The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,500

for the families of patients, with special educational programs for spouses and children who must participate in the ongoing rehabilitation of those with incurable diseases or disabilities.

But each day her vision gained new momentum. She dreamed of a humanizing teaching program designed to correct all the horrors and abuses which had become the clichés of modern medicine; she planned a nursing school in which a new type of supernurse, capable of a whole range of new responsibilities, could be created.

The words “Mayfair Medical” could become synonymous with the finest and most humane and sensitive practitioners in the profession.

Yes, they would all be proud. How could they not be?

“Another drink?”

“Yes, thank you. Bourbon will be fine. Too fine.”

Laughter.

She took another sip as she nodded now to young Timmy Mayfair, who had come to shake hands. Yes, and hello again to Bernardette Mayfair, whom she’d met briefly at the funeral, and to the beautiful little red-haired girl with the hair ribbon, who was named Mona Mayfair, daughter of CeeCee, yes, and the tomboyish Jennifer Mayfair, Mona’s best friend and fourth cousin, yes, met you before, of course. Jenn had a voice like her own, she thought, deep and husky.

Bourbon was better when it was very cold. But it was also sneaky when it was cold. And she knew she was drinking just a little too much of it. She took another sip, acknowledging a little toast from across the garden. One toast after another was being made to the house, and to the marriage. Was anybody here talking about anything else?

“Rowan, I have photographs that go all the way back—”

“ … and my mother saved all the articles from the papers … ”

“You know, it’s in the books on New Orleans, oh, yes, I have some of the very old books, I can drop them off for you at the hotel … ”

“ … you understand, we are not going to be knocking on the door day and night, but just to know! … ”

“Rowan, our great-grandfathers were born in that house … all the people you see here were … ”

“Oh, poor Millie Dear never lived to see the day … ”

“ … a package of daguerreotypes … Katherine and Darcy, and Julien. You know Julien was always photographed at the front door. I have seven different pictures of him at the front door.”

The front door?

More and more Mayfairs streamed in. And there at last was the elderly Fielding—Clay’s son—utterly bald, and with his fine, translucent skin and red-rimmed eyes—and they were bringing him here, to sit beside her.

No sooner had he eased down in the chair than the young ones began to appear to pay court to him as they had to her.

Hercules, the Haitian servant, put the tumbler of bourbon in the old man’s hand.

“You got that now, Mr. Fielding?”

“Yes, Hercules, no food! I’m sick of food. I’ve eaten enough food for a lifetime.”

His voice was deep, and ageless the way the old woman’s voice had been.

“And so no more Carlotta,” he said grimly to Beatrice, who had come to kiss him. “And I’m the only old one left.”

“Don’t talk about it, you’re going to be with us forever,” said Bea, her perfume swirling about them, sweet and floral, and expensive like her brilliant red silk dress.

“I don’t know that you’re all that much older than I am,” declared Lily Mayfair, sitting beside him, and indeed for a moment she did seem as old as he was, with her wispy luminous white hair and sunken cheeks, and the bony hand she laid on his arm.

Fielding turned to Rowan. “So you’re restoring First Street. You and that man of yours are going to live there. And so far things have gone well?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Rowan asked with a gentle smile.

But she was warmed suddenly by the blessing Fielding gave her as he rested his hand on her own.

“Splendid news, Rowan,” he said, his low voice gaining resonance now that he had caught his breath after the long odyssey from the front door. “Splendid news.” The whites of his eyes were yellowed, though his false teeth were shining white. “All those years, she wouldn’t let anyone touch it,” he said with a touch of anger. “Old witch, that’s what she was.”

Little gasps rose from the women gathered to the left. Ah, but this was what Rowan wanted. Let the polished surface be broken.

“Granddaddy, for heaven’s sakes.” It was Gifford at his elbow. She picked up his fallen cane from the grass