Chapter Eight
The rules were in place for a reason, but Claire hated every second she had to wait to go back inside. She tried to keep busy, taking the needed samples from Ebiere and riding with Dayo to check the traps at the village. No luck. That worried her because viruses didn’t usually kill their host organism. It was inefficient. A virus’s sole purpose was to reproduce and spread. Viruses killed when they became zoonotic and jumped species, but this virus seemed to kill everything—humans and rats.
Almost like its only function was to kill.
They set out more traps with peanut butter for bait, then she caught a ride back to the field hospital while Dayo went on to check the Egbesu camp. She expected he’d find more empty traps.
Concerning, yes, but something to worry about later. Right now, her only concern was getting back to the hospital in time for her shift in the quarantine wards.
She took a cooler full of bottled water in with her, and resisted the urge to go to Jean-Luc first. He wasn’t the only patient there, and as much as her heart kept pulling her toward him, she had to do right by the others. When she finally made it to him, he was sitting up on his cot.
He sighed when he spotted her. “You came back.”
“I told you I would.”
“And I told you to leave,” he said. “Did you call Tuc?”
“I was a little busy.” She realized she’d snapped at him, and drew a breath to dispel the annoyance. It hurt that he was pushing her away. As a doctor who had spent her career dealing with victims of some of the worst pathogens the world had to offer, she understood his reasoning. She’d seen other infected do the exact same to their friends and family. She’d consoled those friends and family.
But being on this side of it hurt. She’d never realized how much.
She wheeled the cooler to a stop beside his bed. “I have water for you.”
He looked at the cooler with little interest. “You won’t let me die with a shred of dignity left, no?”
“I’m not letting you die, period.”
“We both know you have no control over it, cher.”
She hated it. She hated all of this. She opened the cooler. “You need to drink as much water as you can.”
“Claire,” he said softly. “Tell me about yourself.”
She froze, hand halfway into the cooler. Generally, her patients didn’t ask questions like that. But then again, Jean-Luc wasn’t just any patient.
She shrugged and picked up the bottle of water she’d been reaching for. “There’s not much to tell.”
“You were born in London,” he prompted. “Lived there until you were…ten, eleven? Then moved to the States.”
She raised her brows at him and twisted off the cap of the water before handing the bottle over. “Sounds like you already know all about me.”
“I did my research. I know the broad details, but not the little stuff. The stuff that makes you you. I want to know.” He took a long drink of the water, and it made him cough hard. She hurried to his side with a towel as blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. She rubbed his back while he wheezed through the coughing fit.
“I’m good. I’m good,” he said finally.
No, he wasn’t. She was watching him deteriorate before her eyes. She dipped a cloth in the bowl of water beside his bed and laid it across his forehead. “I was ten. My father’s career took us to California. Originally, they had planned to leave me at the boarding school I attended in Warwickshire—but my mother thought it would reflect poorly on her. She’s all about image, so she uprooted me to California. They gave me the best of everything…”
“But,” he prompted after she trailed off.
“But I was like a prized pony to them. They trotted me out to impress friends or business partners—‘Look at our little girl. Isn’t she so beautiful! And smart, too!’—but once the party was over or the deal closed, they sent me away to be raised by staff until the next time they needed to impress someone.”
His brow furrowed. “They must be proud of you now.”
She shrugged. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to my mother since I entered med school—she thought it was a distasteful choice of career and below me. She wanted me to marry rich and become a country club trophy wife like her. And my father was always too busy to pay much attention to me one way or another. If you walked up to him and asked him to recite his only child’s full name, he’d be hard-pressed to do so.”
“Which is…?”
“Hmm?”
“Your full name?”
“Oh.” She gave a rueful smile. “Antoinette Margaret Ophelia Claire Oliver.”
He grinned. “And here I’ve always thought Jean-Luc Barthelme Cavalier was a mouthful.”
“Barthelme?”
He cracked a smile. “You’re one to talk, Ophelia. At least I have the excuse that my mother was most likely drunk or high when she named me.”
Her pleasure at his smile faded. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, cher. Don’t be. I’m not looking to stir the pity pot here. Just stating a fact. My childhood wasn’t as…structured as yours. My mom, Lydiane, was the black sheep of the Cavalier family. Ran off to New Orleans at sixteen, got pregnant four times by four different men who were all long gone before the pregnancy tests even turned up positive. She raised us in the city for a time, bouncing around jobs—everything from waitressing to stripping to occasional prostitution.”
Claire couldn’t imagine it. The childhood he described was so far removed from the life of culture and privilege she’d experienced. Sure, her parents had been distant and cold, but she’d never lacked for anything. “Was it horrible?”
“Sometimes it was.” He answered in such a blasé way, she had to wonder what kind of emotional scars he was hiding under his nonchalant outer shell. Ever since their first meeting, she had the feeling he used jokes and humor to deflect. He wasn’t in much of a joking mood now—who could blame him?— so she suspected he defaulted to that casual attitude for protection instead.
“But not always,” he added in a softer tone. “Mom was a lot of fun. She loved us as best she could and worked hard to take care of us—when she was sober. During one of her longer stretches of sobriety, she ironically worked in one of the touristy bars on Bourbon Street. She could never afford a sitter, so she’d take us with her. I’d sit in a booth in the back, watch over my brother and sisters, and just soak in the color, the life of the place. I was nine when Mom nosedived off the wagon into drugs. Child Services took us away from her and placed us with her mother.”
She smiled. “Your infamous mamere?”
“Oui, Mamere Edmee.” He gave a small huff of laughter. “You know, you’d think I’d hate New Orleans after watching my mom get swallowed up by it. Mais, no. I love that city with my whole heart.”
She wasn’t surprised. The city must have felt like the only link he had to his mother, and despite all of her shortcomings, Claire could tell he’d loved Lydiane like all sons loved their mothers. “Were things better once you were placed with your grandmother?”
He nodded. “Things were more stable. Pawpaw had been the breadwinner in the family, and after he died, Mamere was left poor. She never finished school, only worked part-time at a local diner, and didn’t have room in her house for four kids, but she made it work. We were never lacking for love and we never had to worry whether we’d get our next meal or not. Moving in with her allowed us to be kids again. Marielle was less afraid of everything, Etienne less angry. Roseline, my youngest sister, finally started talking at five years old. Mamere saved us by taking us in.”
“You love your grandmother a lot.” A statement, not a question. Claire could see the love he had for the woman in the softness of his smile whenever he spoke of her.
“She was…” His voice caught and he trailed off. Cleared his throat. “She was our rock. Our foundation. Everything’s felt shakier since we lost her.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she had passed.”
“An aneurysm, back in January. It was fast. I always thought too fast, but…” He glanced around at all the sick people in the room. “I’m glad it was fast. She would’ve gone mad sitting around, contemplating her mortality while her body slowly died. She would’ve hated it.”
Like you do. Claire didn’t say that out loud, though. Instead she asked, “Do you know what happened to your mother?”
“She died during Katrina.” He said it flatly, no inflection in his voice to indicate how he felt about it.
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. “Oh, God, Jean-Luc. I-I’m so sorry.”
“She was long gone before the storm. By then, she’d drank away anything that resembled the woman we loved. I hadn’t seen her in at least ten years. Last I’d heard of her, she’d been homeless, begging on the streets, trading sex for drugs or alcohol. I’m told I had another brother, but we don’t know what she did with him. He was a toddler at the time and hasn’t been seen since the storm.”
“That must have been difficult for your family.”
“It was a rough year for all of us, but especially for Mamere. She searched and searched for the kid until the day she died.”
“Were you in New Orleans during the storm?”
“Non. I was already working with the CIA, and they had me in some war-torn place or another. I can’t tell you where exactly. A lot of that shit’s still classified.”
“CIA,” she repeated in disbelief. “Classified.”
“Yeah, and I was more than a translator for them.” He stared at her for a long time with his bloodshot eyes as if gauging her reaction. When she didn’t respond, he asked, “Does that bother you, cher?”
She thought about it. She didn’t know what he’d done for the CIA, but she could guess. A man with a photographic memory who had the ability to perfectly mimic any language—yes, they would have used him as much more than a mere translator. And in Martinique she’d seen firsthand how deadly he could be with a knife.
Did it bother her? Yes, of course it did. From the look in his eyes, it bothered him as well. But—and she knew this was the real question he wanted answered—did it make her scared of him? No. Not at all. Honestly, she didn’t think anything could at this point.
“We all have pasts,” she replied finally.
He grunted. “Some are worse than others, and I’m starting to regret a lot of the decisions I made in mine.”
“Don’t.” She touched his hand. “Don’t do that.”
He turned his palm toward hers and laced their fingers together. “I’ve made bad decisions.”
“Haven’t we all?”
He shook his head slightly. “Mamere always said I was too much like my mom for my own good. She tried to steer me away from that life, but I still managed to find my way back to Bourbon Street. Time and again, I let her down. She died disappointed in me.”
“I don’t believe that. Maybe you disappointed her on occasion, but what child doesn’t let down their parents—or grandparents—from time to time? It sounds like she loved you very much, and if she wasn’t proud of the kind, funny, intelligent man you became, then she was a foolish old woman.”
He grinned. A real one that, for a moment, overshadowed everything else. “Mais, she would’ve adored you. As soon as I brought you home, she would’ve started planning a wedding.”
Pleasure warmed her belly. “Would you have brought me home to meet her?”
He stayed silent for a beat. “I think I would’ve, and you’d have been the first.”
She laughed at that. “I’m flattered, but you can hardly expect me to believe you’ve never taken another woman home to—”
“Never. I’ve slept with a lot of women.” He winced. “More than I want to admit to right now. But I never took any of them home. You’d have been the first. The only.”
Her face grew hot and she was glad for the protective covering that shielded all but her eyes from his view, because she had to look like a tomato underneath. “Oh, c’mon. Now you’re just sweet-talking.”
He grumbled, annoyance snapping in his eyes. “What would be the point of sweet-talking now? I’m dying. I’ll never take you to bed, though I’ve wanted nothing but since meeting you.” He lifted their still joined hands. “I’ll never even be able to touch you without a sheet of plastic between us. So what exactly do I gain by sweet-talking you now? I’m only telling you truth. Of all the regrets I have, coming here, finding you, is not one of them.”