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  It was as personal a response as a “Wish you were here,” on a postcard.

  “Thanks, it’s been good to see you, too.” She realized she had just told that fourth lie after all. It hadn’t been good to see him. The meeting would haunt her for years to come.

  Justin was turning to go, when the door in the back of the shop flew open. Valerie poked the side of her shining hair through the opening. “Abigail Justine Walker,” the teenager yelled up the stairs in a loud voice, “don’t you dare come down those steps without your shoes on.” Valerie swiveled to face Bethany. “Abby wants a piece of king cake. Do you care?”

  Bethany shut her eyes, shaking her head. “Not until after dinner.”

  The door shut, and Bethany opened her eyes to see Justin moving closer once again. His face was no longer a mask of formality, but the vulnerable, mobile face of a person in shock.

  “Abigail Justine? Your daughter’s middle name is Justine?”

  Bethany nodded tiredly.

  “Are you divorced or widowed?”

  “Are you cross-examining me, counselor?”

  He stepped closer, leaning on the glass counter, eyes riveted to her face. “Are you divorced or widowed?” His voice was softer, and she recognized his habit of becoming more controlled when he felt great emotion. When she failed to respond he grasped her wrist.

  “Let go of me, Justin.” She refused to struggle, although everything inside her wanted to pull away. She was infused with memories.

  “Tell me.”

  “No, I am not divorced. Nor am I a widow. I am a single woman raising my daughter alone.”

  “And your daughter? Where is Abigail Justine’s father?”

  She cast about for a way out of the trap. Finally she said, “Her father didn’t want us. He no longer exists for either of us.”

  She recognized the expression stealing over his features. It was agony, pure and simple, and she dropped her eyes.

  “My God, Bethany. Did you give her father a chance to make that choice?”

  “Choices are made in different ways. Her father made his known when he decided he didn’t want me anymore.” But the hard words were softened by a catch, like a sob, in her voice. She clamped her lips shut to stem the tears threatening to fall.

  Silence fell inside the little room, broken only by the sound of laughter and traffic in the street. Moments passed.

  “Abby is my daughter,” he said finally.

  Bethany remained silent, lips clamped tightly shut.

  “Tell me,” he persisted.

  The seconds crept by. She tried to pull her arm from his prison of fingers, only to find that they had tightened. He was hurting her. “Abby is my daughter. She belongs to no one but me. She has no father.”

  The expression in Justin’s eyes had turned to dislike, revulsion, perhaps. With distaste he dropped her wrist. “Get your purse,” he ordered her softly.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “We will go somewhere and talk about this now, or you will find yourself in court discussing it.”

  “You have no proof of anything. Your name isn’t on the birth certificate.”

  He regarded her with the same look of distaste. “And whose is?” He waited. “Come on, Bethany. I can have a copy on my desk tomorrow morning.”

  “No one’s.” The image of the kindly hospital clerk who had tried to get her to name Abby’s father came to mind. Shame crept through her as it had when she had told the woman she didn’t know which of several men was the baby’s father, thereby cutting off the discussion. The humiliating lie had eaten away at her since that day.

  “If you tangle with me in court, Bethany, you’ll lose.” His eyes were unwavering, and his voice, one level above a whisper. “Now do we go somewhere to discuss this, or do you wait for a summons?”

  First round to you, Justin. “I’ll see if Valerie can stay with Abby for a little while. But only for a little while, Justin.”

  “You owe me that much, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged, turning without a word to find her way up the stairs.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IF BETHANY HAD been oblivious to the charm of the French Quarter on her previous walk, it was nothing compared to her lack of interest now. She sprinted along beside Justin with her chin in the air, trying to match his long stride. But her heart pounded harder than the moderate exercise warranted. Anxiety increasing with every step she wished they would find a place to sit and have their discussion before she was overcome completely. Still, when Justin motioned her through the door of a smoky little bar several blocks off Royal, she would have given anything to keep walking.

  “Would you like something?” he asked. The words were polite, but the tone was lacking feeling. Had she ordered a cardboard sandwich she was sure he wouldn’t have batted an eye.

  “Yes, I would,” she countered. Trying to appear relaxed, she searched the one-page menu. “I haven’t eaten anything substantial today. I’ll have a cup of the seafood gumbo and some French bread.”

  “So the mother of my child doesn’t take very good care of herself,” he snapped, after the waiter vanished behind the bar.

  “You know, Justin,” she said after a pause, “I think of myself many ways. I’m an artist, a person, Abby’s mother, a responsible citizen— I could go on. But nowhere on the list would appear the title, ‘Mother of Justin Dumontier’s child.’“

  “Then it seems denial’s your stock in trade. I’ll tell you, though, I’d like to see you break the habit. Let me hear the truth from your lips just once. Tell me she’s my daughter.”

  Beneath the red-checked tablecloth Bethany clenched her hands in her lap. She shook her head slightly, but found she couldn’t meet his eyes.

  Justin leaned back in his chair, barely tilting it on its hind legs. “Then tell me she’s not.”

  Like the spider who tangles itself in its own web, she was caught. She could refuse to answer, but that response, too, would be an admission of guilt. She rested her head on her hands, elbows propped on the table. Another in the series of silences that had occurred since their meeting passed slowly by.

  The words when they came were wrenched from her. “All right, Justin. I’ll tell you. Yes, she is your daughter.” She straightened and met his cold gaze. “But let me tell you something else. I’m prepared to lie, to deny it until I have no breath left in my body, if you ever try to take her away from me.”

  “I could prove it if I wanted,” he said after another charged silence. “DNA tests, affidavits from friends who knew we were dating at the time she was conceived. And you named her after me. That would easily be enough to prove it in any court.” His voice was a cold river of words.

  “I don’t think DNA tests are one hundred percent conclusive are they? If you push me, I’ll find someone else who is willing to say he could be Abby’s father, too. As for the name, it’s common enough to be a coincidence, nothing more. It proves nothing.” Beads of perspiration were forming on her brow and at the nape of her neck, although the room was comfortably cool.

  He gave a humorless laugh. “You would go that far?” He searched her eyes. “You would completely destroy your reputation to try to keep me from my daughter?”

  “I would go to hell and back. She’s mine, Justin. . . mine. One tiny sperm does not make you a father. I’m the one who gave birth to her, who got up twice a night for months unending to nurse and comfort her. I’m the one who sat beside her bed in the hospital last year when she struggled with pneumonia. I’m the one whose life changed completely the day the doctor said the pregnancy test was positive.”

  “And I’m the one who’s been cheated out of the first four years of my daughter’s life!” For a moment the cynicism was gone, replaced with fury. “How could you have done this to me?”

  “With a lot of difficulty,” she said finally. Clenching her spoon, she began methodically to choke down the gumbo that had been placed in front of her.

  “You owe me
your version of the story,” he said, ignoring the ham sandwich at his place. “Start at the beginning.”

  “In the beginning I made a mistake lots of foolish young women make,” she said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “I had sex with a man and got pregnant. He left and I was alone.”

  “‘Had sex’? Isn’t that rather crude? What happened to the old-fashioned term ‘made love’?” His voice cut sharply into her monologue.

  “I made love, Justin. You had sex. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. But remember, I was young and stupid. Anyhow—” she waved off his response “—I was caught with no place to go, and too ashamed to stay put.” She pushed the bowl to one side, half-finished.

  “And then?”

  “My father tried to shove an abortion down my throat. Instead I hopped a bus to Washington, D.C., where a friend helped me find a job. I worked through the rest of the pregnancy, and after Abby was born, I came to New Orleans to live with Madeline and work in her shop.”

  “Did it ever occur to you I ought to be told? My God, I remember asking you if you were pregnant, and you said no.” His fist hitting the table was the only display of emotion now. Once again his face was blank.

  The hard thing to accept, she thought, watching his clenched fist in disconcerted fascination, was that he was right. Not telling him had been a selfish act of arrogance and revenge. She was older now, a different person from the immature girl she had been. She could see clearly how much damage her silence had caused them all. But the wheels had been set in motion. Abby was hers and hers alone now. She would not be parted from her.

  “I made a mistake, Justin. I’ve known that for some time. But I was hurt and I was proud. The two aren’t a good combination in a crisis. We will all suffer for it.”

  “And yet. . .and yet you still didn’t tell me until the truth was dragged kicking and screaming from your throat.”

  “I had too much to lose. It was no longer only my pride. It was Abby.”

  “And now?”

  “I told you. If you try to take her from me I’ll fight you with every weapon at my disposal.”

  He gazed at her from heavy-lidded eyes, as if to analyze her last-ditch, pathetic show of bravado. Bethany wondered if her speech had touched him at all. Did he understand how frightened she was? She waited, but when he didn’t answer, she knew she had lost the battle. She had stolen his daughter. Without a word she had kidnapped the unborn child nestled in her body and left him alone and oblivious. Her feelings no longer mattered to him.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do, Bethany,” he said at last. “But I will do something. You can count on that.’’

  “Why can’t you just leave it? It’s not like she’s a real person to you. You’ve never even seen her face.”

  “I’m aware how well you spirited her past me in the shop. Would her parentage have been so easy to tell?” He stopped at the expression on Bethany’s face. “She looks that much like me?”

  “It’s a matter of opinion,” she started, and then gave up the pretense. “Yes. It’s extraordinary.”

  “I’ll see for myself. You’ll introduce us tonight.”

  She shook her head firmly. “Not a chance.”

  “Have you forgotten I’m a lawyer? I can insist.”

  “Justin, please. . .” She choked on her words and waited to gain control. “Please don’t do anything that will hurt us all. Go home. Think about it. I promise I will, too. Call me in a week, and we can talk about it then.”

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  “And what will you say to her? She’ll know something’s wrong. We’re both overwrought. Please wait.” Bethany instinctively reached out to touch his arm, but the hostile look on Justin’s face made the movement ludicrous. She withdrew her hand.

  He stood, throwing a bill on the table and narrowly avoiding the gumbo. “If you try to take her and leave town, I swear I’ll find you and get custody so fast your devious little head will spin for a decade.” Turning, he was out the door and down the sidewalk before she could take in his words.

  Leaving town hadn’t occurred to her. Indeed, she hadn’t had time to think at all since Justin had reentered her life. For a moment she was hopeful. Perhaps leaving was the solution. But hope died quickly as she began to try to think of possible places to reestablish a life with her daughter.

  There were no more Madelines or friends from her past to call on, no supportive acquaintances who would take on the burdens of helping her settle and begin a new career. There wasn’t a vast market for mask makers. Except during carnival season even here in New Orleans it was sometimes touch and go. And even if she found a place where she could practice her craft, Justin would be sure to trace her. She had no doubt he meant what he’d said. Whether he could get custody remained to be seen, but in a strange place without the support system of her present life, it would be easier for him to prove his case.

  There was something more. Now that the secret was out, and Justin knew about his daughter, she felt an obligation to see the situation to its conclusion. Once before she had disappeared, and in good conscience she couldn’t do it again. She had to let Justin assume a place in his daughter’s life. All she could do was wait to see what that place would be.

  Round two to Justin Dumontier. Wearily she pushed back her chair and started for the door.

  * * *

  THERE ARE ONE hundred sixty-eight hours in a week. Bethany discovered that the hard way. Each time the phone rang, the shop bell chimed, the clock moved closer to its one hundred-sixty-eight-hour deadline, Bethany became more and more anxious. For his part Justin seemed to have the patience of Job. He made no attempt to contact her.

  At first she was grateful for the respite, but as the tension built, she wondered how he was using his time. In typical lawyer fashion was he building a case against her— checking with neighbors and acquaintances to see if she was a fit mother, searching for Abby’s birth records to see if she had told him the truth?

  There was something more, too. When she wasn’t overcome with terror he might try to take her daughter, she found herself thinking of him in another way. Images of him that had grown fuzzy over the years had been resharpened by this renewed contact. That she could still remember passionate nights seemed like the ultimate absurdity. She was no longer the naive innocent she had been when Justin entered her life, but her body hadn’t received the message.

  What was it about a particular arrangement of molecules, a random pattern of genes, that had such an intense effect on a man or a woman? Why was Justin Dumontier different from countless other men? When Saturday morning dawned bright and warm with the promise of spring, Bethany was still no closer to the answer than she had ever been.

  Madeline had invited Abby to spend the day at her house near City Park. Abby loved to play in the interesting little “shotgun,” so-called because of its unique arrangement of rooms, one placed directly behind the other. A shotgun fired through the front door would straight out the back without hitting a wall in between.

  Abby was fascinated by the bright-green gingerbread trim against the lemon-yellow walls, and the vibrant colors used inside to highlight the sunny little rooms. Going to Madeline’s held the same fascination that Hansel and Gretel must have felt when they stumbled on the witch’s candy cottage for the first time.

  Bethany watched Abby drive off in Madeline’s little Nissan with relief. Her time was up, and she knew Justin would be in touch that day. Hoping they could reach an agreement before Abby was brought into the picture, she had immediately accepted Madeline’s offer. With some last-minute instructions to Valerie, who was at the shop counter for the day, she walked through the brick courtyard in the back of the shop and climbed the steps to her apartment.

  Two of the three small rooms were littered with Abby’s toys, and with a shake of her head, Bethany stopped to gather them and dump them on a low wooden shelf for Abby to straighten later. The apartment was crowded, even for one adult and a child, b
ut it was flooded with light from floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around two sides of the building which featured narrow metal balconies fenced off with intricate patterns of cast iron. With the sheer curtains thrown open, Bethany and Abby felt they had the entire world to live in.

  In addition to the kitchenette-living room combination there was a bedroom and a six-by-six workroom that Bethany planned to convert into a bedroom for Abby as soon as Life’s Illusions could afford to rent work space near the shop. In the meantime, Abby slept happily on the sofa bed, or in the bedroom if Bethany needed the living room. The overly cozy arrangement was a necessary inconvenience.

  Flicking on the bright overhead light in the workroom, Bethany flopped down on her desk chair and contemplated the mask in front of her on the workroom table. She was pleased by the overall shape of the plaster-and-gauze form. With her hot-glue gun in hand, she began to overlap layers of orange and turquoise feathers to cover it.

  The feathers were small and soft, dyed brilliant hues by one of Bethany’s suppliers. She worked cautiously, stopping only to rise and reach for longer feathers, dyed silver pheasant, that were hanging in flamboyant cascades from hooks on the wall. As she cut the threads binding them, they drifted slowly to the table like exotic birds coming in for a landing.

  At noon she was finished with the preliminary stages when a knock sounded at her door. Wiping her hands on the denim smock she had thrown on over blue jeans and a faded T-shirt, she hesitated, wishing she could pretend she wasn’t there. But Valerie had obviously sent someone up to see her. And without peeking through the window, Bethany took a deep breath and opened the door to Justin’s familiar figure. He was dressed casually—at least for Justin this was casual—with an ice-blue shirt opened at the neck and dark trousers. He carried a leather jacket that looked as soft as a down pillow.

  She’d had a week to prepare, seven days to get ready for this meeting, but Bethany felt much like she had when she had looked up from the ruined pheasant mask to see Justin staring down at her. I wish, she thought, he were old and fat. I wish I could hate him.