St. Charles at Dusk: Crimson & Clover Stories, #1

By Sarah M. Cradit

Dive into the secret, ancient, powerful world of two New Orleans families, the Deschanels and the Sullivans...

Lagniappe /ˌlanˈyap/ " a little something extra"


A father's threats. A tragic accident. Unanswered questions. Oz Sullivan has finally moved past the tangled web surrounding his brief, but intense, relationship with the young, impetuous Adrienne Deschanel. Through his family, and successful career as an attorney, he has forged a tranquil predictability.

Then Adrienne unexpectedly emerges, with no memory of the life she once led. Her desperate attempt to flee the confusing and dark influences in the bayou instinctively propels her to the one face for which she has a name. Oz's world is once again turned upside down, as he must decide how to help her without losing himself entirely.

Set amidst the lush and vibrant backdrop of New Orleans, St. Charles at Dusk tells the story of Oz and Adrienne; of forbidden love, and startling heartbreak.


The Saga of Crimson & Clover
A sprawling dynasty. An ancient bloodline. A world of magic and mayhem.
Welcome to the Saga of Crimson & Clover, where all series within are linked but can be equally enjoyed on their own.

Series List
The House of Crimson & Clover Series: Dive into the secretive, ancient, powerful world of the Deschanels & Sullivans
The Midnight Dynasty Series: There's no place like home.
Vampires of the Merovingi Series: From the ashes of the sorcerer kings rose an empire.
The Seven Series: Seven siblings. Seven years. Seven spellbinding novels.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storyville Press
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201287139

Sarah M. Cradit

Sarah is the USA Today and International Bestselling Author of over forty contemporary and epic fantasy stories, and the creator of the Kingdom of the White Sea and Saga of Crimson & Clover universes.   Born a geek, Sarah spends her time crafting rich and multilayered worlds, obsessing over history, playing her retribution paladin (and sometimes destruction warlock), and settling provocative Tolkien debates, such as why the Great Eagles are not Gandalf's personal taxi service. Passionate about travel, she's been to over twenty countries collecting sparks of inspiration, and is always planning her next adventure.   Sarah and her husband live in a beautiful corner of SE Pennsylvania with their three tiny benevolent pug dictators.     Connect with Sarah:   sarahmcradit.com Instagram: @sarahmcradit Facebook: @sarahmcradit

Book preview

St. Charles at Dusk: The Story of Oz and Adrienne

St. Charles at Dusk: The Story of Oz and Adrienne

A Crimson & Clover Story

Sarah M. Cradit

Contents

Praise for The House of Crimson & Clover

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

Untitled

Prologue

Part I

1. 1- Oz

2. 2- Adrienne

3. 3- Oz

4. 4- Oz

5. 5- Oz

6. 6- Adrienne

7. Oz

8. Oz

9. Adrienne

10. Oz

11. Oz

12. Adrienne

13. Oz

14. Oz

15. Oz

16. Oz

17. Oz

18. Oz

19. Oz

20. Oz

21. Oz

22. Adrienne

23. Oz

24. Adrienne

25. Oz

Part II

26. Oz

27. Adrienne

28. Oz

29. Oz

30. Oz

31. Adrienne

32. Oz

Epilogue

The Storm and the Darkness Excerpt

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

Crimson & Clover Connections

About the Author

Original Copyright © 2011 Sarah M. Cradit

Revised Copyright © 2014 Sarah M. Cradit

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

---

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Sarah M. Cradit

Editing by Shaner Media Creations

---

Publisher Contact:

[e-mail]

www.sarahmcradit.com

Praise for The House of Crimson & Clover

"Cradit’s words flow in prosaic candor like a melody of the ages: pronounced, patient, lingering, and beautiful.

Dionne Charlet, New Orleans Examiner

---

Her (Cradit's) talent for creating atmosphere rivals Daphne du Maurier. This is modern Gothic with fierce smarts. Can't say it enough. I loved this book.

Christopher Rice, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Heavens Rise

---

It takes a great writer like Cradit to weave the threads of so many characters into an enjoyable story. I have no doubt that the name Cradit will one day be associated with the echelon of gothic fiction writers, namely Radcliffe, Blackwood, and Rice.

Becket, Bestselling Author of The Blood Vivicanti and Assistant to Anne Rice

---

Sarah Cradit's writing is tight and masterful. Her keen sense of how to pace a book and her ability to use just the right language to express the desires, fears and hopes of her characters is flawless.

Ionia Martin, Vine Top 100 Reviewer, Readful Things

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Cradit does an incredible job of building suspense. It's a slow, moody, edge of your seat suspense with a palpable sense of foreboding. This atmosphere kicks the book off and slowly escalates as you sink deeper into it.

Julie Whiteley, Clue Review

---

The books are well written, the plot flows so quickly that you reach the end of the story well before you are ready and without realizing how much time has gone by since you were enchanted, committed and flung into the world of the Sullivans, Deschanels and their friends. You become a part of their lives as you are reading the books and think about the characters long after you have finished reading the book.

Stephenee Carsten, Nerd Girl Official

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

THE SAGA OF CRIMSON & CLOVER

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The House of Crimson and Clover Series

The Storm and the Darkness

Shattered

The Illusions of Eventide

Bound

Midnight Dynasty

Asunder

Empire of Shadows

Myths of Midwinter

The Hinterland Veil

The Secrets Amongst the Cypress

Within the Garden of Twilight

House of Dusk, House of Dawn

Midnight Dynasty Series

A Tempest of Discovery

A Storm of Revelations

The Seven Series

1970

1972

1973

1974

1975

1976

1980

Vampires of the Merovingi Series

The Island

Crimson & Clover Lagniappes (Bonus Stories)

Lagniappes are standalone stories that can be read in any order.

St. Charles at Dusk: The Story of Oz and Adrienne

Flourish: The Story of Anne Fontaine

Surrender: The Story of Oz and Ana

Shame: The Story of Jonathan St. Andrews

Fire & Ice: The Story of Remy & Fleur

Dark Blessing: The Landry Triplets

Pandora's Box: The Story of Jasper & Pandora

The Menagerie: Oriana’s Den of Iniquities

A Band of Heather: The Story of Colleen and Noah

The Ephemeral: The Story of Autumn & Gabriel

Banshee: The Story of Giselle Deschanel

For more information, and exciting bonus material, visit www.sarahmcradit.com

la·gniappe

ˌlanˈyap,ˈlanˌyap/

nounNorth American

noun: lagniappe; plural noun: lagniappes

something given as a bonus or extra gift.

For James

My constant

If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, the possibility of life is destroyed.

-War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy

Prologue

Present

Summer 2001

Oz: 26

Adrienne: 21

---

It was raining the day I laid my wife to rest. I’d been watching her die for months, and it was hard to accept she died of something other than what had been killing her.

Water poured down from the heavens in sheets, forming puddles all around us in the shallow Louisiana ground. We were huddled together near the elaborate tomb, in a sea of mourning smocks and matching black umbrellas. The merciless rain echoed our somber mood. I felt hands on my back and shoulders, whispering their condolences in low, cautious voices.

Naomi, our daughter, took her first steps not long before her mother died. She now stood bravely at my side, her tiny hand firmly ensconced in mine. Normally lively and talkative in the spirited way of a toddler, Naomi said not a word to me, or anyone else, the entire day. Her reaction to the disposition of those around her was limited to an occasional glance at me with confused, pain-filled replicas of her mother’s big blue eyes.

It struck me as funny, despite the somber overtone, how even the loudest, most garrulous person could be rendered speechless at a Metairie funeral. Crisp suits and dresses, stickers on their cars that granted them access to the country clubs, and appointments to keep for later in the evening with manicurists and clients. Life didn’t stop for the dead here. None of the laughing, the gaiety, the sense of family and togetherness like the funerals I was used to, in the Garden District.

And to think, I’d gone through this yesterday at the wake. It was inhumane that our traditions demanded I publicly mourn my wife over and over again. My own grandfather had done this not long ago, after over fifty years of marriage. We’d been far too concerned with his well-being, so it was months later before we truly began to mourn her ourselves. Yet no one, not even my grandfather, could possibly understand what the last week had been like for Naomi and me, despite the number of people who came to my side claiming they did. I loved them all for being there, but at the same time hated them for the sense of relief they must feel at knowing when they went home, most of this disappeared for them.

During the service, Naomi cried because everyone around her did. The sorrow of the adults, huddled around in packs in the rainy cemetery, traumatized her. One of Janie’s many aunts would burst into sobs, and Naomi reacted by curling her tiny lips around each other and wailing into the musty air. Someone would notice this and comment, Poor, sweet darling.

I stood motionless as the choreography of the service proceeded around me. Was this really happening? I kept my eyes on Naomi. When I heard someone call my name, or move in my direction, I’d kneel down in front of my daughter, tending to her.

It was not, however, only the last week which had produced this effect on the two of us. We’d been little more than existing since Janie was diagnosed, too late, with breast cancer.

Six months, said the doctor.

What could she possibly do in six months? The doctor delivered the message as if it were better than he expected. Better than three months, two weeks? How did that change the end result? The fact that Janie wouldn’t live to see her twenty-seventh birthday was inevitable. The milestones of Naomi’s life would happen while Janie simply ceased to exist. What was six months, in the face of loss?

Suicide, people whispered, far away but still within earshot. Of course they were talking about it. How could they not? It wasn’t every day the daughter of a cigar magnate from the good side of town decided to throw herself into the raging Mississippi. When she drove her car through a gap in the levee out River Road, it had been nothing short of a miracle that Naomi, sitting in her car seat in back, emerged without even a scratch.

I was so utterly indebted to the man who stopped when he saw the car go in. He’d pulled my crying daughter from the car as the powerful torrent threatened to take it from where it lay barely wedged on the muddy bank.

I tried to get your wife out, son, the man had apologized. The river was just too strong for me.

He and his wife had come to the service. The man blamed himself for not being able to save them both. I wished I had the presence of mind to disagree, to tell him if it weren’t for him, my daughter would also be gone. I knew the man had risked his own life to save hers.

Was it selfish to wonder how no one, save this kind man and his wife, stopped to wonder why a woman was driving her car through the levee? Had there come a point when even Janie realized the insanity?

These questions would likely torment me until my dying day.

For the service, and especially for Naomi, I swallowed back the anger and confusion encircling my heart. Why wouldn’t she try any of the experimental drugs the doctor offered? Why had she turned from me in the end? Why had she taken our daughter? Did she even realize Naomi was there?

How could someone of sound mind drive a vehicle into a raging river with a twelve-month old baby in the back? How could I not have seen the signs? Read them for what they actually meant?

You didn’t love her enough. You didn’t love her enough to give her what she wanted, and you didn’t love her enough to let her find someone who would.

Looking down at Naomi, I pushed the thoughts away.

I wasn’t entirely grounded during the service itself, and as it came to an end, everyone slowly filtering out, I picked up only bits and pieces of the sentiments passed to us.

She was an amazing woman, Oz.

Oz, you and Naomi are in our prayers.

No one thinks badly of you for not giving the eulogy. We know this must be devastating for you and the family.

Your beautiful darling girl will bring you through this.

Coupled with this came a handful of invitations, many from people I barely knew, who offered to be there if you ever want to talk about this. I wasn’t ungrateful, this just wasn’t an experience I was ready to share with anyone. It was mine, and it was Naomi’s. I wanted more than anything to be home, in my bed, finding my own way to deal with this—you did not love her, how do you deal with that?—not standing among people who meant well but were only making it harder.

It occurred to me at some point it was their attempt to soften the blow of Janie’s actions that were hardest for me to accept. Through their kind words, and soft gestures, they were trying to help me forgive her.

Ahh, forgive her? First you have to forgive yourself, Oz.

The longer the day stretched on, the more reality began to take hold.

Please get me out of here before I scream. I cannot lose it in front of my little girl.

I’m so sorry, Oz.

I turned to see my father, Colin. Beside him, my mother, Catherine, who seemed to have aged ten years overnight. Janie’s suicide had really affected her. Of all the girls I’d dated, Janie was really the only one my mother wanted as a daughter-in-law. From the day she introduced us, I knew she was envisioning the wedding: Janie and I exchanging vows, the first dance, shoving cake in each other’s faces. Janie’s own mother died when she was four.

Oh, darling… my mother sobbed, kneeling down in the gravel in front of Naomi. How is she?

I don’t know how to explain this to her.

Naomi looked such the young lady. Meeting her thoughtful gaze, it was easy to forget how little she actually was. Even at my age, I didn’t fully understand death, and certainly not the death of someone this close to us. I didn’t know the magical words she needed.

Oz, your mother and I were talking last night. They exchanged a glance; one I wasn’t sure I liked. It was a look I saw often when I was still living at home. One that typically preceded them making a decision for me I disagreed with, but usually ended up allowing for one reason or another.

As always, I let them talk. I hadn’t the energy to do much else.

Given the circumstances, maybe you and Naomi could stay with us for a while. It might help if you didn’t have to watch her all the time. She’s walking now, and soon she’ll be running, and you don’t know this yet, but that will demand more of you than ever before. You know, it would just be for a while—

I shook my head. Naomi needs to be in her own house with her Daddy. She’s never going to see her mother again, and it will only make things worse if I also take her away from everything else she knows. I pulled Naomi closer to my side, protectively. I didn’t say it, but I needed her, too. I needed to coddle her, and somehow, make it up to her. I needed to be close to her so I could mourn her mother, too.

Because you’re afraid only the sight of your daughter’s pain can bring you to sadness over Janie’s death.

My mother cupped my face in her warm hands and kissed my forehead. Colin, you’re so young, and I fear this experience will change you forever.

My mother only called me Colin, my given name, in times of crisis. More specifically, at times when she felt a loss of control. An inability to fix something. In her heart she was already staging an intervention for me, but fixing me was beyond even her ability.

The rain intensified, and the rest of the mourners rushed to their cars. My mother gathered Naomi into her arms, who was now sobbing uncontrollably, and started toward the car as if I’d already given in. All the sadness of the day had finally taken its toll on her. She was the picture of pure exhaustion.

When I made no move to seek shelter, I felt my father take my arm. Oz, come on, let’s go home, son.

I didn’t look at him. With the crowd dissipated, I could see Janie’s family tomb clearly now. Her will expressed her unbending refusal to be entombed at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, where my family had been interred for generations, choosing instead to lay at rest in the Metairie neighborhood where she was raised. This had been a bone of contention between us in the last months of her life, as we sat in front of the stoic lawyer and divvied up our future. My future.

Right under her grandmother’s name were words I morbidly imagined would be embossed in my mind forever. Words of sadness? Regret? Guilt?

Janette Lynn Masters-Sullivan

Beloved Mother, Wife, Daughter, Sister

1975-2001

---

Give me a few minutes. I’ll meet you at home. Although I didn’t turn around, I felt my father’s indecisiveness linger a few seconds before he finally left.

As I stared at the tomb, and the words on my dead wife’s epitaph rolled over and over in my mind, I finally allowed myself to cry freely. Yet I didn’t know if my tears were any different than the contagious ones Naomi had wept.

Why like this? Anything but this. You don’t understand what it’s like! she screamed at me the last time I saw her. You’re going to be here to see her graduate, to see her get married! Goddamn you, Oz! You don’t get it!

In all the commotion, only I realized today would’ve been our one-year anniversary. We’d been married right after Naomi was born because Janie wanted to look good in her wedding dress. I told her she would look beautiful no matter what. She was beautiful, always.

But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? Nor was her kindness, or intelligence, or wit, or anything else she gave to you without reserve.

As I turned to leave my wife, I had the distinct feeling someone was watching me. It occurred to me that I’d felt it all throughout the service, but had been too consumed to notice or care.

Hello? I called out.

I heard the rustle of leaves and a twig snap. A squishing of footprints in the flooding Louisiana mud. I turned toward the sound and saw a figure advance from behind another family’s tomb. A woman’s figure.

Who’s there?

As she approached, my question became unnecessary. The last person I ever expected to see at all, at any point again in my life. Thoughts of her almost prevented my marriage to Janie—certainly prevented you from loving her properly— who had had no inkling what role this woman had played in my life. I’d very carefully seen to that.

I couldn’t believe she was here.

She wore a long black mourning cloak, the hood engulfing all but a few rebel strands of her long red hair. Her eyes, two cobalt orbs staring back at me from under the dark fabric, seemed to glow.

Oz.

Her voice was soft and inviting. What compelled me was not what remained of my love for her, if any still did, but the need to believe I was wrong. That I had loved Janie. After spending a few moments with her I’d realize it was my own fears that held me back, not a lack of love for my wife. And if I was wrong… well, I could do Janie no greater justice than my own misery.

In bringing closure to both chapters of my life, I could enter the next one alone, with Naomi. The timing wasn’t ideal, but timing never was.

It was my first moment of clarity since Janie died.

---

She pulled off her cloak, carelessly tossing it across the back of my sitting room leather sofa. Neurotically, I was one step behind her, wiping the raindrops off of the couch and hanging her cover on the oak coat rack, where it belonged.

Some things never change, she whispered under her breath. I could’ve said the same thing about her.

When she didn’t wipe her feet, or make any indication of removing her muddy shoes, I politely asked her to do just that and ignored the eye roll she sent in my direction.

On the ride over to my house in the Garden District, neither one of us said a word. She stared out the passenger window; I focused on the road. My thoughts were a slideshow of the past few days, every scene playing out in Technicolor, somewhat surreal, happening to an outsider, not me. I couldn’t guess at her thoughts.

I placed a call to my father, letting him know I would be over a bit later. He sounded relieved.

I went to put on a pot of coffee, but my eyes never left her as I rinsed out the dusty filter, measuring several spoonfuls of the only grounds in the cupboard. They would most likely go out with the trash on Tuesday. Janie was the coffee drinker in the Sullivan house.

She flitted from bookshelf to mantel, perusing the archive of photos we took to preserve Janie’s memory. Her interest seemed sincere, yet betrayed no true emotion. She could’ve been examining her English professors’ credentials.

When the doctor delivered the news Janie wouldn’t be around to see Naomi grow into a woman, we purchased a top-of-the line camera with all the bells and whistles a lawyer’s income could buy. We took over fifty rolls of film in a three-month period, before she became so sick she didn’t want any more pictures taken. The house was currently a shrine to Janie. Naomi would never have to look far to see her mother.

And you can simply torture yourself without really having to address the issue.

How do you take it? Black, sugar, cream? I asked her as the coffee pot chimed, announcing its finish. The purchase of said coffee pot was a departure from my normally frugal spending habits. It was the lesser of two evils with Janie, who’d had an affinity for four dollar lattes. By the time we unpacked it, however, her diagnosis was certain and she gave up coffee altogether. Something compelled me not to return it or pack it away. Most likely, the sense of finality.

My guest smiled. It was a careful expression. You know how I take it.

I supposed I did, but such knowledge was no longer welcome in the front of my mind.

It’s been a long time.

She turned back around to the mantel and drew her finger over a picture of Janie and me, in Corsica.

In this one, Janie splashed into the warm Mediterranean waters. I’d followed her, scooping her up into my recently tanned arms. The water sprayed up and foamed around us. We were both wearing those no-holding-back huge toothy grins. Who were you trying to convince more, her or you?

She pulled her hand back, but didn’t turn around. Black, she said.

We sat on opposite sides of the couch, her with coffee in hand. I waited for her to say something. For a long time, she sat in silence, drinking and staring in my general direction, not exactly looking at me.

I’m sorry I waited until a time like this to come back, she finally offered.

She’d pulled her hair up into a clip, giving me a full look at her face. Still the same high cheekbones set behind round baby cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes. Same curiosity. Intensity.

I hadn’t expected her to change though, had I?

Why? Why are you sorry? I asked her. With a twinge of unease, I wondered if I’d misjudged her intentions. And what of my own? To close a door so a new one could open? Perhaps my own grief and awkwardness had blinded my better judgment. No, not perhaps… probably.

Bitten with cynicism from a long and taxing day, I added, I didn’t bring you here so we could reminisce about our… colorful history.

She set her coffee on the glass table and looked down at her hands, now fidgeting in her lap. She’d always done that when she was nervous or cornered. Was she going to bring up the past, or simply getting the long-overdue apology out of the way? Was she even here because of me?

It wasn’t fair to be so selfish, but then, it wasn’t fair to have lost my wife in such a cruel way. Nothing was fair. I’d been rash in my decision to bring her here, to think she’d be able to somehow lessen my pain and help me move on. I knew then I didn’t want to talk about the past and in the same moment realized that’s exactly what she wanted to do.

Please forgive me, that wasn’t….anyway, I said I was sorry because I am. Her words were hasty, as though worried if she didn’t get them out in one stream they’d fade on her tongue forever.

I am sorry that because of what I did, you’re in such deep despair.

"What would cause you to say such a thing?" I stood up, fuming. The conversation had taken an immediate turn in the wrong direction. For her to come back into my life, on the day I buried my wife, and downplay my marriage as a rebound affair? That is what she meant by that, right?

Who did she think she was?

But isn’t she right?

Oz, that isn’t—

I thrust my hands out to stop her when she started toward me. The room spun. I felt my blood pressure rise, quickly and violently, consumed by an overwhelming need to keep Janie, Naomi, and myself on one side of the room, and her on the other.

The love I had, and still have, for Janie was wonderful and it was real. Out of that love came the most amazing little girl, and I wouldn’t take any of it back for the world. I can’t say the same about you, I spat at her.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, my words hit the mark. I could see I’d hurt her. This only made me feel worse, but then my consideration of her feelings made me angry at myself, pushing me into a vicious cycle of anger and regret.

I needed the day to be over.

I deserved that, she conceded. "But I didn’t come here to make light of your marriage to Janie. I know you loved her, and I only wanted to say I was sorry things happened the way they did.

Oz, I felt like my leaving you caused you nothing but pain. I’m not talking about your marriage. I’m talking about your loss of it. I feel responsible for it. No, I think I am responsible for it.

She never was very good at choosing her words carefully. This only stirred up my anger again.

It wasn’t gradual, what happened next. It was as if I’d been drop kicked, slapped crudely across the face, then slammed into a brick wall. The surreal day turned painfully lucid.

Oh my God, I’m finally losing it.

It was only partly her fault. Losing my grip was the inevitable end to day, and she just happened to be present for it. I looked up at the grandfather clock, a relic of Janie’s ancestors. Her great-grandmother’s oak armoire, in the corner. The Civil War era chandelier in the dining room. Janie, Janie, Janie, everything around me lived and breathed her. It was all too much, too fast. An invisible hand encircled my chest and squeezed.

A day which had been so complicated was immediately simple. She was a stranger to me now and I wanted her gone.

Spinning, wavering, the room danced circles around me. I gripped the mantle for balance. My hands slipped and one came in contact with the edge of the marble, drawing blood.

Oz? Are you all right?

I heard her calling to me, but her voice was echoed and distant like a faraway train whistle at the end of a tunnel. I had no keen perception of what was happening, no firm grasp on reality, and it happened so fast I didn’t have time to make sense of it.

Everything faded, then blurred, then came back together. The next thing I remember was looking up at the ceiling from the floor.

Her mouth was moving, so I knew she was still talking, perhaps screaming. The room continued to spin, taunting me