The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(83)
Author: Karen White

 

“It has been lovely meeting you, Nola. As well as Jolene and your sister. You are everything Michael told us—smart, beautiful, and funny. And you love your family. I feel like we’re friends already, and I hope you aren’t a stranger once we get back to New Orleans.”

 

“Oh. I, um—thank you. And likewise.” Robert still hadn’t reappeared, and I was beginning to think that he wouldn’t.

 

I took a long sip from my glass. “What year was the original house built on this property? I’ve always been fascinated by the history of buildings. Even those that no longer exist.”

 

“Me, too,” Angelina said. “Nineteen oh five. It survived several major storms, including Hurricane Camille in 1969, but was no match for Katrina. We were one of the fortunate families with good insurance and the funds to rebuild better and stronger.” She stood to refill my glass, then joined me again at the table.

 

“Robert and I are very aware of our blessings, which is why we make it a priority to support not only many of the economic recovery organizations in the Gulf Coast and New Orleans but also many of the preservation groups throughout Mississippi and New Orleans. I’m sure you agree that our collective history is held inside older buildings and we cannot let them be destroyed. Once they are gone, they are gone forever.”

 

Her words mimicked ones I had said many times over the years, making me like Angelina even more. Which might have been her intention. “So, was the original house built by Antoine and his wife, Paulette?”

 

Angelina turned her head slightly, as if the name alone had acted as a slap.

 

“Excuse me.” Sarah had silently appeared, her footsteps cushioned by the carpeted stairs leading down to the first floor. “Michael is on a Mario Brothers streak and he sent me upstairs to get us something to drink.”

 

Angelina stood and opened the refrigerator. “Is sweet tea all right?”

 

Sarah nodded vigorously, having inherited Melanie’s love for all things sugary.

 

When she’d gone, Angelina sat down again, and part of me hoped she’d take up the conversation where we’d left it, because I didn’t think I could bring it up again.

 

“So, where were we? Right. You were asking me about the original house. My grandmother Paulette Mouton was given the property as a wedding gift when she married my grandfather. A small cottage was here, and it stayed rather humble for the first years of their marriage. Gradually, it was added onto, and things like electricity and indoor plumbing were added as my grandfather’s businesses became more successful.”

 

“Your grandfather Antoine Broussard?”

 

Her face stilled, her previously animated eyes now shadowed and quiet. Almost in a whisper, she said, “We don’t speak his name out loud.”

 

I recalled the dark spirit that had trapped me in my upstairs closet, and I shivered. “Have you . . . felt his presence? Since his death?”

 

She gave a sideways glance as if to make sure no one was near, then gave one short nod. “It’s best not to get his attention. It won’t . . . end well. Trust me. My miscarriages . . .” She shook her head quickly. “Just trust me.”

 

I searched her eyes, waiting for her to say more, but instead she smiled and folded her hands on the table like a judge banging a gavel to signal the close of a case. “So,” she said, her bright demeanor returning, “while I have been wanting to meet you for a while now, I need to admit that we had ulterior motives for bringing you here.”

 

I sat up straighter.

 

“I understand that you have become close with Mimi Ryan and her son, Beau.”

 

“Yes.” I kept my voice neutral.

 

She smiled softly, as if she understood. “And I’m sure with this recent unpleasantness involving Michael, you’re probably needing some explanation.”

 

I raised my eyebrows. “By ‘recent unpleasantness,’ are you referring to the break-ins and attempted robberies at both my house and my apartment that could have ended in serious injury?”

 

She kept her face and voice calm, her gaze never wavering. “I was sorry to hear about that. If I had known beforehand, I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen.”

 

“So you admit that you know the reasons for the break-ins.”

 

She held up her hand, palm out. “Not at the time. Unfortunately, I was kept in the dark. Otherwise I would have suggested another way.” Angelina grabbed my hand and held it tightly. “I need you to understand my family. It wasn’t for Robert or Michael to question. Only to act to protect our family’s reputation.” Angelina leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Despite that, I can tell you with all honesty that we had nothing to do with Sunny’s abduction. I will swear on a Bible to that.”

 

I pulled my hand away from her grasp but kept my eyes on hers. “Then please explain where you were when Sunny was taken. Give me a reason to believe you.”

 

Angelina closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. “I’d just suffered my third miscarriage in June 2005. Both Robert and I were devastated. My grandfather was getting older, his mental capacity failing, and his son-in-law—my father, Carl—had recently died from lung cancer. The entire family business empire rested on Robert’s shoulders, leaving him little time to grieve or to be with me so we could lean on each other.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” I’d expected to hear some sort of confession or explanation during my visit. But I hadn’t expected this. Or the way her words pinched my heart.

 

“As you can probably imagine,” Angelina continued, “Robert and I were preoccupied at the time of Sunny Ryan’s abduction. I was already at our house in the North Carolina mountains, where I’d fled to nurse my bruised soul, and Robert joined me right before Katrina hit.”

 

“And your brother Marco and his wife and children—did they go with you?”

 

Angelina shook her head. “No. Marco was very stubborn, as was my sister-in-law. If only one of them had been, we would have been able to convince them to come with us. But not with both of them digging in their heels at the thought of evacuating. They had stayed in New Orleans through every storm and hurricane threat since they could remember. They lived in a house on Napoleon in the Garden District, which is one of the areas on the highest ground in the city. They had a generator and lots of bottled water on hand and had stocked up on supplies, so they were prepared to survive. Just not prepared for what they witnessed.”

 

“I can’t imagine.” I shook my head slowly. “The footage and photos I’ve seen are horrifying enough. To have observed it firsthand would have been inconceivable.”