The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,427

sense of Rowan that had invaded him and wouldn’t leave him; he would have much preferred the visceral memories of the bedroom and her lovely deep grosgrain voice speaking to him so softly and honestly and simply. Much preferred to hear it from her own lips. Excitement!

He called Room Service.

“Send me a big breakfast, Eggs Benedict, grits, yeah, a big bowl of grits, extra side of ham, toast, and a full pot of coffee. And tell the waiter to use his key. I’ll be getting dressed, and add a twenty percent tip for the waiter, please, and bring me some cold cold water.”

He read the note again. Aaron and Rowan were together now. This filled him with apprehension. And now he understood how fearful Aaron had been when he himself had begun to read the materials. And he hadn’t wanted to listen to Aaron. He had wanted to read. Well, he couldn’t blame Rowan.

He couldn’t shake this uneasiness either. She didn’t understand Aaron. And he certainly didn’t understand her. And she thought he was naive. He shook his head. And then there was Lasher. What did Lasher think?

Last night, before he’d left Oak Haven, Aaron had said, “It was the man. I saw him in the headlights. I knew it was a trick, but I couldn’t chance it.”

“So what are you going to do?” Michael had asked.

“Be careful,” said Aaron. “What else can I do?”

And now she wanted him to meet her at the house at three o’clock, because she needed some time alone there. With Lasher? How was he going to put a lid on his emotions until three o’clock?

Well, you’re in New Orleans, aren’t you, old buddy? You haven’t been back to the old neighborhood. Maybe it’s time to go.

He left the hotel at eleven forty-five, the engulfing warm air surprising and delighting him as he stepped outside. After thirty years in San Francisco, he had been braced for the chill and the wind reflexively.

And as he walked in the direction of uptown, he found he had been braced for a hill climb or hill descent in the same subconscious fashion. The flat wide pavements felt wonderful to him. It was as if everything was easier—every breath he took of the warm breeze, every step, the crossing of the street, the gentle looking around at the mature black-barked oaks that changed the cityscape as soon as he had crossed Jackson Avenue. No wind cutting his face, no glare of the Pacific coast sky blinding him.

He chose Philip Street for the walk out to the Irish Channel, and moved slowly as he would have in the old days, knowing the heat would get worse, that his clothes would get heavy, and that even the insides of his shoes would become moist after a little while, and he’d take off this khaki safari jacket sooner or later and sling it over his shoulder.

But he soon forgot about all that; this was the landscape of too many happy memories. It drew him away from worrying about Rowan; it drew him away from worrying about the man; and he was just sliding back into the past, drifting by the old ivy-covered walls, and the young crepe myrtles growing thin and weedy and full of big floppy blossoms. He had to slap them back as he went on. And it came to him again, as strongly as it had before, that longing had embellished nothing. Thank God so much was still here! The tall Queen Anne Victorians, so much larger than those of San Francisco, were still standing right beside the earlier antebellum houses with their masonry walls and columns, as sturdy and magnificent as the house on First Street.

At last, he crossed Magazine, wary of the speeding traffic, and moved on into the Irish Channel. The houses seemed to shrink; columns gave way to posts; the oaks were no more; even the giant hackberry trees didn’t go beyond the corner of Constance Street. But that was all right, that was just fine. This was his part of town. Or at least it had been.

Annunciation Street broke his heart. The fine renovations and fresh paint jobs he had glimpsed on Constance and Laurel were few and far between on this neglected street. Garbage and old tires littered the empty lots. The double cottage in which he’d grown up was abandoned, with big slabs of weathered plywood covering all its doors and windows; and the yard in which he’d played was now a jungle