Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Claire shuddered. “I don’t know how you do it, dealing with that kind of violence on a daily basis. I think it would start to get to me after a while.”

“I think it would, too, but I’m not you. And someone has to keep the baddies off the street.” Charlotte snapped open her umbrella as the drizzle turned into a full-fledged shower and the gray clouds over the Gulf vibrated with lightning. Within a matter of moments the city was soaked and dripping, and as they walked along Decatur, Charlotte tried to hold the umbrella over both of them.

“Here, let me,” Claire said as she took the handle. “I’m taller.”

“Okay, but just make sure I’m covered. I’m wearing silk. Damn. ” Charlotte swore as she stepped in a puddle. “And these shoes are brand-new.”

Claire glanced down at her sister’s high heels. The delicate footwear had obviously not been designed for wet weather, but certainly looked elegant and sophisticated on Charlotte’s dainty feet.

Claire felt a stab of envy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d splurged on a pair of expensive shoes. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed any indulgence whatsoever, but with her divorce nearly final, she had to keep her belt tightened. Now was not the time for extravagant purchases.

Although Charlotte would argue that designer shoes were not an extravagance, but a necessity. Image was everything and nothing screamed success like a good pair of shoes. Unless, of course, it was her gorgeous leather handbag, the one that had come with a four-figure price tag in roughly the same amount as Claire’s new central air-conditioning unit.

Her grandmother’s old house was going to be the death of her yet, Claire thought as she and Charlotte sidestepped crates of watermelons and cantaloupes stacked in front of a small grocery store. The old Uptown house was a classic money pit with the never-ending repairs and the exorbitant utility bills. Little wonder that she’d worn the same sandals and carried the same battered tote for two summers in a row. But then, an ar tist , as Charlotte teasingly called her, didn’t need to worry about her image the way an up-and-coming assistant D.A. did.

Claire wondered if any of the people they passed on the street would ever guess that she and Charlotte were sisters. They were so different in so many ways. They shared the same mother, but their looks and temperament had come from their respective fathers.

Charlotte was a petite brunette and as charming and vivacious as her handsome father, A. J. LeBlanc, who had sweet-talked his way into their mother’s heart and bed and then absconded with her life savings two days after she’d told him she was pregnant.

Charlotte’s abandonment issues aside, her father’s Creole heritage had blessed her with a honey-colored complexion and beautiful almond-shaped eyes the color of fine Burmese jade. Claire had always thought her sister resembled a porcelain figurine, but when she got angry, those green eyes would glitter like a knife blade.

In contrast, Claire was tall, thin and fair, an introvert whose propensity for brooding had come from her bookish father. William’s suicide, followed by A.J.’s betrayal, might have made some women a little gun-shy in the romance department, but not their mother, Lucille. A string of live-in lovers had followed, until her latest paramour, Hugh Voorhies, had swept her off her feet eight years ago. That was an endurance record for Lucille.

“Damn, Claire, pay attention, will you? I’m getting soaked.”

“Sorry.” Claire repositioned the umbrella to make sure that her sister was protected. The rain stirred a myriad of scents along the street—stale wine, flowers and damp brick. And from a restaurant doorway, spicy sausages and fresh-baked bread.

“I’m starving,” Charlotte grumbled. “Tell me again why we’re out walking in the rain instead of having an early dinner somewhere.”

“Because now that I’ve increased my hours at the gallery, I don’t have much time for shopping. Mama’s birthday is next week and I want us to get her something special.” Claire was a glassblower and shared a space in the Warehouse District with several other artisans. They took turns manning the gallery and using the studio and furnaces in the back, but because Claire needed the money, she’d started working additional shifts in the showroom.

“If time’s that tight, maybe we should just run into Canal Place and pick out a nice scarf or a bottle of perfume,” Charlotte said. “Or some gold earrings. Lucille loves jewelry.”

“Let me remind you that your idea of accessories is quite different from our mother’s.”

“You’re right. Better forget the gold earrings. Subtlety has never been Lucille’s strong suit.” Charlotte smiled and her eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners. Even with her hair all windblown and damp, she was still the most beautiful woman Claire had ever seen. “So what do you have in mind?”

“There’s a place on Chartres that has one of a kind dolls. I saw an ad for it in the paper recently.”

Charlotte made a face. “Please, not another doll! She already has forty gazillion lying around the house. She doesn’t need another one.”

“It isn’t a matter of need,” Claire gently chided. “It’s what she wants, and I think a fiftieth birthday warrants something special, don’t you?”

“Well, when you put it that way. I’ve got a little cash stashed away, but what about you? Now that you’re single again, money must be tight.”

“I’ll manage. My pieces are selling pretty well these days. Besides, if we find something special, Hugh’s agreed to chip in half. All you and I have to do is split the difference.”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “How on earth did you talk Hugh Voorhies into coughing up that kind of cash? The man’s so tight he squeaks when he walks.”

“I know, but he’s crazy about Mama. He likes to complain about her dolls, but he’d do anything to keep her happy.”

“Ain’t that the damn truth? I’d really love to know that woman’s secret. I’m serious,” Charlotte said when Claire chuckled. “Think about it, Claire. She smokes like a furnace, cusses like a sailor, dresses like a cheap whore and yet she always has some man crazy over her. I can’t even get a date for my boss’s fund-raiser on Saturday night. How does she do it?”

“She’s Lucille.”

They waited for traffic to clear, then crossed the street and turned up Conti. Claire could smell the river behind them. The rain had cooled the air, and the lights coming on in the early twilight looked like a turn of the century French painting. It was the kind of soft, dreamy afternoon that made her glad she’d come back to New Orleans after the flood. Not that she would ever seriously consider living anywhere else. She was third generation. Her grandmother had been born and raised in the same house that Claire now owned.

“I’ve been giving the matter a lot of thought,” Charlotte said as she looped her arm through Claire’s. Her silk blouse clung damply to her small breasts, but she didn’t seem to care anymore. “I’m Lucille’s daughter. I must have inherited a little of…whatever it is that she’s got, so why am I still alone?”

“You’re asking me? The sister with two failed marriages?”

“Don’t say that. Your second divorce isn’t final yet.”

“Yes, but the waiting period is merely a formality.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Just say the word and Alex would move back home in a flash.”

Claire looked away, shook her head. “It’s too late for that.”

“It’s never too late. And a man like Alex Girard doesn’t come along every day. Take it from me, the world is full of losers, but then…I guess you already know that, don’t you? Having been married to the biggest asshole of all time.”