Page 2 of The Unseen
St. Francisville, Louisiana
Turning off the engine, she got out and headed for the front door, trying to avoid the cracks in the wide marble steps.
It was tough not to notice how badly the paint was peeling off the four white fluted Doric columns stretching across the front, or that some of the plaster had fallen off the ceiling of the covered porch.
Nicole rang the bell, letting her aunt know she was coming in, then turned the knob and walked into the entry.
The interior was in as much disrepair as the outside.
The pink Baccarat crystal chandelier had long ago lost its gleam, and the scuffed parquet floors needed refinishing.
She crossed the faded Persian carpet and continued down the center hall toward the sweeping staircase, the beautiful rosewood banisters one of the few things still in good condition.
Refusing to think of the costs involved in doing the necessary cleaning and repairs, Nicole passed the dining room on the left and the front parlor on the right, both of which showed years of neglect.
“Aunt Rachel?”
No answer. It was a warm spring day. Nicole made her way into the big open kitchen, remodeled in the 1950s by one of her great-grandmothers, but totally outdated now.
The Belmond family had purchased the house in the 1920s. Since then, it had been rebuilt a number of times, adding electricity and indoor plumbing, but in the last few decades as the family fortune dwindled, the years had not been kind.
These days there wasn’t enough money to take care of a historic mansion the size of Belle Reve; and even though Nicole’s career as an artist provided enough for minor repairs, and had allowed her to convert the carriage house into a residence of her own, sooner or later, something would have to be done.
Nicole tried not to think about it.
In search of her aunt, she crossed the kitchen, shoved open the screen door at the rear of the house, and saw Aunt Rachel sitting in her usual spot on the terrace in one of the wrought iron garden chairs, which matched the round white wrought iron table.
A pitcher of her aunt’s homemade lemonade sat in front of her.
Aunt Rachel smiled. “How’s the gallery opening coming along?” Tall and willowy, with long, softly curling black hair, she had the smooth skin, high cheekbones, and brilliant green eyes that ran in the Belmond family. At forty-four, Rachel was a beautiful woman.
“The opening’s progressing right on schedule, and Anne’s a terrific promoter,” Nicole said, referring to the owner of Anne Winston Fine Art, one of the galleries that represented Nicole’s paintings. “I’m excited about the event. Nervous, of course, but excited.”
“You have nothing to be nervous about. Your paintings are incredible. You’re a very talented young woman, Nicole. The opening is sure to be immensely successful.”
“I hope so.” The exhibit of her latest paintings was scheduled for a week from Friday in Baton Rouge. “I still need to finish the final canvas.”
“You’ll get it done,” Rachel said. “You still have plenty of time.”
“I’d love for you to be there. I hope you’ll be feeling well enough to come.”
But the odds were fifty-fifty. Rachel had been born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy, which had appeared in her late teens. She’d already outlived the doctors’ predictions, had even been married for a short time in her twenties—before the husband she adored had died of cancer.
But time and Rachel’s illness were both relentless, and day after day, she grew weaker.
“I’m definitely planning to go,” her aunt said. “At the moment, I’m feeling very well.”
“That’s wonderful. Sean’s going. He’s never been to any of my openings before. The two of you can go together.”
Fifteen-year-old Sean Handley was Nicole’s half-brother, the product of her parents’ divorce and her mother’s remarriage.
When Sean’s father, William Handley, had died in a car accident, their mother had overdosed on sleeping pills, leaving Sean an orphan.
Nicole, fourteen years older, had stepped in to become his guardian.
“That’s a great idea,” Rachel said. “Sean and I can share an Uber.”
Nicole smiled. Uber wasn’t a concept most people would associate with Rachel. Her aunt had a dreamy, ethereal way about her, as if she came from a long-ago, more graceful era. The house, having been built in a distant time, seemed to fit her perfectly.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade?” her aunt asked.
“Thanks, Aunt Rachel, but I’d better get to work. I want to get the painting done and have time to make changes if I need to. Why don’t I bring something over for supper?”
“I just finished a big lunch. How about a piece of that chocolate cake you baked?”
“Good idea. I ate a late lunch in Baton Rouge. Cake and a big glass of milk works for me.”
Rachel smiled. “That sounds perfect.” Her aunt didn’t have the strength to walk very far. The house was surrounded by nineteen lush green acres that backed up to Bayou Sara. Much of it was densely overgrown, all but the garden, which Rachel and her part-time gardener carefully tended.
The carriage house, constructed a few years after the main house, sat off to the side, farther along the oak-lined gravel drive.
After Nicole had accepted the responsibility of raising Sean, the old building, where she had played as a child, had seemed the perfect place to make a home for the two of them.
At the same time, it allowed her to keep a close eye on her ailing aunt.
Nicole headed for the carriage house, opened the door of the single-story, gable-roofed structure, and stepped inside. The building now had a living room, two bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, a modern kitchen, and a studio workspace.
She smiled, proud of what she had accomplished.
The interior, done in a style reminiscent of Belle Reve, had molded ceilings and hardwood floors covered by Persian carpets.
The furniture was a comfortable mix of traditional, accented with the ornate French antiques she had rescued from rooms no longer in use in the main house.
Nicole headed for the canvas perched on an easel in her studio, the room itself a no-nonsense space with a comfortable sofa and walls lined with worktables and bookshelves. A skylight, necessary for her painting, was the only extravagance in the room.
Pulling her paint-covered smock over her head, Nicole tied the strings behind her back and went to work.