considering a relationship, something that lasted longer than the few days of a photo assignment. That was not a good sign—it was the kind of thinking that had a man tossing away a damned good career for a dream that didn’t exist.
He knew that far too well from watching his parents’ marriage disintegrate because of the lengthy separations and his mother’s growing despondency. Each time his father came home to visit, he had grown more bitter and distant.
Paul’s mother had retreated from a life that wasn’t what she’d envisioned, either, leaving the two adult Clermonts more like roommates than spouses whenever Renault was home. Paul had once thought he could live a different life with Diane, but after a month of marriage, he’d realized he’d walked into the very trap he’d been trying to avoid. He and Diane had very different expectations of life, and that had only led to unhappiness.
Which was exactly why he should leave Indigo now and forget about any kind of relationship between him and Marjo Savoy.
He stared at the phone, replayed the message from Joe a second time, figuring that hearing it again might make it sound more exciting. It didn’t.
His finger hesitated over the send button. He should call Joe, tell the editor of World he’d be out of here on the first plane. It was time to move on, to put this place behind him, as he had so many places before.
Paul stood on the veranda a long time, holding the phone and telling himself to do the right thing.The problem was, he didn’t know what that was anymore.
This place had gotten to him. Or maybe it was just a little indigestion from the gumbo and turtle soup.
CHAPTER TEN
P AUL DIDN’T WANT TO keep Marjo waiting for him this time, and he arrived at the opera house a few minutes before ten.
A minute later Marjo pulled up and got out of her little blue Honda. Immediately, he was struck by how amazing she looked, and all his well-laid plans from last night evaporated.
Her hair was down again, unfettered by her usual braid. Had she done this for him? Or because she didn’t have an elastic handy?
His male ego hoped that was the reason.
“Good morning,” he said as she approached. “You look incredible. You don’t look at all like you spent the entire night at a wake.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I’ve got a couple of hours until Hugh’s funeral. Are you ready to see the opera house?”
He held up his camera. “Absolutely.”
She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket, inserted one into the lock on the carved door then pushed. It opened with a creak.
Not a good sign, Paul decided, for his ancestral “treasure.”
Marjo led him inside the darkened lobby, then flicked a nearby light switch, bathing the space in a warm glow. The lobby had been used as the retail space for the antique shop and was separated from the auditorium by large double doors. Marjo opened the doors now and beckoned Paul inside, turning on another light.
A long central aisle ran between rows of velvet seats up to a spacious stage, and to either side, staircases rose to an upper level. Wall sconces and chandeliers washed the interior with gold, illuminating the pale floral wallpaper and the high windows.
“This is…incredible,” Paul said. He pointed to the private boxes bracketing the stage. “Look at the intricate woodwork.”
“Alexandre spared no expense.”
“It shows.” He raised his camera and sighted the carving, then the curve of the ceiling, the scars in the wood.
Marjo led him up the stairs and began to tell him the story as she’d promised. “This area was settled in the late 1700s. Growing up in Nova Scotia, I’m sure you know how the Acadians came to live here.”
He had heard the tale at least a hundred times at family gatherings. Heritage was an important part of life in Cape Breton, too. But Paul, who had wanted to be anywhere but in Nova Scotia, had never reallypaid attention to those family stories. “Tell me anyway. I’d like
He knew that far too well from watching his parents’ marriage disintegrate because of the lengthy separations and his mother’s growing despondency. Each time his father came home to visit, he had grown more bitter and distant.
Paul’s mother had retreated from a life that wasn’t what she’d envisioned, either, leaving the two adult Clermonts more like roommates than spouses whenever Renault was home. Paul had once thought he could live a different life with Diane, but after a month of marriage, he’d realized he’d walked into the very trap he’d been trying to avoid. He and Diane had very different expectations of life, and that had only led to unhappiness.
Which was exactly why he should leave Indigo now and forget about any kind of relationship between him and Marjo Savoy.
He stared at the phone, replayed the message from Joe a second time, figuring that hearing it again might make it sound more exciting. It didn’t.
His finger hesitated over the send button. He should call Joe, tell the editor of World he’d be out of here on the first plane. It was time to move on, to put this place behind him, as he had so many places before.
Paul stood on the veranda a long time, holding the phone and telling himself to do the right thing.The problem was, he didn’t know what that was anymore.
This place had gotten to him. Or maybe it was just a little indigestion from the gumbo and turtle soup.
CHAPTER TEN
P AUL DIDN’T WANT TO keep Marjo waiting for him this time, and he arrived at the opera house a few minutes before ten.
A minute later Marjo pulled up and got out of her little blue Honda. Immediately, he was struck by how amazing she looked, and all his well-laid plans from last night evaporated.
Her hair was down again, unfettered by her usual braid. Had she done this for him? Or because she didn’t have an elastic handy?
His male ego hoped that was the reason.
“Good morning,” he said as she approached. “You look incredible. You don’t look at all like you spent the entire night at a wake.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I’ve got a couple of hours until Hugh’s funeral. Are you ready to see the opera house?”
He held up his camera. “Absolutely.”
She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket, inserted one into the lock on the carved door then pushed. It opened with a creak.
Not a good sign, Paul decided, for his ancestral “treasure.”
Marjo led him inside the darkened lobby, then flicked a nearby light switch, bathing the space in a warm glow. The lobby had been used as the retail space for the antique shop and was separated from the auditorium by large double doors. Marjo opened the doors now and beckoned Paul inside, turning on another light.
A long central aisle ran between rows of velvet seats up to a spacious stage, and to either side, staircases rose to an upper level. Wall sconces and chandeliers washed the interior with gold, illuminating the pale floral wallpaper and the high windows.
“This is…incredible,” Paul said. He pointed to the private boxes bracketing the stage. “Look at the intricate woodwork.”
“Alexandre spared no expense.”
“It shows.” He raised his camera and sighted the carving, then the curve of the ceiling, the scars in the wood.
Marjo led him up the stairs and began to tell him the story as she’d promised. “This area was settled in the late 1700s. Growing up in Nova Scotia, I’m sure you know how the Acadians came to live here.”
He had heard the tale at least a hundred times at family gatherings. Heritage was an important part of life in Cape Breton, too. But Paul, who had wanted to be anywhere but in Nova Scotia, had never reallypaid attention to those family stories. “Tell me anyway. I’d like
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