Angel at Risk Read online

  She lovingly slapped Jean-Paul on the arm. “Quit teasing this old woman.”

  “I’m not teasing. I have brought Angeline to you so you can tell her about Marianna.”

  The old woman’s gaze rested on Angeline. “Is this true? Jean-Paul is not pullin’ this old woman’s leg?”

  Angeline stepped closer. “It’s true. Please help.” Her voice quavered, and a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

  Eleanor slipped her arm around Angeline’s waist and gave her a motherly hug. “Come, ma petite. Let us go inside and you tell me this story.”

  * * *

  Eleanor crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “I am sorry, chère, but what Jean-Paul has told you is truth. Me, I have lived in this parish for all my sixty years. I knew Marianna’s maman and papa. We grew up together. Julia and Ben wanted more children besides Marianna but were never blessed with any.”

  Angeline’s brows crinkled into a frown. “But—”

  “You still don’t believe us?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “How can I?” Desperation sounded clearly in her voice. “If I believe you, then everything my parents and Marianna told me is a lie. Why would they do that?”

  “Is it easier to believe an entire town is lying?” he softly inquired.

  Her shoulders slumped, her head bowed, she whispered, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  The confusion he read in her face and heard in her voice touched him deeply. She seemed desperately in need of reassurance, but how could he give her any? She claimed to be one thing, yet her face was proof of another. Somehow, some way, Angeline was connected to Roger Boudreaux. Could she be in league with Roger, trying to gain access to Marianna’s property to turn it over to him? The explanation seemed logical, but his heart wasn’t buying that line of reasoning.

  “Would a copy of Marianna’s birth certificate help convince you, Angeline, that she was an only child?” Eleanor asked.

  “There’s a copy of it here in the parish?” The revelation surprised Jean-Paul.

  “Oui.”

  “But I thought all birth and death records were kept in New Orleans,” he shot back.

  With a smile that told him the old woman was enjoying herself, she began, “What you say is true, Jean-Paul. But what you don’t know, and should, a man your age still single—”

  “M’dame,” Jean-Paul interrupted. “You are drifting from the point.”

  Giving him a reprimanding look, she continued, “When a man and woman apply for a wedding license in this parish, they must produce a copy of their birth certificates. After that, they are kept on file at the courthouse.”

  M’dame Eleanor was enjoying this too much, but because he had neglected to visit her as often as he should, Jean-Paul played along. “But Marianna never married.”

  She acknowledged that point with a regal nod. “True, but that doesn’t mean she did not apply for a wedding license.”

  Too many surprises were turning up today for Jean-Paul’s taste. “When did she do this?”

  “I don’t remember exactly.” She waved her hand, dismissing the exact time as unimportant. “Sometime in the early seventies.”

  He still couldn’t believe his ears. “Who did she plan to marry?”

  “Charlie Tate.”

  “Charlie Tate,” Jean-Paul parroted in a strangled voice. “I can’t believe Marianna would ever consider marrying him.”

  Miss Eleanor shook her finger at him. “What do you know of the ways of the heart, hein? You do your best to avoid such things.”

  The old woman’s black eyes locked with his and she silently challenged him to contradict her. Several replies came to mind, but he held his tongue. If nothing else, Miss Eleanor deserved his respect.

  “Why didn’t she marry this man?” Angeline asked, breaking the tense quiet.

  “Who can say?” A Gallic shrug accompanied her answer. “All I know for sure is Marianna was the one who called off the wedding. But, I will tell you this. Marianna acted like a woman who had loved intensely, passionately and lost her love. She mourned him the rest of her life.”

  “I don’t remember any of this,” Jean-Paul complained.

  Eleanor waved off his objection. “You were in short pants and only interested in what wiggled in the mud of the bayou.”

  “If Jean-Paul didn’t know about the wedding, then maybe he’s wrong about Marianna having a sister?” Angeline questioned, her voice filled with hope.

  “Non, chère.” Miss Eleanor’s voice held no doubt. “He is not. Come, I will take you to the courthouse and show you.”

  Chapter 3

  Angeline’s heart pounded as she read over the birth certificate.

  July 20, 1944...Marianna Courville...Father—Benjamin Courville, age 22,...Mother’s Maiden Name—Julia Mouton, age 17...Father’s occupation—oil-field worker.

  She frowned. This didn’t make sense. Her grandfather’s name was Edward, and he was a shipbuilder. She continued to read.

  Birthplace of parents—Mirabeau.

  That was wrong. Grandfather Edward was born in Burlington, Vermont.

  Her eyes focused on the most damning piece of information the document held.

  Number of live births to mother—one...

  If what she’d been told by her mother was true, then that line should have read two. Sarah, her mother, was the older of the sisters by a year. Marianna should have been the second live baby born to Julia.

  But there it was, bold as brass, staring back at her, shouting that she’d been lied to.

  She heard footsteps behind her, then felt Jean-Paul’s warmth.

  “Do you need any other proof?” The richness of Jean-Paul’s voice washed over her in the dark dankness of the tiny ground-floor room of the court building. “The Catholic church has baptismal records.”

  The ache inside her seemed overwhelming. Carefully, Angie laid down the paper. Any sudden move might shatter her. “No,” she murmured.

  Jean-Paul squatted by her chair. She tried to hide her pain and confusion by turning away, but he would have none of it. With a gentle hand he forced her to meet his gaze.

  “I’m sorry, chère.” His fingers stroked over her cheek.

  “I guess I’m the liar.” A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and slid onto his fingers. She swallowed hard, trying to stem the flow of emotion. Gazing into Jean-Paul’s deep green eyes, she asked, “What is going on? My entire life, I’ve been told one lie after another. My mother, father, Aunt Marianna. Even my grandparents, for heaven’s sake. But why? Why would they all tell the same lie?”

  He soothed the wisps of hair away from her face. “Who can say why? You will have to ask your maman why.”

  “I can’t. My parents are both dead.”

  “Your grandparents, then, they can answer your questions, yes?”

  She shook her head. “They died years ago. There was no one left but Marianna. Now...There is no one to answer the question why.”

  An awkward silence settled on the room.

  “Jean-Paul,” Miss Eleanor said, capturing everyone’s attention, “take Angeline to the library. She needs to see the picture. Maybe it will answer some questions.”

  “What picture?” Angeline asked, glancing from Eleanor to Jean-Paul.

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re right, M’dame Eleanor. The lady needs to see the picture.”

  Angeline wanted to protest and ask him what he was talking about, but he pulled her to her feet and out of the room into the dim hall.

  “What are you doing?” Angeline demanded as he led her out of the building. It was a question she’d been constantly asking the man since she’d met him. “And what was Miss Eleanor talking about, Jean-Paul?”

  He stopped so suddenly that she ran into him. “I wish you’d quit doing that. I’m beginning to feel like a Ping-Pong ball.”

  The charming grin he flashed her caused butterflies to assault her stomach. “So, my little northern wren knows how to say m
y name. Merci, Angeline.”

  She couldn’t stop the flush of red racing to her cheeks. Funny, how such an inappropriate feeling could pop up now, in the midst of this crisis. And yet, in a way, Angie welcomed the diversion.

  He tugged on her hand. “Come. There is something you must see.”

  He guided her across the grassy knoll in the center of the town square to a lone building surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. A garden filled with dozens of different flowers and plants occupied the space between the fence and building. Carved into the stones above the entrance was the word Library.

  “Isn’t this where Au—Marianna worked?” she asked.

  “Oui, but that’s not why I brought you here.” He opened the door and motioned her inside. The cool interior air flowed around her. She closed her eyes, enjoying the respite from the heat. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. A choked sound made her eyes fly open. Jean-Paul towered over her, the dark hunger in his gaze making her knees weak.

  He leaned close, his warm breath fanning her lips. “You, Angel, have a gift, one that makes others want to share your little sips of life.” Tenderly, he ran his thumb over her lips as if he were a blind man wanting to learn the texture of her mouth. But he was sighted, and she feared Jean-Paul saw much more in her than any other person ever had. She stepped back.

  “You were going to show me something in here,” she prompted.

  After a moment’s study, he gave her a sad smile that spoke of regret and cowardice. Hers. “Come.” He held out his hand, challenging her.

  She placed her hand in his. His strong fingers curled around hers and she wondered if he could feel how her pulse rate shot up. He led her through a second set of double doors into the main floor of the library.

  Angeline glanced around the quiet room, unease tightening the muscles across her shoulders. She slowed. The certainty that there was something here, in this building, that was going to shake the foundations of her world gripped her heart. She wanted to pull her hand out of Jean-Paul’s and run pell-mell out of the library and not stop until she was safely aboard a jet on her way back to Vermont.

  Jean-Paul must have felt her reluctance. He glanced over his shoulder, his brow raised in question.

  One of the teenage girls working at a table near the door glanced up and froze. At a neighboring table, a man reading the latest copy of the local newspaper peeked over the top of the paper and went still.

  Angie’s unease multiplied a hundredfold. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” The explanation sounded weak at best.

  Jean-Paul stopped, but didn’t release her hand. “You want answers to your questions, non?”

  She glanced at the staring duo. “Yes.”

  “And you want to know why everyone stares at you as if they’ve seen a ghost?”

  He knew she did. What he failed to understand was the terror those unknown answers held. “Yes, I want to know.”

  “Then we must do this.”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then started toward the circulation desk.

  Angie kept her eyes focused on his back and counted the steps. There were six before he stopped. When she didn’t move or glance around, Jean-Paul wrapped his arm around her waist and pointed to the wall above the librarian’s desk.

  “Look, Angeline.”

  Taking a deep breath, she obeyed his command. There, in an ornate gilt frame, was a portrait of a woman so identical to her that if she didn’t know better, she would have thought someone had done an extremely flattering painting of her.

  Angeline gasped, bringing the librarian’s attention to her. The woman’s mouth flew open and she dropped the book in her hand. The thud echoed through the room like a gunshot.

  “Mattie,” Jean-Paul said, his voice casual and reassuring, “I would like you to meet Angeline Fitzgerald. I brought her here to see Jacqueline’s picture. She wondered why everyone in Mirabeau stared at her as if she were a ghost.”

  Mattie nodded her head, her eyes still wide with shock. “I understand. Why, she—she could be Jacqueline, herself.”

  Jean-Paul stepped back, then looked from Angeline to the painting. “You got that right. Look, they have the same red-gold hair—” he fingered a strand of Angie’s hair “—blue eyes and fair skin. Why, the smile is even the same. Smile for Mattie, Angel.”

  In some part of her brain, Angie heard the conversation between Jean-Paul and the librarian, but shock of seeing the picture kept her motionless. “Who is she?” Odd, her voice sounded flat and lifeless.

  “There’s a plaque on the bottom of the frame.”

  She located it and read aloud the name engraved in the metal. “Jacqueline Boudreaux. 1910-1970. Who was she?”

  “Jackie was the sister of the richest man in this town, Roger Boudreaux. She gave the money to build this library. She and Marianna were close, and not just because Marianna worked here.” He paused and tapped his mouth with his forefinger. “Come to think of it, Jackie and Marianna were a lot alike. Neither married nor had children. And yet, here you are, claiming to be the niece of one woman and the very image of the other. How very odd.”

  His words sliced through the numbness of her soul, and circumstances rushed in on Angie. Nothing was as it should have been. Tremors began deep inside her and quickly enveloped her body. She tried to hide the shaking by wrapping her arms around her waist.

  Jean-Paul grasped her upper arms. “Are you all right, chère?”

  She wanted to answer him, but nothing came out of her mouth. Her eyes sought out his, silently asking him to take her out of this place.

  “Come, let us go.” He laced his fingers through hers and tugged her forward.

  Once outside in the hot Louisiana sun, Angie tipped her face up to welcome the warmth, hoping it would banish the deep chill that had settled around her heart.

  “Ah, don’t cry, Angel,” Jean-Paul commanded, wiping away her tears.

  Stunned by his comment, she touched her cheek to discover tears streaming down her face. She hadn’t made a sound, would have never been conscious that she was crying if he hadn’t said something.

  He slipped his arms around her and gently pushed her head onto his shoulder.

  The more she tried to stem the tide of tears, the harder they came. The emotions she’d been fighting all day—grief, fright, bewilderment and rage—crashed upon her like breakers on the beach during a violent storm. Once one emotion hit, shaking her, another would come, just as strong as the previous one, giving her no time to recover her equilibrium.

  It seemed as if she cried on Jean-Paul’s shoulder for hours. It probably was only minutes, but finally she gained control of herself and pulled out of his embrace. The first thing she noticed was the large wet spot on the front of his shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping dry her face.

  He gave her a tender smile, one that eased her embarrassment. “Think nothing of it.”

  “I’m not usually an emotional person.”

  “You’ve had reason.”

  Now that the violent storm of weeping had passed, Angie was left with one terrible question. “What’s going on here, Jean-Paul? Who am I?”

  His expression thoughtful, he brushed her chin with his fingers. “I wish I knew, chère. I wish I knew.”

  Staring down into Angeline’s puffy, ravaged face, Jean-Paul knew how it felt to rip the wings off a butterfly. Lousy.

  The three years he’d spent in prison had taught him any number of harsh lessons. Among them was how to read people and the subtle signals they gave off. Of course, the pain radiating from her wasn’t subtle or hidden, leaving him with only one conclusion. Angeline had told the truth as she had known it. Or she was a damn fine actress.

  So where did that leave them? He didn’t know.

  “Jean-Paul?”

  His name on her lips struck deep into his soul. The longing to hear her whisper his name in the heat of passion coursed through him. He sh
oved aside the dangerous thought. His little northern wren was trouble, and if he wasn’t careful that trouble would blow up in his face.

  “Jean-Paul?”

  “Oui, Angel.”

  “Could we go somewhere where I could sit down? I feel kind of shaky.”

  He shook his head. “Bien sûr. You have had an eventful afternoon, non?”

  A chuckle that boarded on the hysterical escaped her lips. “An understatement if I’ve ever heard one. I feel like an amnesia victim who knows nothing about herself or her past.”

  For the first time, he noticed the crowd of onlookers that had gathered around them. Several of the people were straining to see Angeline’s face. He ignored them, slipped his arm through hers and headed across the town square toward his truck.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as they walked away.

  “They don’t mean to be rude. It is just they are amazed by the resemblance.”

  “I understand.”

  Nothing more was said until they were in Jean-Paul’s truck, heading out of town.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice sounding like a lost child’s.

  “To Marianna’s. Maybe there we can find some answers.”

  She turned to him. “Do you think so?” She looked so hopeful and expectant he couldn’t tell her the truth, that the chance of their finding something was slim to none.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  The lie didn’t set well.

  Chapter 4

  Angie, numb from the events of the morning, stared out the window of the truck at the passing scenery.

  “It’s much different than your Vermont, non?”

  Angie glanced at Jean-Paul and saw the twinkle in his green eyes. “Oh, yes. The college where I teach is nestled in a small valley. My house is perched on the side of the mountain, overlooking a babbling brook.”

  “So, there is such a thing as a babbling brook? I’ve never seen such a thing. Here, there are just slow-moving bayous.”

  That she didn’t doubt. The contrast between the two places was startling. Her hometown was a quiet, peaceful spot. Her neighbors were no-nonsense folks and the rugged land was a perfect backdrop for their strong ideals. Here, the earth seemed to pulse with uninhibited life that spilled over into the lives of the people, coloring their actions.