Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(153)
Author: Anne Rice

Thirty-three

PIERCE HAD COLLECTED them from the airport, far too polite to inquire about the owner of the plane, or where they had been, and only too eager to take them to the site of the new medical center.

It was so warm as to be stifling, Michael thought. My kind of town. So glad to be back, and yet so utterly uncertain of anything—whether grass will continue to grow, whether Rowan will become warm and trusting again in his arms, whether he could stay away from the tall man in New York with whom he had known the most extraordinary friendship.

And the past; the past was not fun anymore and never would be, but something inherited with its burdens, its curses, its secrets.

Take your eyes off the bodies of the dead; forget the old man crumpling to the floor; and Aaron, Where has Aaron gone? Did his spirit rise into the light, were all things clear finally, and forgiven? To forgive is such a gift to us.

They got out at the edge of the huge rectangle of churned earth. Signs read MAYFAIR MEDICAL with a dozen names and dates. And something too small for his aging eyes to read. He wondered if they’d stop being so blue when they couldn’t really see anymore. Did that happen? Or would he have that last claim to fame even when he couldn’t see the girls giving him a second look, or Rowan melting slightly, lips curled at the edges.

He tried to focus on the construction site, to realize what his mind told him, that the progress had been amazing, that some hundred men were working out here in these four blocks, that Mayfair Medical had truly begun.

Were those tears in Rowan’s eyes? Yes, the smooth lady with the bobbed hair and the slim tailored suit of supple cloth was crying silently. He moved closer, what the hell was all this distance about, all this respecting of one another’s privacy, feelings? He hugged her tight and, finding the softest part of her neck, placed his kisses there, until he felt her rustling against him, bending slightly, and a nice quiver running through her hands as she clasped his head, and said:

“You went on with it, all of you. I could never have expected such a thing.” Her eyes moved to Pierce, shy Pierce, who was blushing now under these compliments.

“It’s a dream you gave to us, Rowan. And now it’s our dream too, and since all our dreams are coming true—since you’re here and with us again—well, this one also will be realized.”

“Now that’s a lawyerly speech, with pacing and just enough force,” Michael said. Was he jealous of this young kid? Women did tend to dote when their eyes fell upon Pierce Mayfair. If only Mona could see it, see perhaps that he was the one for her, especially now that in the wake of Gifford’s death, her son had drifted away from his fiancée, Clancy. More and more Pierce came to sit some distance from Mona and stare. Yeah, maybe a little interest in Mona was brewing….

Michael reached for Rowan’s cheek. “Kiss me.”

“This is a vulgar display,” she purred, “and you know it. All those workmen are staring at us.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

“Pierce, how’s Mona, you’ve got an update?” Michael asked. They climbed into the car. He had forgotten what it meant to ride in normal automobiles, live in normal houses, have normal dreams. Ash’s voice sang to him in his sleep. He heard the musical whisper in his ear even now. And would they ever truly see Ash again? Or would Ash vanish behind all those bronze doors, shutting them out, insulated by his company, his billions, remembering them only perhaps with occasional notes, though they might call, come to New York, press his bell in the very dead of night. “I need you!”

“Ah, Mona, yes,” said Pierce. “Well, she’s acting strange. When Dad talks to her, she sounds like she’s high as a kite. But she’s okay. She’s hanging around with Mary Jane. And yesterday a team started work on Fontevrault.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that,” Michael said. “So they’re going to save that place.”

“Well, it had to be done, obviously, since neither Mary Jane nor Dolly Jean will stand to see it demolished. Oh, I think Dolly Jean is with them too. Now Dolly Jean looks like a withered apple, but they say she is very quick.”

“I’m glad she’s there,” he said. “I like old people.” Rowan laughed softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe we’ll ask Aunt Viv to come over,” he said. “And how is Bea? What is happening with Bea?”

“Well, now,” said Pierce with a little tilt of his head. “Ancient Evelyn has worked the miracle there, simply by coming home from the hospital and needing care, and guess who has dashed up to Amelia to feed her soft-boiled eggs and make her talk, and make her grip tight with both hands? Dad says it’s the perfect antidote for grief. I wonder if Mother’s spirit isn’t there.”

“All the news is good news now,” Rowan said with a wan smile, her voice deep as always. “And the girls will be in the house, and the silence will have to wait, and the spirits recede into the walls.”

“You think they’re still there?” Pierce asked with touching innocence.

God bless the Mayfairs who have never seen, and don’t really believe.

“No, son,” Michael said. “It’s just a big beautiful house, and it’s waiting for us, and for … new generations to come.”

“For Mayfairs yet unborn,” whispered Rowan.

They had just turned onto St. Charles Avenue, the heavenly corridor of green, oaks in blinding spring leaf, sun mellow, traffic slow, flash of one lovely house after another. My town, home, everything all right, Rowan’s hand in mine.

“Ah, and Amelia Street, look,” he said.

How dapper the Mayfair house looked in the San Francisco style, with its fresh coat of peach with white trim and green shutters. And all the weeds gone. He almost wanted to stop, to see Evelyn and Bea, but he knew he had to see Mona first, he had to see the mother and child rolled into one. And he had to be with his wife, talking quietly in the big bedroom upstairs, about all that had happened, the tales they’d heard, the strange things they’d seen and might never tell anyone … except Mona.

And tomorrow he would go out to the mausoleum where Aaron was buried, and he’d do the Irish trick of just talking to Aaron, out loud, as if Aaron were answering, and if anybody didn’t like it, well, they could just get out of there, couldn’t they? All his family had always done that, his father going out to St. Joseph’s Cemetery and talking to his grandmother and grandfather any time he felt like it. And Uncle Shamus when he was so sick, saying to his wife, “You can still talk to me after I’m gone. The only difference is I won’t be answering you.”