Page 18 of The Roses I Left Behind (The Bellevue Trilogy)

“And if you find her, then what?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“I think you do,” she said, looking intently in my eyes. “Whatever happens, don’t live with regrets. Always tell the truth, even if it hurts. Your father and I had secrets. Some of them we shared, some we didn’t. In life, there are no easy answers, but what I’ve learned about life is that you must follow your heart. I will miss you, of course. You are my only son. But the time will pass quickly. And, as you say, Haydon will be here, and that alone will bring me comfort.”

I went silent for a moment, lost in my own thoughts.

“Have you told Lizzie about Jeyne’s letters?”

“No,” she said. “Those are your letters. I’ll leave that up toyou.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The trip to New Orleans was meant to be a short one, with morning visits to my banker and to Joseph Rozier, an old family friend who was, as always, in good spirits and eager for his yearly summer trip to Europe. I didn’t tell him of my plans to go North as there was still much to work out. Coming to see Marie Levereaux that afternoon was an afterthought, an attempt to quiet my curiosity and bring a bit of closure to some unfinished business. But there was also something in my mother’s statement regarding my father that prompted the visit.

Your father and I had secrets. Some of them we shared, some we didn’t.

as I stood on the columned porch and waited, I wondered if Levereaux’s presence really mattered now that my father was gone?

The years had passed, but the elegant and intricate Greek façade of 509 Royal Street still looked the same – pristine, affluent and seemingly untouched. Tucked in and around other prominent businesses and homes such as the Bank of Louisiana, Casa Faurie, owned by the maternal grandfather of French impressionist painter Edgar Degas, and French wine merchant Francois Seignouret, the home of Marie Levereaux was surrounded by power and money. I didn’t understand nor notice this fact when I first visited her all those years ago when I sat in her living room and vilified her for being my father’s mistress. Seeing it now, there was no doubt how my father felt about this woman. He valued her and gave her everything that only a married man of his stature could.

Within seconds, a young, mulatto girl about eighteen years old answered the door.

“Is Miss Levereaux in?”

“May I ask who wishes to see her?”

“Thomas White.”

The young girl stepped aside. “Please, come in,” she said with a warm smile. “She’s been expecting you.”

I was taken aback. How did Levereaux know to expect me? As I was led down the familiar corridor, I couldn’t help but notice the dramatic transformation throughout the house. Its felt cold and bare. Paintings that once hung on walls were taken down and laid against packed trunks and covered furniture.

“Would you like something to drink, Monsieur?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

The young girl disappeared and I was left alone in the sitting room to contemplate what were obvious changes occurring in Marie Levereaux’s life. Within a few minutes, I heard delicate footsteps and turned.

“Here we are again,” she said, her voice sultry as ever.

I took in her sea green eyes and full lips. Leveraux had aged quite gracefully and was more captivating than I had remembered, but her eyes told the story. They were deeper and sadder, as if they had seen more of life than what she had perhaps wanted.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, inviting me to sit in a chair. “You must excuse the chaos. I’ve been quite busy as you can see. New Orleans will soon be a thing of the past for me.”

“Oh, how soon?”

“I leave for New York next month,” she said flatly. “I’ll miss certain things about the city. But for the most part, there’s nothing left me here.”

New York, I thought.Why New York?“What about family and friends?” I asked, trying hard to keep my tone casual and light.

A cloud crossed her face. “There’s not much family to speak of. The choice to remain here left me without any real roots. In many ways, your father was my family. Now he’s gone...”

As she began to tear up, I felt an urge to comfort her but reminded myself why I was there. “You were at the funeral,” I said instead.

“I had to pay my respects.”

“So, you had a compulsion and you followed it?”

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