Page 27

“It’s a painful subject. You wouldn’t understand, you were too young when she passed to share our grief.”

Livia refused to back down. “You at least had the chance to know her as a real-life person and not just another tragic statistic.”

His eyes widened. “Livia.”

“It’s true,” she hissed. “You’ve reduced her memory to the way she died, not the way she lived.” Livia spread her arms, glancing around the room that was filled with expensive items, but empty of personality. Her current bedroom in New Orleans was a messy collection of clothing and books and professional magazines she never got around to reading and Post-it notes with names or numbers stuck on the mirror. In one corner she had weights that were collecting dust along with a treadmill that was buried beneath a layer of blankets and clean sheets. One glance would be enough to reveal her age, her profession, and the fact that she knew how to be healthy but no desire to make the effort. This place was too sterile to hold any memories. “I want to know who she was growing up and becoming a woman,” Livia confessed. “Did she like school? Did she get good grades? Was she on the softball team or in the school play? Did she go to the prom? What did she want to be when she grew up?” She hesitated before forcing out the most important question. “Did having me ruin her life?”

Adrian paled, as if genuinely pained by her probing. Then he astonished them both by answering.

“Giselle was a spoiled, defiant drama queen. She was constantly causing some sort of scene, as if she thrived in chaos.” His lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “But she was also vibrant and joyous and so charming no one could resist her. Not even my father. He worshipped the ground she walked on.”

The words burst out of him as if they’d been bottled up for too long, and Livia felt a pang of gratitude. For once he was being completely honest, revealing his genuine emotion toward his young, impetuous sister.

“She was Henri’s favorite?”

“Absolutely.” His expression was oddly gentle. “But none of us minded. We all adored her.”

Livia glanced toward the only indication that Giselle had been anything other than the pampered daughter of Henri Benoit. The framed photo of a smiling baby on the nightstand.

“Was she sad when she found out she was pregnant?”

“Not even for a second,” Adrian said without hesitation. “She was delighted. And once you were born, she loved you more than anyone or anything in this world.”

“Then why did she …” The words dried on her lips.

“I don’t have the answers you want, Livia,” he murmured, his moment of vulnerability hardening into stark rejection. “Drinks will be served at six. Delilah would appreciate if everyone could be on time.”

With his warning delivered, Adrian turned on his heel and left the room. Livia waited until his footsteps faded before she crossed toward the bed. Her uncle hadn’t given her answers, but he’d eased a fear that had haunted her since the days she’d discovered her mother had committed suicide.

Giselle hadn’t jumped from her balcony because Livia had destroyed her future. She’d wanted a baby, and whatever else was going wrong in her life, she loved Livia.

The words meant more to her than Adrian would ever realize.

Marveling at the warmth that spread through her, Livia absently bent down to flip aside the gold duvet and reach beneath the mattress. She shoved her hand deeper, at last finding the thin scrapbook and pulling it out.

It was the only personal item she’d ever found over the years of searching the room, and she assumed that was only because her mother had kept it hidden. Otherwise, it would have disappeared with her phone and computer.

Livia didn’t really understand why it was under the mattress. There were a few fading pictures stuck between the pages, mostly of the family around the estate. There were several of Giselle’s mother, Olivia Benoit, who had died just months before Livia had been born. She’d been a short, curvaceous woman with a gentle smile and a love for gardening. In each picture she was trimming rosebushes or sitting in the glass greenhouse that had since then fallen into disrepair. They were just pictures, but Livia had always thought she could feel the love between Giselle and her mother. There was something different in the careful angles and lighting of the photos when compared to the casual poses that focused on Henri, or Giselle’s siblings.

But none of them seemed out of the ordinary. Just the usual family events that happened on a routine basis. Which made it weird for Giselle to hide them under her mattress.

Flipping through the pages that were yellowed and brittle from age, Livia found the picture that she was looking for. In the center of the photo was a gleaming black limo that her grandfather had used when he traveled to visit the various properties spread around the state. Standing next to the vehicle was a stranger who was running a wet sponge over the hood, obviously cleaning the limo. A chauffeur? Probably.

He was tall and dark and gorgeous as he glanced toward the camera with a wicked smile. He had his shirt off to reveal a toned chest and rock-hard abdomen. Exactly the sort of eye candy who would turn the head of an impressionable teenager.

Livia had occasionally wondered if Giselle had been infatuated with the man. And if their relationship had gone beyond casual. After all, Livia had no clue who her father was, or even if he’d been informed he had a child. Maybe he’d seduced Giselle before moving on to a new job.

Then again, she couldn’t imagine Henri Benoit tolerating any hired help who didn’t understand their place in the rigid hierarchy of the Willows. Even if her mother had been impetuous and spoiled, any staff member would understand Giselle was off-limits.

In the distant background, Livia could see the blurred image of Helene, who was facing toward a tall, gray-haired man. Livia recognized him as Helene’s husband. From the gossip Livia had pieced together, Helene had just turned eighteen when Henri married her off to the wealthy Lance Prescott, who was looking for a mother for his two young boys. Lance had lost his first wife less than six months before his wedding to Helene and, from all reports, it hadn’t been a happy union. They divorced less than ten years later, and Lance moved away with his boys, never to return to the Willows.

Absently wondering if her aunt had started drinking after the marriage, and if that was the reason Lance had left, Livia pulled out the photo and flipped it over. It was one of the few pictures that had her mother’s handwriting on the back.

The ink was fading, but she could clearly make out the words Car wash day with Manny. Dreamy.

Livia felt a stab of satisfaction. Manny. She knew the name struck a chord of memory.

Did it answer any questions?