Post by Mimi on Aug 31, 2006 21:29:53 GMT -5
Chapter 1.7 And heaven's there for those
Who fool the tricks of time.
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The trouble of childhoods, of any childhood is that there is no statue of limitation on memories. Good or bad, memories sustain themselves into elusive patterns that shift intricately as the years progress. Every one born of this Earth begins somewhere, in the womb of their mother—suspended in time, where fear subsides and the only viable emotion is love. Roman counted those beliefs in his reasoning; John had a beginning and Roman was determined to find it. Motivated by selfish fortitude, Roman’s meticulous research over the past two years led him to the distinct city of New Orleans, Louisiana—on legendary Plantation Row along the Mississippi river banks. He’d left Salem armed with two vital pieces of information: a name and an address. Keys to John’s past, keys to freeing John’s hold on his wife and family. Mira LeMoyne.
“This ghost chase of yours... Roman... I’m worried,” was Abe’s reply when Roman discussed his plans with Abe before his departure.
He dismissed Abe’s doubt, “Partner... I have to do this. He can’t be as black and white as he seems. There is something out there to be found. I’m going to find it.” He was immovable in the journey to John’s past. Repercussions would have to be dealt accordingly; his family would have to understand.
He’d flown into New Orleans two days ago, renting a room in the French quarter above an all night watering hole. Throwing the LeMoyne name around with the local drinkers drew no bites. He decided after his first day in town that he needed a cover. He assumed the identity of a distant LeMoyne cousin searching for his mother’s cousin Mira LeMoyne. As Oscar Picquet, Roman gained an entrance into the moneyed society of New Orleans historical families. Meeting Raysa Bordeaux proved advantageous to Roman’s search.
Raysa Bordeaux was a middle-aged woman—Creole by her admission—who was the unauthorized gate keeper of New Orleans secrets. Roman met her in the courtyard of her café in the French Quarter. The large dining area of Raysa’s was a square courtyard encased in beautiful wrought iron gates. The scents of the city danced in the thick, muggy air; they were fragrant, sensual aromas of azaleas and magnolias.
“There is no place on Earth quite like New Orleans... and frankly quite like the Quarters,” Raysa said inhaling on the end of her slim cigarette. Her accent was thick and southern; her dialect very slow and direct. “Mr. Picquet...”
“Call me Oscar,” Roman corrected her seductively. He was caught up in the nature of the city, the seductive nature of its people.
Raysa raised her perfectly arched eyebrow, “I’m calling bull... Oscar... kind sir I was not born yesterday. What do you want with Mrs. LeMoyne?”
Roman called her bet. He leaned forward, settling his elbows on the table between them. “Her. I want to talk to her.”
“Do you mean her harm?” Raysa asked examining his face carefully. “She’s had enough pain to last more than our lifetime’s combined. Mira’s a beautiful soul... she always has been—I’m getting ahead of myself here. For some reason I feel as if I can trust you Mr.…?”
“Roman Brady,” he said pulling her hand to his poised mouth. “Captain of the Salem P.D... I’m not here to harm Mrs. LeMoyne... I think we can help each other.”
“Help her? How so?”
“Deal breaker Mrs. Bordeaux... I’m not exactly sure. I’m trying to solve a thirty-year old mystery... I’m trying to help a friend of mine back home, with finding his identity. I think Mrs. LeMoyne is somehow apart of that identity.”
“How so?”
“I’m not entirely sure. My research pointed to New Orleans, as well as the LeMoyne name. Mrs. Mira LeMoyne. There is no further information regarding her in our systems.”
“There won’t be. She lives the life of a saint... in that mansion on the hill. Mira LeMoyne is the closet thing we have to Mother Teresa. She’s been widowed for years.”
Roman was intrigued. “Children?”
Sadness overcame Raysa’s face with Roman’s question. She answered solemnly, “There was a child a long time ago... sadly the child disappeared. It was devastating to Mira and her husband. He died soon after the child’s disappearance. She never speaks of that child or her husband anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s impolite to speak of the dead,” Raysa said tilting her porcelain tea cup to her lips.
“Do you remember what the sex of their child was?”
“No I don’t,” she said dismissively. “Mira’s moved on. Let the past be the past.”
“Will you take me to see her?” Roman asked Raysa, watching her struggle with curiosity and loyalty.
“Mr. Brady, Mira LeMoyne is not the woman you’re looking for. Even if she were, she’s not that person anymore. Her life has changed and I don’t think she would appreciate having her past dug around in, especially by a stranger who deceives people.”
Raysa politely tipped her head toward Roman before excusing herself. Roman watched her saunter back through the courtyard. He silently apologized for his intrusion and decided then that seeing Mira LeMoyne was the only thing he could do. “The past is never the past.” He reminded himself.
********
Raysa’s description of the LeMoyne estate paled in comparison to the actual estate itself. A large white home, built in early Greek architecture sat in the center of 35 acres of sprawling grass. An oak-lined drive led to the front of the palatial home, large oaks with wide spans of green and brown leaves hovered above the dirt road leading to the circular court at the foot of the towering stairs of the entrance. Large columns extended from the third floor of the house to base of the antiquated wrap-around porch.
Roman took a breath, got out of the car, and climbed the stairs two at a time. A thin veil of sweat layered Roman’s forehead. He wiped his skin quickly with the back of his hand. Before ringing the doorbell, he took another glimpse of the land surrounding the house. In the tall grass fields beyond the house, the image of a small blonde child caught his eye. Blonde curls flailed carelessly in the wind as the child disappeared into the grassy fields.
“Hello Sir.”
Roman turned to see a beautiful woman with dark heavy hair cascading around her shoulders and intense eyes of indigo encased in almond frames staring unapologetically at him. She was standing at the top of the stairs.
“Hello, I’m sorry to intrude…” Roman said trying to regain his composure. There was something the child that attacked his senses, something familiar about the place. He climbed the stairs cautiously. “I’m Roman,” He said extending his arm to the older woman.
“I’ve been warned,” Mira LeMoyne said. A warm smile creased her mouth as she pulled Roman’s arm and welcomed him into her home. “I am the woman you have been searching for Roman.” Her accent was unique, not entirely southern, and not entirely American. She struck Roman as aristocratic with her long free style hair and European accent.
Mira offered Roman a seat in the parlor of her home. Raysa’s phone call had come only that morning. She could remember only his first name, Roman. A gentleman of remarkable manners was Raysa’s description. He was handsome as Raysa had also mentioned but Mira recognized more than his handsomeness when she’d opened the door to find him standing there. He had a confident manner, Mira decided, not arrogance but a confidence that was apparent in the comfortable way he sat in the chair across form her, visually surveying the room.
The room was non-distinct in terms of family pictures and mementos. “There is no past or history here,” Mira said craning her neck. “We only live in the day to day now.”
“Now… you didn’t always Mrs. LeMoyne,” Roman asked. “We all have a past.”
“Of course, some more painful than others. You don’t seem like your old enough to have a past Roman.”
“Looks can be deceiving Mrs. LeMoyne. No one can escape pain.”
“Touché… and now if I can inquire without showing rudeness, what are you searching for?”
“I believe I’m looking for you,” Roman told Mira straightening his posture in the chair. “I believe that we can help each other.” Roman had conjectured practically all night in his hotel room about the possibility that he had solved the greatest mystery of his life. He hoped Mira LeMoyne could be who he needed her to be, the piece of John, no matter how distant the relation that would free him from needing his family so much. When the story of John being Forrest Alamain surfaced Roman was sure that it was all false, manufactured by Stefano. He hadn’t believed anything about the story; instead, Roman bid his time and researched until he was satisfied.
He reached into his jacket packet and pulled out a photograph of John and Marlena. Handing the photograph to Mira, he waited and watched for her response. Her reaction was slow. Touching the picture with her fingertips, she traced the outlines of both John and Marlena. Speechless; a mist gradually saturated her eyes. She looked up and Roman saw the long-buried sadness in her face.
“You recognize him?” he asked hopeful, taking her hand into his.
Mira struggled with words, “I’m not certain… this could be him… my son John.” She scanned the picture again, clutching her chest with her tiny hand. “I know this woman… Samantha.”
Roman shook his head, “This is my wife Marlena Evans… and John Black.”
Mira stood and walked to the other side of the room. “Roman, is this a game? Stefano… is this about Stefano?”
Roman leapt up to defend himself, piqued by her familiar use of Stefano’s name, he stepped in front Mira. “No… I’m Roman Brady… Stefano’s my arch nemesis. He was… he’s dead.”
The color drained from Mira’s face. She held the picture up again and then looked to Roman. “Wait… you’re a Brady?”
“Yes.”
“Shawn Brady.”
“My father?”
“Oh my… I need to sit down Roman. Give me a minute.” She said sitting again. She held onto the picture securely, going over the impossibility of the moment. The impossibility that John was alive, that Samantha was married to John or had been, and that Shawn Brady’s son was standing in her parlor.
Roman sat beside Mira, draping his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I don’t mean to upset you. I’m simply trying to right a wrong that happened years ago.”
“This can’t be true.” Mira said in disbelief. “Samantha and John… Marlena as you call her. Amelia…” she said cupping her mouth.
“Who is Amelia?” Roman prodded.
“Sam… Marlena’s daughter. Her little girl.”
Who fool the tricks of time.
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The trouble of childhoods, of any childhood is that there is no statue of limitation on memories. Good or bad, memories sustain themselves into elusive patterns that shift intricately as the years progress. Every one born of this Earth begins somewhere, in the womb of their mother—suspended in time, where fear subsides and the only viable emotion is love. Roman counted those beliefs in his reasoning; John had a beginning and Roman was determined to find it. Motivated by selfish fortitude, Roman’s meticulous research over the past two years led him to the distinct city of New Orleans, Louisiana—on legendary Plantation Row along the Mississippi river banks. He’d left Salem armed with two vital pieces of information: a name and an address. Keys to John’s past, keys to freeing John’s hold on his wife and family. Mira LeMoyne.
“This ghost chase of yours... Roman... I’m worried,” was Abe’s reply when Roman discussed his plans with Abe before his departure.
He dismissed Abe’s doubt, “Partner... I have to do this. He can’t be as black and white as he seems. There is something out there to be found. I’m going to find it.” He was immovable in the journey to John’s past. Repercussions would have to be dealt accordingly; his family would have to understand.
He’d flown into New Orleans two days ago, renting a room in the French quarter above an all night watering hole. Throwing the LeMoyne name around with the local drinkers drew no bites. He decided after his first day in town that he needed a cover. He assumed the identity of a distant LeMoyne cousin searching for his mother’s cousin Mira LeMoyne. As Oscar Picquet, Roman gained an entrance into the moneyed society of New Orleans historical families. Meeting Raysa Bordeaux proved advantageous to Roman’s search.
Raysa Bordeaux was a middle-aged woman—Creole by her admission—who was the unauthorized gate keeper of New Orleans secrets. Roman met her in the courtyard of her café in the French Quarter. The large dining area of Raysa’s was a square courtyard encased in beautiful wrought iron gates. The scents of the city danced in the thick, muggy air; they were fragrant, sensual aromas of azaleas and magnolias.
“There is no place on Earth quite like New Orleans... and frankly quite like the Quarters,” Raysa said inhaling on the end of her slim cigarette. Her accent was thick and southern; her dialect very slow and direct. “Mr. Picquet...”
“Call me Oscar,” Roman corrected her seductively. He was caught up in the nature of the city, the seductive nature of its people.
Raysa raised her perfectly arched eyebrow, “I’m calling bull... Oscar... kind sir I was not born yesterday. What do you want with Mrs. LeMoyne?”
Roman called her bet. He leaned forward, settling his elbows on the table between them. “Her. I want to talk to her.”
“Do you mean her harm?” Raysa asked examining his face carefully. “She’s had enough pain to last more than our lifetime’s combined. Mira’s a beautiful soul... she always has been—I’m getting ahead of myself here. For some reason I feel as if I can trust you Mr.…?”
“Roman Brady,” he said pulling her hand to his poised mouth. “Captain of the Salem P.D... I’m not here to harm Mrs. LeMoyne... I think we can help each other.”
“Help her? How so?”
“Deal breaker Mrs. Bordeaux... I’m not exactly sure. I’m trying to solve a thirty-year old mystery... I’m trying to help a friend of mine back home, with finding his identity. I think Mrs. LeMoyne is somehow apart of that identity.”
“How so?”
“I’m not entirely sure. My research pointed to New Orleans, as well as the LeMoyne name. Mrs. Mira LeMoyne. There is no further information regarding her in our systems.”
“There won’t be. She lives the life of a saint... in that mansion on the hill. Mira LeMoyne is the closet thing we have to Mother Teresa. She’s been widowed for years.”
Roman was intrigued. “Children?”
Sadness overcame Raysa’s face with Roman’s question. She answered solemnly, “There was a child a long time ago... sadly the child disappeared. It was devastating to Mira and her husband. He died soon after the child’s disappearance. She never speaks of that child or her husband anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s impolite to speak of the dead,” Raysa said tilting her porcelain tea cup to her lips.
“Do you remember what the sex of their child was?”
“No I don’t,” she said dismissively. “Mira’s moved on. Let the past be the past.”
“Will you take me to see her?” Roman asked Raysa, watching her struggle with curiosity and loyalty.
“Mr. Brady, Mira LeMoyne is not the woman you’re looking for. Even if she were, she’s not that person anymore. Her life has changed and I don’t think she would appreciate having her past dug around in, especially by a stranger who deceives people.”
Raysa politely tipped her head toward Roman before excusing herself. Roman watched her saunter back through the courtyard. He silently apologized for his intrusion and decided then that seeing Mira LeMoyne was the only thing he could do. “The past is never the past.” He reminded himself.
********
Raysa’s description of the LeMoyne estate paled in comparison to the actual estate itself. A large white home, built in early Greek architecture sat in the center of 35 acres of sprawling grass. An oak-lined drive led to the front of the palatial home, large oaks with wide spans of green and brown leaves hovered above the dirt road leading to the circular court at the foot of the towering stairs of the entrance. Large columns extended from the third floor of the house to base of the antiquated wrap-around porch.
Roman took a breath, got out of the car, and climbed the stairs two at a time. A thin veil of sweat layered Roman’s forehead. He wiped his skin quickly with the back of his hand. Before ringing the doorbell, he took another glimpse of the land surrounding the house. In the tall grass fields beyond the house, the image of a small blonde child caught his eye. Blonde curls flailed carelessly in the wind as the child disappeared into the grassy fields.
“Hello Sir.”
Roman turned to see a beautiful woman with dark heavy hair cascading around her shoulders and intense eyes of indigo encased in almond frames staring unapologetically at him. She was standing at the top of the stairs.
“Hello, I’m sorry to intrude…” Roman said trying to regain his composure. There was something the child that attacked his senses, something familiar about the place. He climbed the stairs cautiously. “I’m Roman,” He said extending his arm to the older woman.
“I’ve been warned,” Mira LeMoyne said. A warm smile creased her mouth as she pulled Roman’s arm and welcomed him into her home. “I am the woman you have been searching for Roman.” Her accent was unique, not entirely southern, and not entirely American. She struck Roman as aristocratic with her long free style hair and European accent.
Mira offered Roman a seat in the parlor of her home. Raysa’s phone call had come only that morning. She could remember only his first name, Roman. A gentleman of remarkable manners was Raysa’s description. He was handsome as Raysa had also mentioned but Mira recognized more than his handsomeness when she’d opened the door to find him standing there. He had a confident manner, Mira decided, not arrogance but a confidence that was apparent in the comfortable way he sat in the chair across form her, visually surveying the room.
The room was non-distinct in terms of family pictures and mementos. “There is no past or history here,” Mira said craning her neck. “We only live in the day to day now.”
“Now… you didn’t always Mrs. LeMoyne,” Roman asked. “We all have a past.”
“Of course, some more painful than others. You don’t seem like your old enough to have a past Roman.”
“Looks can be deceiving Mrs. LeMoyne. No one can escape pain.”
“Touché… and now if I can inquire without showing rudeness, what are you searching for?”
“I believe I’m looking for you,” Roman told Mira straightening his posture in the chair. “I believe that we can help each other.” Roman had conjectured practically all night in his hotel room about the possibility that he had solved the greatest mystery of his life. He hoped Mira LeMoyne could be who he needed her to be, the piece of John, no matter how distant the relation that would free him from needing his family so much. When the story of John being Forrest Alamain surfaced Roman was sure that it was all false, manufactured by Stefano. He hadn’t believed anything about the story; instead, Roman bid his time and researched until he was satisfied.
He reached into his jacket packet and pulled out a photograph of John and Marlena. Handing the photograph to Mira, he waited and watched for her response. Her reaction was slow. Touching the picture with her fingertips, she traced the outlines of both John and Marlena. Speechless; a mist gradually saturated her eyes. She looked up and Roman saw the long-buried sadness in her face.
“You recognize him?” he asked hopeful, taking her hand into his.
Mira struggled with words, “I’m not certain… this could be him… my son John.” She scanned the picture again, clutching her chest with her tiny hand. “I know this woman… Samantha.”
Roman shook his head, “This is my wife Marlena Evans… and John Black.”
Mira stood and walked to the other side of the room. “Roman, is this a game? Stefano… is this about Stefano?”
Roman leapt up to defend himself, piqued by her familiar use of Stefano’s name, he stepped in front Mira. “No… I’m Roman Brady… Stefano’s my arch nemesis. He was… he’s dead.”
The color drained from Mira’s face. She held the picture up again and then looked to Roman. “Wait… you’re a Brady?”
“Yes.”
“Shawn Brady.”
“My father?”
“Oh my… I need to sit down Roman. Give me a minute.” She said sitting again. She held onto the picture securely, going over the impossibility of the moment. The impossibility that John was alive, that Samantha was married to John or had been, and that Shawn Brady’s son was standing in her parlor.
Roman sat beside Mira, draping his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I don’t mean to upset you. I’m simply trying to right a wrong that happened years ago.”
“This can’t be true.” Mira said in disbelief. “Samantha and John… Marlena as you call her. Amelia…” she said cupping her mouth.
“Who is Amelia?” Roman prodded.
“Sam… Marlena’s daughter. Her little girl.”
