CHAPTER 9
LAIKEN
As I step into what was originally the ballroom, I stay close to the doorway because I know if I go too far into the construction zone then I’ll be yelled at. Tripp takes my safety very seriously. It’s kind of adorable.
But it’s also endearing as hell. I can’t help but fall deeper in love with the man every day because of the way he puts me first. My feelings. My wants. My safety.
Everything he does is with me in mind.
Yes, it’s true. Now, six weeks after the man came barreling into my life, I can admit I’m in love with him.
I probably fell the moment I met him, but I certainly wasn’t willing to admit it then.
He has no such qualms and he’s more than happy to tell me all the time about how he knew I was it for him the moment he met me.
Who does that?
A man with a few crayons short of a box, that’s who. But Tripp doesn’t hesitate. He’s been all in since the moment I found him falling through my front porch.
And what a story it is.
In the past two weeks since Cherie told me about the story she heard about my house while growing up, which was also the first time I visited the clubhouse, I finished Blanche’s journal. What I found was a story of heartbreak and, yes, there was death.
Phillip didn’t survive long enough to see his son who Blanche gave birth to. He did, however, get to meet the daughter Desiree birthed. To everyone who mattered it looked like he never paid his daughter any attention, but that wasn’t the truth. She also wasn’t claimed like Desiree wanted.
To be murdered by your mistress, poisoned if I had to guess, must have been a kick to the ass. At least, it’s what Blanche suspected. Since the man collapsed at work and the abilities of the authorities weren’t all that extensive, it ended up being ruled an accident.
Unfortunately, his death didn’t give Blanche any peace. As much as she wanted to fire Desiree, Phillip’s parents wouldn’t hear of it. They never recognized Desiree’s daughter as kin in public, but the same wasn’t true privately. The remainder of Blanche’s life was devoted to her son.
The same son who ended up taking over the family when he married.
She never mentions any details about that marriage and was more than happy to move to the country house when it was her time.
That’s the last entry in the journal. I can only hope she found some solace there because she certainly never found it here.
Her story does make me wonder how other generations fared in this mansion. Were they visited by Desiree the same way I was? As much as I would love to say I don’t believe in ghosts or hauntings, I know what I saw that day in my studio. I know what I felt.
Desiree was there with me. Maybe it’s because of her Voodoo practices and the curse she left behind. Maybe it’s because she’s still mad about how her daughter was treated by a family which should have embraced her if it were a different time.
It still feels like I have so many unanswered questions when it comes to Blanche’s story and the legacy of the Landry name.
It makes me wonder what Marilyn had to endure.
If my Didi knew what her sister was going up against, she would have fought harder to keep her out of it.
Still, it might not have made a difference in the end and now we’ll never know.
The manly grunt coming from Tripp pulls my attention back toward him.
He’s ripped a huge piece of plaster from the wall, adding to the mess around him and the sweat dripping down the middle of his back.
Even though he would insist I put on a hard hat being this close to the construction work, he’s taken his shirt off without a second thought.
The way his muscles bunch and stretch is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. His torso is almost completely covered in tattoos. There is one open spot, right above his heart. Thinking about the blank space makes me remember a few nights ago as I laid in his arms.
My fingers ran over that blank space as I rested my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. Unable to keep myself from asking, I blurted, “Why don’t you have a tattoo here?”
He tilted his head slightly to peer down at me, his dark eyes studying me closely. His voice was husky, “Why do you think it’s blank?”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I sassed, “if you don’t want to tell me, then don’t.”
When I tried to pull away from him and roll in the other direction, he wouldn’t let me. His arms were like steel bands wrapped around me. I looked up at him, pissed because he wouldn’t answer my question plainly and tried to turn it back on me. There’s no reason for that shit.
“Laiken,” he growled with a scowl on his face, “don’t pull away from me.”
“Then don’t answer my question with a question,” I bit back at him.
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “That spot on my body is reserved for something incredibly special. The only thing I ever intended to put there was my Old Ladie’s name or something to represent her.”
My body went rigid in his arms, but before I could freak out, knowing full well that he thought of me as his and his intention was to claim me fully, he rolled me underneath him. Then he fucked me slowly and so thoroughly that the last thing I was thinking about was that spot on his chest.
The way the ink on his skin plays across his muscles has my fingers twitching to reach for a paint brush and a pallet. Every inch of him should be commemorated in paint on canvas.
I could watch my man work for hours. Happily. Very fucking happily.
Having seen enough, I slip back out of the ballroom. Well, former ballroom. I have no use for such a room in my house. I won’t be inviting the better half of polite New Orleans society into my home for balls. No, thank you.
The ballroom will become a family room, even though the thought of a formal living room makes me uncomfortable.
I think that I’ll make it into a playroom one day.
That could work, considering how close it is to the kitchen, which is going to be huge when everything is done.
That will be framed out soon, but I can already see it in my mind.
I’m so looking forward to when I can make a meal there.
As I step into the solarium, which will remain my studio with some modifications once this renovation is done, I don’t hesitate to pull out a fresh canvas. It takes me a moment to get my pallet set up, but once I do, I focus on my man’s back and the strength of each of his movements while working.
As I start to block out my painting, my mind wanders to all the time I’ve spent with Tripp. I’ve been in relationships before and spent far less time with the man I was with and hated every second of it. I would feel suffocated and like I had no freedom.
This is so completely different considering we’re practically on top of each other all the time and yet I feel a sense of freedom. The last thing I feel is stifled when it is exactly how I should feel, logically at least.
I’m lost in my painting and don’t notice anyone else in the room with me. At least not until a hard chest presses against my back.
Tripp’s husky voice brushes against the shell of my ear, “Are you painting me, my little Mischief-maker?”
I jump about a foot off the stool I’m sitting on, but I don’t fall on my ass because Tripp is there to catch me and hold me steady. Not only do I hear the low rumble of the chuckle coming from him, but I feel it as well.
As I breathe through my heart racing and try to calm down from the adrenaline jumpstart, the sound of the lock clicking into place fills the quiet room. Our eyebrows pull together at the same time as we turn to look at each other in confusion. Then we turn and look toward the door.
The lock is now definitely flipped which makes no fucking sense considering we’re on the other side of the room and are the only two people here.
“What the fuck just happened?” I mutter the question as I stand up from my stool and put my pallet down.
Tripp and I stride toward the door side by side. When we reach it, we find out what we already knew—the door is locked.
“I didn’t lock it when I walked in,” Tripp assures me while still sounding baffled about the door being locked in the first place.
Since the door locks from inside the room, which is where we are, he reaches for the lock and tries to turn it. It doesn’t budge. Then he tries the knob. It doesn’t either, which isn’t a surprise.
Unable to help myself, I reach for the lock and try to turn it. “It’s stuck?” I dumbly ask out loud.
“I don’t think it’s stuck,” Tripp’s voice is unsure.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Is that my voice? It’s gone up an octave and is on the edge of shrill.
“Don’t worry,” he tries to soothe me, “we’ll get out of here.”
When he steps away from me, he starts running his hands over the wall as if looking for something. I find myself following his lead even though I have no idea what I’m feeling around for.
Some kind of switch? A button? I don’t think there is anything that’ll flip the lock open.
“I swear if this is you, Desiree, playing some kind of trick on us, I’m going to be pissed. I’ll try every ghost busting suggestion I can find online to get rid of you,” I threaten under my breath.
Tripp snorts out a laugh from the other side of the room which means I wasn’t as quiet with my threat as I thought I was. Oh well, as long as Desiree hears me.
Her and her Voodoo curse can shove it. The fact that she made Blanche’s life hell because she was petty pisses me off.
She was the mistress. I don’t think the daughter she had with Phillip should have been shunned or anything, but she knew society at the time wouldn’t have allowed her to be with him.
She knew it and she still chose to get involved with him.
“Uh,” Tripp’s sound of confusion has me turning toward him, “what the fuck is this?”
He’s pulled a piece of wall aside to expose a small cubby. I close the distance between us and peer inside of the hole in much the same way Tripp is. We glance at each other before looking back inside the cubby.
I had no fucking idea it was even there, and I’ve been spending a lot of time in this room. How did I miss it?
“It looks like a book,” Tripp murmurs.
I swallow hard, unsure if I really want to know while being very aware that I can’t avoid finding out and reach in to grab it. I pull out a leatherbound journal, black and smaller than Blanche’s.
When I open the cover, I find an inscription on the inside along with a signature. Marilyn Celia Landry.
My great aunt.
Fuck.
“This one belonged to my great aunt,” I whisper the words, hating them.
As curious as I am, I don’t want to find out she suffered a similar fate to Blanche. No one deserves to live a life filled with heartbreak and betrayal. No one deserves to feel like they’re afflicted by a curse they can’t break.
Tripp wraps his strong arms around me and pulls my back against his front. Just as I relax against him, the sound of the lock disengaging fills the room. We turn toward the sound and see that the lock is no longer flipped.
All I can do is shake my head. I’m not even surprised anymore.
“I guess I need to get to reading and find out what happened to Marilyn because, clearly, we were meant to find this journal.”
Tripp huffs out a breath and doesn’t say anything. I get it. He doesn’t believe. I didn’t either, but after the things I’ve experienced since moving into this house, I can no longer deny that the veil between the living and the dead is thin.
Maybe Marilyn’s words can give me some hope for a solution to this mess. As much as I love this house, I won’t be living the rest of my life alongside the stories, ghosts, and memories of the past. They deserve to be put to rest.