYMOND FRANCIS DUCHON

BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND

AUGUST 3, 1890–MARCH 12, 1942

ANDRé RAYMOND DUCHON

BELOVED SON AND brOTHER

APRIL 8, 1913–MARCH 12, 1949

They'd all died on March 12, Jemma's birthday. Just as her mind tried to work its way around the bizarre coincidence, as her gaze began to move to the next plaque, someone grabbed her from behind. A short scream erupted from her as she twisted around to find Fosette smiling at her, too many teeth gleaming between stiff lips.

"What are you doing in this gloomy old place?" she asked, tugging Jemma's hand even as Jemma stood rooted to the spot.

Jemma pointed behind her. "Those dates. They all died…on my birthday."

Fosette turned back to the house, Jemma's hand tightly held in her own. She wouldn't even look at the vault.

"Fosette, that Lucie—she was your sister? She died the same day I was born."

"I was a little girl. I don't even remember her. Come on. I want to play a game of rummy and I can't find Laurence anywhere."

Jemma turned back to the vault, unsure of what she wanted, and in light of Fosette's strange behavior, she didn't move. She wanted answers.

Before she could demand any, however, Honorine stepped out through the French doors, looking imposing even from a distance.

"Come on," Fosette said, pulling Jemma's hand. This time, Jemma walked with her, trying to tamp down the sense of unease that wormed its way around her. Again, she thought of Lulu.

Get back on the train or bus or whatever you came here on and go back to where you from .

Of Charlie.

Well, maybe something's changed out there .

Of how he wouldn't look at the house when he brought her, the way he'd moved on the moment she'd stepped down from his wagon, as if he'd been in a hurry to get away.

Of the ghosts she'd already seen.

As the two women approached Honorine, Jemma made up her mind to ask about her job, but being polite was key. She didn't want to antagonize her employer, not when she so desperately needed this chance.

"Mrs.Duchon, I wanted to talk about my duties here and helping you with your calendar."

"It's hot as Hades out here," the woman said, slipping back inside. Fosette followed, looking back at Jemma, her face full of curiosity.

Jemma's lips pressed together at the deflection, but she stepped inside, moving to block Honorine's path. Afraid that her voice would betray her annoyance, she worked to control it. "Mrs.Duchon, you're paying me an awful lot of money to be a glorified girl Friday. I was a teacher back home and I assumed I'd be teaching here. I'm wasting everyone's time planning a nearly empty social calendar and playing games. Three hundred dollars a week is a…sizable sum. I want to earn it."

"Three hundred dollars?" Honorine echoed.

Jemma stared at her, any words she thought she'd wanted to say melting away as if the heat affected them, too. And maybe that's why Honorine answered so strangely—the heat. Had it addled the old woman's brain? Was she unwell?

"Why are you trying to be more busy?" Fosette asked. "Aren't you enjoying an easier time of it?"

It seemed Honorine had broken out of whatever spell she'd been under. "Don't worry. We'll have more for you to do soon enough."

She began to turn away, but Jemma put a hand on her arm to stop her, not missing Fosette's tiny gasp.

"It's just that I feel like I'm taking advantage. I wasn't raised that way."

Honorine removed Jemma's hand with deliberate slowness, and the look in her eyes made it clear that she'd entertain Jemma no more.

Jemma watched Honorine's retreating back in silence, her mouth open, her ears closed to whatever nonsense Fosette was uttering. She was just thinking how rude the old woman was when Laurence emerged from the library, his gaze following his grandmother up the stairs until it landed on Jemma and his sister.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Fosette breathed, rushing toward him and slipping an arm in the crook of his elbow. She rested her head against his shoulder, beaming, as if completely aware of the charming picture they made for their newcomer's benefit.

"What's going on?" Laurence asked, lifting his chin toward the staircase.

"Oh, you know Grandmère." Fosette rolled her eyes and then turned him toward the parlor, looking back over her shoulder at Jemma before beckoning her to follow. Jemma looked to the French doors before catching up to Fosette and Laurence, tuning out the constant prattle. Relief fell over her as they sat around the coffee table, a half-finished puzzle surrounded by random pieces almost covering the entire surface. Jemma feigned quiet concentration as her mind swam with questions, her eyes trained on the puzzle even as the brother and sister across from her rested their heads against each other on occasion. One of Laurence's fingers danced circles on Fosette's knee, but Jemma was too focused on her own thoughts to register their behavior.

She'd rushed to accept the job offer from the Duchons because of everything that had happened back home, events that had fallen like tragic dominoes.

Her father's death had been domino one.

Marvin's other woman, number two.

Her suicide attempt followed.

And the last one, the domino that wiped out a viable future for Jemma in Chicago, was the loss of her teaching job.

A part of Jemma's mind was vaguely aware of Fosette planting a kiss on Laurence's cheek, her lips lingering a second too long, but most of it recalled her last day at Carver Elementary School.

The principal's secretary had been waiting outside the office before the first bell rang. The bespectacled woman, whose salt-and-pepper curls always appeared fresh off a roller set, had asked Jemma to step inside.

"I'm not going to be on time, Mrs.Oliver," Jemma said, glancing at her watch, grateful she wore it on her left wrist, the undamaged one.

"Principal Evans needs to talk to you. We'll have someone cover your class."

Had Jemma been less distracted, little details would have caught her attention. The way Mrs.Oliver's eyes wouldn't meet her own. How Mr.Evans shut the door behind her, when that door was nearly always open.

"Glad you made it back, Jemma," he said, settling into his chair, a squeaky sigh escaping the leather.

"Thank you. I'm feeling much better." She took the hard seat across from him, years of disobedient students having worn it smooth.

Her gaze fell on the large box on the corner of his desk and the familiar umbrella handle sticking out of it.

"Is that my—?" she started, the rest of her question fading away at his quick nods.

"Jemma, I'm afraid that in light of your recent troubles, we're going to have to ask that you take some time off."

"Is this about my daddy?"

"No. But there's been…talk…about other troubles."

The principal's deep brown eyes met hers for a moment before moving to her lap, where she unconsciously pulled her right sweater cuff down. She held her breath, waiting for him to say that he knew. Because until he did, she didn't have to admit to anything.

"We know about the hospital stay."

"I was sick, Mr.—"

"Like I said, Jemma, there's been talk. You might have to look for a job in another school system."

Just like that, she knew that the "talk" wasn't only about the suicide attempt, which was enough on its own. Parents didn't want crazy people teaching their children, after all. But someone must have told that she was living with Marvin.

Jemma snatched up the box and marched out the door toward the bus stop, tears blurring the wire fences and brick facades. Before Marvin came home, she'd packed her few belongings and headed to Betty's, wondering how long she'd be able to stay before her welcome wore out.

After several days of sleeping on her friend's couch and circling want ads in the newspaper, she'd received the letter from the Duchons. With no job, no money and nowhere to go, it had seemed like a miracle.

She'd been too grateful for the opportunity the letter presented to consider that it had Betty's address on it, as if the sender knew exactly where she was.