A companion chapter to the prior one that spends time in Pendergast's head. Warning some spoilers from Helen Trilogy.
Pendergast looked in the mirror of his dressing room. He had changed from his usual black suit into a tuxedo; Antoine's took their dress code very seriously. He was not putting in the onyx studs into his formal shirt. A few deft moves and the matching onyx cuff links were in the French cuffs. Pendergast eschewed the bow tie in favor of a formal, black tie, which he quickly put on and tied into a complicated Windsor knot. A final touch was the Vacheron Constantin Chronometre Royal that had belonged to his grandfather. Pendergast hated the thing with a passion, but when one went to Antoine's, one needed to look the part and a small demonstration of the "Pendergast Fortune" was expected.
He quickly glanced around the room which was part of the Master Suite which was the only part of the Punumbra that had been renovated into a modern comfortable style. The colors were various shades of gray from a dark charcoal to a very light silver blue along with Cream varying from an almost white to a rich pale gold. It had been done before his marriage to Helen. His original goal was to renovate the entire plantation to keep the "charm"...Pendergast grimaced at that word while making it more modern and comfortable. He had never gotten the chance. Given the history of these rooms, he really should have hated this part of the house, but it was still his sanctuary when he was in New Orleans.
He checked his watch. It was 7 o'clock; he had time before he needed to be downstairs to meet Amy – that is if she was even going to come. Pendergast went over to the seating area where Maurice had unobtrusively placed a glass of sherry and sat down in one of the wing back chairs.
Pendergast closed his eyes and watched his last interaction with Amy replay behind his eyelids. As a field agent, he had always harbored a dislike and mistrust of Profilers; they were not real agents and they did not bring value to a case...did they? The fact that Amy knew so much about him after spending only a few hours with him both impressed and unnerved him. There was no way she could have known these things; they were not in his Curriculum Vitae at the FBI and they shared no friends in common who would have told her about his past life. No. She had determined the truth through her own observations and skill. And she did have skill. Pendergast found his view of profilers, or at least one specific profiler, rapidly evolving.
It was only after Amy mentioned his dead wife that everything changed. Pendergast could not forget the stricken look on Ameline's face during his tirade. He saw her beautiful green eyes cloud with tears. He could not forgive his own loss of control even though he knew its cause. He had loved Helen with his entire heart and when he lost her, his life stopped. For all intents and purposes, his life had ended the day she had died and he had mourned her for more than ten years. Then she appeared to have risen from the dead, but she was not at all the woman whom he had loved. He had learned how she had used him and their children in the most horrific of ways. When she died in his arms, he knew that he no longer loved her – he could not love the monstrous lie that she had been.
But his pain continued unabated. Her return and subsequent death opened up all the old wounds. His brain might know what she had been, his heart still ached each time he thought of her. Had he not heard it beat at his Bureau mandated physical, he would have been able to believe that his heart had shattered in a million pieces so great was his renewed pain. Everything had been made fresh again; although he rationally knew that their life had been a lie, he still grieved for the memories. and for the woman he had thought she was; a woman that had never existed.
What a fool he had been! What an ignominious fool! Pendergast closed his eyes against the flare of pain and frustration. He let himself fall in love with a woman whose only intent was to use him to further goals that were an offense to most right thinking people. And even now, he still grieved for something that never was and never had been. If he could not trust himself to see through such lies, how could he trust his own judgment again. How could he trust those around him?
And now there was Ameline. Beautiful, smart, fascinating, mercurial, Ameline. He remembered her voice as it changed from the cultured New England accent to the rich patois of the Low Country and back again. He still cringed inwardly at the memory of her healed wound – how could anybody have done that to a child, he wondered not for the first time. He found his own hands clenching into fists in anticipation of what he would do to the man; to the animal who had hurt Ameline - if he had still been alive.
The vehemence of this response astonished him. He had known this young woman for less than a day, but he was angry about injuries she had sustained more than ten years ago. Who was this Ameline Devereaux to affect him in a way that he had not experienced in over fifteen years?
The one thing that Pendergast knew for certain was that he was attracted to Ameline; he had felt a desire for her from the first moment he saw her. And that was the problem. He had fallen in love with Helen only to lose her, to suffer alone for ten years, to find her again and to realize the evil fraud that she had perpetrated on him. How was he to know that Ameline was not like that? How could he trust himself to trust her? And yet, he found that as rational as his brain could be, his heart did not care. He wanted this young woman desperately and a part of his did not care a whit for any consequences.
Pendergast sighed and checked his watch. It was 7:40. He stood up, straightened his jacket and tie and headed down the stairs to await Ameline. Hopefully she would see fit to join him. Hopefully she would be able to forgive him. Hopefully, he would not betray his feelings and be able to maintain his façade of coolness and control.
Pendergast had forgotten one thing. This was New Orleans; "The Big Easy" and it had a power all its own.
A special thanks to Vargasse for her thought-provoking questions and discussion. I have tried, without engaging in melodrama or over wrought writing to show how much pain and doubt Pendergast was experiencing. I wanted to show an internal battle between his heart and his head. I hope I have succeeded. Please let me know. Your thoughts and reviews are very much appreciated.