The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,488

the gateways. And as the black paint went up on the cast-iron lace railings, it brought to life their ornate and repetitive design of curlicues and rosettes.

Yes, patterns—everywhere he looked he discerned patterns-struggling against the sprawling crepe myrtle and the glossy-leafed camellias, and the antique rose as it fought its way up the trellis, and against the sweet little four o’clocks which fought for light in the brightest patches of unhindered sun.

Beatrice, very dramatic in a great pink hat and large square silver-rimmed glasses, met with Rowan at two o’clock to discuss the wedding. Rowan had set the date for Saturday a week. “Less than a fortnight!” Beatrice declared with alarm. No, everything had to be done right. Didn’t Rowan understand what the marriage would mean to the family? People would want to come from Atlanta and New York.

It couldn’t be done before the last of October. And surely Rowan would want the renovations of the house to be complete. It meant so much to everyone to see the house.

All right, said Rowan, she guessed she and Michael could wait that long, especially if it meant they could spend their wedding night in the house, and the reception could be held here.

Definitely, said Michael; that would give him almost eight solid weeks to get things in shape. Certainly the main floor could be finished and the front bedroom upstairs.

“It would be a double celebration, then, wouldn’t it?” said Bea. “Your wedding, and the reopening of the house. Darlings, you will make everyone so very happy.”

And yes, every Mayfair in creation must be invited. Now Beatrice went to her list of caterers. The house could hold a thousand if tents were arranged over the pool and over the lawn. No, not to worry. And the children could swim, couldn’t they?

Yes, it would be like old times, it would be like the days of Mary Beth. Would Rowan like to have some old photographs of the last parties given before Stella died?

“We’ll gather all the photographs for the reception,” said Rowan. “It can be a reunion. We’ll put out the photographs for everyone to enjoy.”

“It’s going to be marvelous.”

Suddenly Beatrice reached out and took Michael’s hand.

“May I ask you a question, darling? Now that you’re one of the family? Why in the world do you wear these horrible gloves?”

“I see things when I touch people,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her large gray eyes brightened. “Oh, that’s most intriguing. Did you know Julien had that power? That’s what they always told me. And Mary Beth too. Oh, darling, please let me.” She began to roll the leather back, her long pink almond-shaped fingernails lightly scraping his skin as she did it. “Please? May I? You don’t mind?” She ripped the glove off and held it up with a triumphant yet innocent smile.

He did nothing. He remained passive, his hand open, fingers slightly curled. He watched as she laid her hand on his, and then squeezed his hand firmly. In a flash the random images crowded into his head. The miscellany came and went so fast he caught none of it—merely the atmosphere, the wholesomeness, the equivalent of sunshine and fresh air, and the very distinct register of Innocent. Not one of them.

“What did you see?” she asked.

He saw her lips stop moving before the words came clear.

“Nothing,” he said as he drew back. “It’s considered to be the absolute confirmation of goodness, and good fortune. Nothing. No misery, no sadness, no illness, nothing at all.” And in a way, that had been perfectly true.

“Oh, you are a darling,” she said, blank-faced and sincere, and then swooped in to kiss him. “Where did you ever find such a person?” she asked Rowan. And without waiting for an answer, she said, “I like you both! And that’s better than loving you, for that’s expected, you know. But liking you, what a curious surprise. You really are the most adorable couple, you with your blue eyes, Michael, and Rowan with that scrumptious butterscotch voice! I could kiss you on your eyes every time you smile at me—and don’t do it now, how dare you?—and I could kiss her on her throat every time she utters a word! A single solitary word!”

“May I kiss you on the cheek, Beatrice?” he asked tenderly.

“Cousin Beatrice to you, you gorgeous hunk of man,” she said with a little theatrical pat of her heaving bosom. “Do it!” She shut her eyes tight, and then opened them with another dramatic