Cooking Up Trouble Page 31

In a surge of fury, she pounded him with his fists. “It’s not fudge! You’re a dirty, low-down, sneaky cheat, D.A. Bologh, and it’s not fair!”

  Suddenly D.A. screeched to halt, mid-air. Heather screamed and squinched her eyes up tight.

  “Blast,” D.A. muttered.

  A huge, echoey voice that sounded to Heather as if it were being processed through some kind of very deep canyon, said, “She’s right. You’re cheating, Diablo.” The voice didn’t enter Heather’s ears and end up in her brain; rather, it rolled through her entire body and lodged everywhere. It was an intensely creepy sensation.

  D.A. heaved a huge sigh.

  Scared to death, Heather managed to open her eyes to slits. At first she didn’t see anything. When she looked down, she still saw the backs of lots of cows. It was a long way down, and she didn’t look for long, but lifted her gaze and tried to discern what it was that had stopped D.A. so suddenly. And that voice. She shuddered, still unable to discern any cause for D.A. to have stopped.

  “No getting out of it, Diablo.” Again, the voice reverberated throughout Heather’s body.

  “Pooh,” muttered D.A. in a pouty voice.

  “You’re cheating,” rumbled the other voice. Heather shuddered again.

  “Oh, very well. I may have cheated a little bit. But only about the time of day.” D.A. was obviously unhappy about this latest disciplinary action.

  “We don’t care for cheaters, Diablo,” the voice spoke again, reverberating through the air and Heather like an echo.

  Heather wished it wouldn’t do that. The effect was awfully disconcerting.

  “You’ve bungled this whole job badly. The boss doesn’t like that.”

  D.A. growled and gnashed his teeth.

  The voice disappeared, and Heather was left in the middle of the air, clutched in D.A. Bologh’s arms, and wondering what in the world was going on. She cleared her throat. “Er, was that the boss?”

  “No,” D.A. snarled. “But we have to go back.”

  Thank God, thank God. Heather was too overcome by relief to say so.

  “But don’t think you’re off the hook, lovey, because you’re not.”

  Heather had feared as much. Nevertheless, she was going to have another chance, and it was difficult to tamp down her elation.

  * * *

  Far from elated himself, Philippe St. Pierre dragged himself to the window, pulled himself up with arms that shook like elastic bands, and peered out into the blackness of the night. Heather was gone. Because of him. Because he’d been too damned stubborn and too damned angry to say he believed in the devil. Even though he didn’t believe in the devil, he should have said he did.

  It was obvious to him now, and should have been obvious before, that although D.A. Bologh was probably a wicked charlatan, he was a good one. Philippe should have said he believed. He hadn’t, and Heather was gone.

  He turned to see where Yvonne had gone and saw her huddled up on a chair, her face buried in her hands. He tried to drum up some of the resentment and fury against her that had driven him for so many years, but he was too weak. She lifted her face, white and drawn—and still impossibly young-looking—and peered at him. Philippe had never seen a human being appear so completely devastated.

  She said, “It’s my fault, Philippe. If I hadn’t made that bargain with the devil all those years ago, you’d not have lost Heather.”

  Merely curious, Philippe asked, “Why did you do it?”

  Yvonne held her arms out helplessly. “I perceived no other choice.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I see.” It made sense to him now. Life was a damned hard proposition. It was hard for men, and it was doubly so for women. And Yvonne had been right about the prospects available to people of color in the south. It was only luck that Philippe himself was light enough to pass as an interesting sort of white male. And if he’d been the slightest bit less judgmental for all these years, he’d have recognized the justice of Yvonne’s choice long since.

  He hadn’t, and now Heather was gone, and his heart felt as if it had been ripped apart with a pitchfork. He hadn’t even told her how much he loved her. He snorted, disgusted with himself. That had been his pride holding him back. What good was his precious pride now? Now that Heather was gone.

  “Philippe?”

  He turned, found his mother gazing at him with undisguised longing, and realized something else for the first time. Yvonne loved him. He was her son, and she loved him. She’d sold her soul to the devil so she wouldn’t have to give him up. He closed his eyes for a moment, contemplating the orphanage in New Orleans he’d been supporting for so many years—during every one of which, he’d believed he’d have been better off if Yvonne had shucked him off to the nuns. What an ass he’d been.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” He stood on legs that still felt as if they were supported by water rather than bone and held out a hand to her. “I’m sorry.”

  She blinked at him for ten seconds before she understood. With a little cry, she jumped up from the chair and ran into his arms.

  She was still sobbing on his shoulder, and he was patting her on the back and muttering soothing noises, when a great rush of wind nearly knocked him over. He and his mother staggered across the room, turned, and Philippe could hardly believe his eyes when D.A. Bologh, Heather still gripped in his clasp, hurtled through the window.

  Yvonne gasped.

  Philippe practically threw his mother away in his eagerness to get to Heather, who met him halfway and crashed into him. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her hair, and whispered, “You’re back. God, Heather, I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I know. I thought so, too.” Heather seemed to be trying not to cry.

  “I love you, Heather. I love you so damned much. When I thought you were gone, I knew what a fool I’d been not to tell you sooner.”

  She pulled away from him far enough so that she could stare up into his eyes. “You love me? Really?”

  D.A. muttered, “Tripe.”

  Philippe managed what was probably a very crooked smile. “You’re the first and only woman I’ve ever loved.”

  “Oh, Philippe.” She sank against him for only a second before she pulled away again. “But we’re not safe yet.”

  “That’s right,” put in D.A. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? I’m finding this reunion a bit sickening.”

  “You’re a fiend, D.A. Bologh,” said Yvonne, who’d recovered some of her composure.

  “Trite tripe,” grumbled D.A. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “You’ve got a half hour, Heather, my sweet. Get at it. I want to get you away from here as soon as may be.”

  “You’re not taking her again,” declared Philippe, tightening his hold on her.

  D.A. sneered magnificently. “Oh? And who’s going to stop me? You, rubber legs?”

  Dammit, the devil was right.

  His own choice of words gave Philippe pause. He glanced down at Heather. “What was it you said earlier, Heather? About my admitting or confessing something?”

  She wiped tears from her cheeks and nodded. “Yes. The bargain D.A. finally struck with me—after he’d refused to tell me his terms for so long—”

  “Get on with it!” snapped D.A., stamping a cloven hoof. “There’s no need to go into all of these piddling details.”

  “He’s a devil, Philippe,” Yvonne told her son softly. “I sold my soul to him so that I could keep you with me when you were born. Now he’s hoping to complete the ruin of my life—and yours—by taking Heather away from you. Because you love her. He wouldn’t settle for taking just anyone.” Her voice reeked with bitterness. “He only takes a person’s most cherished loves.”

  “There’s no point to it otherwise,” D.A. muttered.

  “Ah,” said Philippe.

  “You see,” said Heather, “I had to figure out who he was, and then I had to convince you that he was who he was. That was the deal. I met Yvonne in town, and she told me who he was.” She spared
a glower for D.A. “That was the easy part. I already knew him for a devil.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. Philippe realized she was going to say something she didn’t want to say and hugged her hard. “If we win, Philippe, there’s something else you need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This is so boring,” taunted D.A.

  “It’s your mother.”

  “No, Heather,” Yvonne broke in. “That doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the two of you.”

  Philippe looked at his mother, puzzled by the expression of fear on her face.

  Heather shook her head. “No, Yvonne, it is important.” She tilted her head to peer up at Philippe again. “You see, if we win this battle with D.A. Bologh tonight, Yvonne will lose, too. She bargained for eternal youth and beauty, and that bargain will be canceled.”

  “I don’t care!” cried Yvonne, wringing her hands. “Youth and beauty don’t mean a thing compared to the happiness of my only son!”

  Philippe could scarcely believe his ears. His eyes, however, didn’t deceive him. Yvonne meant what she’d said. He couldn’t force words out of his mouth.

  Heather continued. “Anyway, it was Yvonne who told me who D.A. really was. I wasn’t surprised, as I’d pretty much figured it out for myself by then. Yvonne and I both knew that the hard part would be convincing you.”

  “You both know me,” Philippe murmured, feeling ashamed of himself.

  “I guess.” Heather shrugged. “At any rate, those were the terms of the bargain.” She peered up into his face, and he saw the love in her eyes. “So, it’s up to you.”

  He shut his eyes for a second, marveling at the possibilities in life. He’d never believed in second chances before, but he’d been given a second chance. And he wasn’t about to hash it up again.

  “Yes, I’m absolutely convinced D.A. Bologh is the devil. And I want him out of my house and my life and your life and my mother’s life. Now.”

  D.A. stared at the scene before him for only a second or two before he uttered a terrible howl, sent up a ghastly screen of smoke that stank of brimstone and sulfur, rocketed around the room three times, and vanished through the window, leaving the library in ruins and the three people in it huddled together.

  Silence, as deep as the night sky, descended on them as quickly as had the storm engendered by D.A.’s passing. Philippe opened his eyes slowly, afraid of what he might find—or of what he might not find. He felt Heather in his arms, but that might be an illusion.

  It wasn’t. When he realized she was still there and he still held her, he let out an involuntary and inarticulate cry of joy and kissed her passionately. She kissed him back just as passionately. The kiss went on for seconds that felt like hours, and Philippe’s heart rose higher and higher, as if it were being transported to heaven on clouds of happiness. He couldn’t recall another single time in his life when he’d felt so free, so unencumbered by the bonds of worry, responsibility, and the memories of his past. They were bonds he’d forged by himself for himself, and they snapped now as if they’d been crafted of mere twigs.

  Heather finally broke the embrace. Philippe didn’t want her to and tried to prevent her, but she insisted. “No, Philippe. We have to make sure Yvonne’s all right.”

  Oh, damn. That’s right. His mother. He heaved a huge sigh and, still holding Heather for fear she might slip away if he wasn’t careful, he turned toward where he’d last seen Yvonne. She was still there, still sitting hunched over in a chair that was much too big for her. Her hands covered her face. Philippe studied her curiously, wondering what was going to happen now that Yvonne was no longer governed by a devil’s bargain.

  Heather said softly, “Yvonne? Are you all right?” She made as if to go to her, but Philippe wouldn’t let her go, so he had to walk with her. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what had become of his mother. It would be a shock to see the woman look her age. Philippe didn’t even know what that age was.

  With what appeared to be extreme reluctance, Yvonne slowly let her hands fall into her lap, exposing her face.

  Heather cried, “Why, you don’t look any different at all!”

  She didn’t. Philippe squinted hard, but he didn’t detect an iota of difference in his mother’s appearance. She still looked younger than he was.

  Yvonne stared incredulously at Heather and Philippe. “I don’t?”

  Philippe shrugged. “No. You look just the same as ever.”

  “Good heavens.” Yvonne stood, swaying slightly, from which Philippe deduced she’d been as affected by recent events as he’d been. She tottered to the door, opened it, and went into the hall, aiming, Philippe imagined, for the mirror on the wall.

  Heather peered up at him. “Do you think we should follow her?”

  “I—I suppose so.” It came as a huge surprise to him to learn that he cared what his poor mother was going through. He didn’t feel an ounce of disdain in his heart for the poor woman who’d given up everything for the one commodity she possessed that she knew was worth something to her: Beauty. And now her beauty was in jeopardy. He realized he felt an odd combination of pity and affection for his mother, and walked with Heather out into the hall.

  Yvonne was there, leaning toward the mirror, and feeling her face with her hands. She glanced at Heather and Philippe out of the corner of her eye. “I—I guess it’s going to happen gradually.”

  “It must be going to happen gradually,” agreed Heather. “It sure hasn’t happened yet.”

  Philippe felt the strangest compulsion he’d ever felt in his life. He smiled at his mother and, taking Heather with him, went up to her and drew her into his embrace. Yvonne buried her head against his shoulder and wept.

  Heather, recognizing a scene of reconciliation when she saw one and, Philippe imagined, deeply touched by it, cried onto his other shoulder.

  He’d never been happier in his life.

  Eventually, they settled Yvonne into a bedroom upstairs and down the hall from Philippe’s, right next door to the one in which Jimmy slept. Philippe didn’t give a thought to proprieties or Mrs. Van der Linden when he took Heather to his own room. He’d be damned—no. He didn’t think he’d better use that expression anymore—he’d not allow her to sleep away from him again, ever, if he could help it.

  He felt free tonight; free from old worries and hates; free to love for the first time. He loved Heather. He loved his mother. He no longer had the least desire to punish her by proving himself. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him—except Heather. He cared a great deal what she thought of him.

  He took her in his arms as soon as the door closed behind them. “I love you, Heather.”

  “I love you, Philippe.”

  Very tenderly, he helped her undress. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her softly rounded belly.

  She gave a low, soft laugh that sounded like music to his ears. “Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder. I’m glad you think I’m beautiful. I can’t hold a candle to your mother.”

  He shook his head, and pressed his cheek against her warm flesh. One of these days, a child of his would be nurtured in there; his heart swelled when he thought about it. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world to me.”

  She sighed happily. “I’m glad.”

  They made slow, beautiful love. Philippe stroked Heather to fulfillment before he entered her tight, moist passage. He wanted to make the night last. It had already been the most important night in his life; he wanted to extend it for as long as he could. He knew he’d cherish the memory forever.

  Her skin was as soft as silk and as smooth as satin. Her every reaction to his touch was heaven to him. And, as much as he tried to prolong the moment, his passion carried him away, and he achieved release sooner than he wanted to, although he took Heather with him.

  After he caught his breath, he whispered, “I wanted it to last longer.”

  “It was perfect,” she said on a long, replete sigh.

  �
�I should have made it last longer.”

  She was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, he heard a distinct smile in her voice. “Well, then, I reckon we’ll just have to do it until we get it right.”

  They did.

  Epilogue

  Yvonne’s appearance didn’t change overnight. She talked to Heather about it a lot, fearing she’d become an old hag in no time at all. Heather didn’t believe it.

  “You’re too beautiful ever to be an old hag. Shoot, Yvonne, you’ll be beautiful when you’re ninety.”

  Yvonne, whipping egg whites into froth for the soufflé she was preparing for breakfast—she was as accomplished a French chef as D.A. Bologh, although it took her longer to do things since she didn’t have any unearthly help—frowned. “No woman is beautiful when she’s ninety.”

  “Fiddlesticks. You will be.” Heather, who was no slouch in the kitchen herself—wonder of wonders—opened the oven door to check on the Potatoes Lyonnaise.

  Heather was right. Eventually, Yvonne began to show her years, but she never, ever, once, looked anything but beautiful—even when she got to be ninety. By that time, she was universally acknowledged to be the most beautiful grandmother in the territory.

  Philippe and Heather’s first son was born in May of 1897. That spring had been kind to the territory. The winds, which always blew in the springtime, didn’t rip any roofs away or tear any fences down, and the town of Fort Summers, situated next to the fort that had protected that end of the territory for decades, prospered.

  Philippe’s ranch prospered, too, much to the town’s delight. The entire population accepted Yvonne St. Pierre as Philippe’s long-lost and much-admired mother. Not even Mrs. Van der Linden’s dark tales of mysterious doings at the ranch on a certain night dampened the town’s enthusiasm for the St. Pierre family.

  Yvonne discovered she didn’t mind looking her age. She also discovered that grandchildren were perhaps the greatest blessing in a woman’s life.

  It was a good thing, too, since she eventually had a whole flock of them.

  Heather, who’d had her doubts earlier in life, forever after that blustery spring of 1895, adored the wind.