Page 29 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

CHAPTER 8

Old Souls

Soren LaViolette was a fascinating human, and this was not a word Maureen could recall ever using about anyone before him. It wasn’t a word she used about anything, really, because it seemed to her the kind of description you reserved for something really spectacular. People liked to waste big words on little things, and then when something really interesting—fascinating—happened, there were no words left.

He was a twenty-six-year-old out-of-work poet, and when she repeated those words aloud to herself before the gilt mirror her father bought her when she was a little girl—one of the few things she insisted on bringing with her to Blanchard House, other than clothing—they didn’t leave her with a swell of pride in her choice.

But Soren was so much more than that!

He’d tried to work, but his aunt, Ruth Ann, the dowager heir of the LaViolette clan, was responsible for approving all careers within the family. Maureen made Soren repeat that a few times, because this was insane to Maureen, who was no stranger to having at least some curation of her life as a Deschanel, but had always been told she could be whatever she wanted. You mean you can’t choose what you want to do with your life? she asked. He explained, weary, that those in the heir’s line have no choice at all. They were appointed to a skill that benefited the family—judges, bankers, politicians. Outside the heir’s line, they could choose from a broader list, but it still had to be approved and blessed. And if they chose none? Then they must live quietly, and in a sort of exile. That was the life Soren had elected, when the options laid before him were more a choice in which prison to lock himself into.

That’s completely bonkers, she’d said, and then kissed him, their first kiss, and she knew it would not be their last. She’d never done anything like that before; even when selling her services as the virginity thief, she’d commanded the men to make each move, guiding them through the steps while never initiating.

Soren’s mother, Rosebud, gifted him her weekend home in Bayou St. John, close enough to come visit her, far enough as to keep him out of the sights of his aunt, who led the family with exacting precision and left no trace when dealing with their enemies… which included those sharing her blood.

“If you think being a branch off the heir’s line is devaluing, try being a man in a clan where only the women matter,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. Maureen had heard things over the years about this family, and his words didn’t surprise her.

But Soren was the antithesis of what Maureen knew about the cunning LaViolettes.

He was creative, sensitive, thoughtful. When she talked about herself, he didn’t wait for her to finish so he could speak. He listened, and when he did talk, it was to ask more, to dig deeper. To know her seemed very important to Soren.

On their first meeting at the house in Bayou St. John, they did no more than talk and kiss. On the second, Soren asked her about her marriage.

“Why, so you can write about it?” Maureen hissed, but she smiled at the edge of the words and kicked him with her bare foot, legs stretched across his lap. She hardly knew him, and yet was comfortable enough to let her guard down.

“Do you want me to write about it?” Soren took her feet firmly in his hands and ran his thumbs over her arches. She shivered.

“Do you want to write about it?”

“Do you want me to want you to want me to write about it?”

Maureen giggled and tried to free her feet, but he grinned and yanked, knocking her back against the couch. “You read a lot. I’m sure there’s already hundreds of books about a beautiful young woman cursed in marriage to an old fuddy-duddy.”

“Thousands, even,” Soren replied, eyes twinkling. “But most end with that same beautiful young woman softening the time-hardened heart of the old fuddy-duddy and finding love in their differences.”

Maureen wrinkled her face. “Yeah, that’s not my marriage.”

“Because of you, or him?”

Maureen successfully withdrew her feet from his vice grip, but on second thought, slid them back over. She liked the velvety softness of his hands on her flesh; his gentle, but assertive control. “The truth is, Soren… he doesn’t want me.”

Soren didn’t ply her with overdone protestations. He instead watched her, thoughtful. “He must have odd tastes, then.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You already know you’re beautiful, Maureen. So does he. Maybe he enjoys the company of men?”

Maureen snorted. “Edouard? No.”

“Don’t look so scandalized. It’s not as uncommon as you think. Men, especially, feel compelled to keep their homosexuality a secret. We like to say we live in a free country, but that’s only true for some.”

“Just trust me. He’s not into men.”

“Then trust me and tell me.”

Tell me. She’d never told anyone, at least not all of it. Chelsea had heard pieces, her sisters yet others, but she’d told no one the entire, sordid tale. To do so risked both her reputation, and also exposed the most horrible day of her life… the day that turned into her life.

Trust me.

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