Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(124)
Author: Anne Rice

“But she’s happy, and the Talamasca has taken care of her.”

“Yes, absolutely. Of course, if she ever wants to leave, she can leave. That’s our way. But I don’t think Tessa thinks in those terms. I think she drifted for years—how many years, no one knows—from one protector to another. She didn’t grieve too long for Gordon, by the way. She says that she doesn’t care to dwell on unpleasant things.”

Michael laughed. “I understand. Believe me. Look, I’ve got to go back now. We’re having some supper together, and then Ash is going to go on with his story. It’s beautiful here where we are. Snowing and cold, but beautiful. Everything that surrounds Ash reflects his personality. It’s always that way. The buildings we choose for ourselves, they’re always reflections of us. This place is filled with colored marble and with paintings, and with … with things that interest him. I don’t suppose I should talk about it much. He does want his privacy, to be left in peace after we leave him.”

“I know. I understand. Listen, Michael, when you see Mona, you must tell her something for me … that … you must tell her that I …”

“She’ll understand, Yuri. Mona has other things on her mind right now. It’s an exciting time for her. The family wants her to leave Sacred Heart, to start studying with private tutors. Her IQ is off the charts, just as she always said it was. And she is the heir to the Mayfair legacy. I think for the next few years Mona will be spending a lot of time with Rowan and with me, studying, traveling, getting sort of the ideal education for a lady of what … how shall I say, great expectations. I’m going to go now. I’ll call you again from New Orleans.”

“Please do this, please. I love both of you. I love … the three of you. Will you tell the others for me, Ash and Rowan?”

“Yes. By the way, those cohorts, those helpers of Gordon?”

“It’s all finished. They’re gone, and they can never hurt the Order again. I’ll talk to you soon, Michael.”

“Goodbye, Yuri.”

Twenty-seven

EVERYBODY ALWAYS TOLD him the Fontevrault Mayfairs were crazy. “That’s why they come to you, Dr. Jack.” Every single one of them was mad, said the town, even the rich kin in New Orleans.

But did he have to find it out for himself on an afternoon like this, when it was as dark as night, and half the streets in town were flooded out?

And bringing out a little newborn baby in such a storm, wrapped up in smelly little blankets and lying in a plastic ice chest, no less! And Mary Jane Mayfair expecting him just to make out the birth certificate right there in his office.

He’d demanded to see the mother!

Of course, if he’d known she was going to drive this limousine like this over these shell roads, right through this storm, and that he’d end up holding this baby in his arms, he would have insisted on following her in his pickup.

When she’d pointed to the limousine, he’d thought the woman had a driver. And this was a brand-new car, too, twenty-five feet long if it was a foot, with a moon roof and tinted glass, a compact disc player, and a goddamned telephone. And this teen Amazon queen at the wheel—in her dirty white lace dress, with mud spattered on her bare legs and her sandals.

“And you mean to tell me,” he shouted over the rain, “that with a big car like this, you couldn’t have brought this baby’s mother to the hospital?”

The baby looked fine enough, thank God for that, about a month premature, he figured, and undernourished, of course! But otherwise okay and sleeping right now, deep in the ice chest with all the stinky little blankets around it, as he held the thing on his knees. Why, these blankets actually reeked of whiskey.

“Good heavens, Mary Jane Mayfair, slow down!” he said finally. The branches were making a racket on the top of the car. He flinched as the clumps of wet leaves slapped right against the windshield. He could hardly stand it, the way she ran right over the ruts! “You’re going to wake the baby.”

“That baby’s just fine, Doctor,” said Mary Jane, letting her skirt fall all the way back down her thighs to her panties. This was a notorious young woman, nobody had to tell him that. He’d been pretty damn sure this was her baby and she was going to make up some cock-and-bull story about its having been left on the doorstep. But no, there was a mother out there in those swamps, praise God. He was going to put this in his memoirs.

“We’re almost there,” Mary Jane called out, half smashing a thicket of bamboo on their left, and rolling right on past it. “Now, you got to carry the baby in the boat, all right, Doctor?”

“What boat!” he shouted. But he knew damn good and well what boat. Everybody had told him about this old house, that he ought to drive out to Fontevrault Landing just to see it. You could hardly believe it was standing, the way the west side had sunk, and to think this clan insisted upon living there! Mary Jane Mayfair had been slowly cleaning out the local Wal-Mart for the last six months, fixing the place up for herself and her grandmother. Everybody knew about it when Mary Jane came to town in her white shorts and T-shirts.

She was a pretty girl, though, he had to give her that much, even with that cowboy hat. She had the most high-slung and pointed pair of br**sts he’d ever seen, and a mouth the color of bubble gum.

“Hey, you didn’t give this baby whiskey to keep it quiet, did you?” he demanded. The little tucker was just snoring away, blowing a big bubble with its tiny little pink lips. Poor child, to grow up in this place. And she hadn’t let him even examine this baby, saying Granny had done all that! Granny, indeed!

The limousine had come to a halt. The rain was teeming. He could scarcely see what looked like a house up ahead, and the great fan leaves of a green palmetto. But those were electric lights burning up there, thank God for that. Somebody’d told him they didn’t have any lights out here.

“I’ll come round for you with the umbrella,” she said, slamming the door behind her before he could say they should wait till the rain slacked off, and then his door flew open and he had no choice but to pick up this ice chest like a cradle.

“Here, put the towel over it, little guy will get wet!” Mary Jane said. “Now run for the boat.”

“I will walk, thank you,” he said. “If you’ll just kindly lead the way, Miss Mayfair!”

“Don’t let him fall.”

“I beg your pardon! I delivered babies in Picayune, Mississippi, for thirty-eight years before I ever came down to this godforsaken country.”