Chapter 57

Upstairs, Julie closed the bedroom door, took a deep breath and asked, “Is what Michel said true?”

“Exactly what did Michel say, chérie? I’m not a mind-reader.”

“You were standing outside. I know you heard. About you and Clarice.”

“Michel’s said a lot of things about Clarice and me. Which specific one?” He sounded bored.

“Is her baby yours, Luc?”

“Michel’s drunk,” he interrupted. “You said so yourself.”

“He says he saw you. In the garden.”

God, Michel had seen? Luc looked away, a stab of cold going through him. And said nothing until now? Why?

“Is it true?” Julie repeated.

“Am I really supposed to answer that?” he hedged. “It sounds like I’ve already been tried and found guilty, so why should I say anything?”

“So it is true.”

“Not like you think.” There was such hopelessness in her voice he wanted to shake her. “Let me explain.” He reached for her hand.

She recoiled. “I don’t think any explanations are necessary”

“It was an accident.” He had to make her understand. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m sure it was.” She looked down at her own swelling abdomen, placing a hand upon it. “Just like you didn’t mean to do this.”

Her voice was so quiet. If she’d screamed at him, he could have accepted it, but that frighteningly soft tone…

“I really believed you when you said you’d be faithful. Guess that makes me a real fool, doesn’t it? I should’ve known a leopard can’t change its spots.”

“Don’t get all righteous on me.” Luc slammed his fist against the dresser top. It made such a loud crack Julie jumped. “In view of that little scene downstairs.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette, lit it with his lighter in a hand that was shaking so it took him several seconds to hold the flame steady.

“I’d say it’s a case of You fuck my wife, I fuck yours.” The words were enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

“You’re so crude, Luc.” Julie coughed, fanning the smoke away.

“If we’re going to start name-calling…” He shrugged and left the rest of the sentence unsaid, trying to re-establish the upper hand.

It didn’t work.

“Why, Luc?”

Those two words stabbed at his soul.

“She caught me in a weak moment.” The answer came sullenly.

How could he make her see? How he felt that night, how he wanted her so? Somehow, everything he said made it worse.

This is all wrong. We shouldn’t be yelling accusations at each other. Not now. Oh God, I can’t say anything right.

“A weak moment? The woman’s pregnant. Obviously, it wasn’t weak enough.” She began to laugh, a sound on the verge of tears. “Oh my God.”

“Damn it, Julie, forget what happened. I lo—”

There was a crash from the hall.

Julie opened the bedroom door in time to see Michel clutching at the banister, attempting to stand. He fell again, sprawling on the top step.

Stumbling into the hall, she knelt by Michel’s side, and looked up at Luc who paused in the doorway, watching.

“Don’t just stand there. Help me get him up.”

“Get up, sot.” Walking over, Luc prodded his brother in the side with the toe of his boot.

In answer, Michel groaned and rolled over. Luc bent and put his hands under his arms, hauling him into a sitting position. Michel’s head lolled limply.

“Oh, Luc, he’s so drunk.”

“He’s not drunk. He’s having a reaction.” Luc’s voice went up in sudden alarm.

“What?”

“He’s going into insulin shock. Michel…” He shook his brother, eliciting only a sleepy moan and a waft of liquor-laden breath. “How much did he drink?”

“I don’t know. The bottle was half-full.”

Somehow, he got Michel to his feet, turning him toward their open bedroom door.

“We’ll put him in here.” He carried him to the bed, dropping him onto it.

Michel muttered a string of barely audible syllables.

“What can we do?” Their argument was forgotten in the face of the threat to Michel.

Luc straightened. “Go to the kitchen and get a glass of orange juice. Stir three tablespoons of sugar into it and bring it here.”

She waddled out and he heard her footsteps going down the stairs.

“Be careful!” he called to her. “I don’t want you to fall.”

He turned and stared at Michel. You poor fool.

Julie was back remarkably fast, holding out the glass.

Putting an arm across his brother’s shoulders, Luc raised him and held the glass to his mouth, tilting it. “Here, Michel, drink this.”

He swallowed, coughed, and began to choke, spraying the juice over himself and Luc. Luc handed the glass back to her.

“This isn’t going to work. If I try to force-feed him, he might strangle.” He slapped his brother’s face. “Come on, Michel, wake up.”

Julie winced in sympathy. All he got in response was a sleepy slur of French.

“Wake Clarice. Tell her to bring me one of his syringes.”

Once again Julie went into the hall, banging on Michel’s bedroom door. It seemed forever before it opened, revealing a nightgown-clad Clarice, hair tousled, eyes puffy from sleep.

“What is it?” she snapped.

“Michel’s having a reaction. Luc said to bring his insulin.”

Yawning, she looked annoyed. “Oh, all right.”

She disappeared inside the room again. Julie turned and went back down the hall.

* * *

Clarice stumbled into the bathroom. On one side of the sink vanity stood Michel’s micro-refrigerator. It was a little larger than a standard cooler, holding a month’s supply of insulin. She raised the lid, studying the plastic case of syringes containing pre-mixed Humulin, noting unconsciously that three of the set of thirty had already been used.

The unopened syringes had to be kept at 36-46 degrees. Gran’père had installed the little refrigerator in Michel’s bath so his grandson wouldn’t have to keep his medication in the one in the kitchen or go there to give himself his injections.

It upset Mattie to see that. Clarice had to watch Michel do it every morning. No one cares if it upsets me, she thought resentfully.

She selected one and hurried out.

* * *

In Luc’s bedroom, she stopped beside him, looking distastefully at Michel’s unconscious body. She held out the syringe.

He looked at it and then at her in exasperation. “I need alcohol and cotton, too, Clarice. You ought to know by now.”

Taking the syringe from her, he thrust it at Julie who took it as if she thought it’d bite her. Luc turned back to the bed.

Clarice stamped out.

By the time she got back, bottle of alcohol and cotton ball in hand, Luc had Michel’s jeans unbelted and open, pulling them down to reveal a pair of well-muscled, tanned thighs covered with needle-tracks.

Julie gasped.

“Well, Hell, Julie, he has to inject it somewhere.” He held out his hand. She placed the syringe on it.

“I’m going to try to keep from calling Old Dr. Mark. No need to let anyone else know what a fool Michel’s been.’ He tapped the syringe with his forefinger, forcing the little bubbles into the needle, then pressed the plunger sending a spritz of insulin into the air.

“You don’t have to do that,” Clarice said.

“Maybe not.” Luc didn’t look at her.

Insulin was injected subcutaneously. With the extra-fine needles, there was little danger of striking a vein but he was always overly-cautious the few times he’d had to give his brother an injection. He took the cotton from Clarice, nodding at the bottle.

“Open it.”

As she obeyed, the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol filled the room. He held the cotton over the mouth of the bottle and Clarice tipped it, alcohol soaking the cotton ball. Luc swabbed a spot on Michel’s thigh, jabbed in the needle and pressed the plunger.

Michel didn’t move.

In a moment, Luc pulled out the needle, rubbed the injection site with the cotton and tossed both syringe and swab into the wastebasket. He slid up Michel’s trousers and refastened them.

“Now, let’s get him to bed.”

“Hold it!” Clarice spoke for the first time. “Not with me, you don’t. I don’t want to be near him when he’s like this. I’m pregnant. I need my sleep and I don’t need to sit up with a sick diabetic.”

“Clarice…” Luc began, but Julie stalked toward her.

“Get out of here, Clarice. Go back to bed and get your damned sleep before I pick up something and hit you with it!” She shoved the other woman through the door, slamming it shut.

Behind her, Luc laughed.

“What’s so damned funny?” Julie whirled, ready to lash out at him. She turned so quickly, she nearly overbalanced.

“Two pregnant women fighting over a drunken diabetic. If this wasn’t so pathetic, it’d be hilarious.” Luc went on, “I don’t particularly relish Michel sleeping in my bed, either, but…”

“Get out, Luc.” He stared at her. “You heard me. Just get out. I’ll take care of Michel.”

“Julie, you’re in no condition to—”

“Yes, I am!” It was said through gritted teeth as if she were afraid of what she might say if she actually opened her mouth. “He’ll simply sleep, won’t he?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “If he wakes up, he’ll be coherent, then fall into a normal sleep. When he awakes again, he should be all right.”

“Good.” She opened the door. “Go.”

Without speaking, Luc walked out, shutting the door.

Sighing, Julie began to unbutton Michel’s shirt.

Fifteen minutes later, Michel stirred and opened his eyes. “What…”

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Julie patted his arm. “Go back to sleep.”

Obediently, he closed his eyes again.

* * *

In the study, Luc poured himself a drink and looked at the decanter. Michel certainly hadn’t left much. He was lucky they'd heard him.

The fool. He could’ve died tonight. Why didn’t I let him?

He was still wondering about the changes he’d seen in his brother lately, and about the little scene he witnessed in the study. He hadn’t heard what was said, but seeing Michel in Julie’s arms like that… Clarice’s malicious statement came back to him: Michel will use her to hurt you, Luc.

Still, he hadn’t believed it. Not Michel le Ange, with his shyness where women were concerned.

Maybe I don’t know Michel as well as I thought.

His drink finished, Luc took the decanter and started up the stairs. Outside his door, he leaned against the railing.

I’m staying here until Michel comes out, if it takes all night…then Julie and I are going to get this settled.