The Saint Louisans Read Online Free Page A

Prophet Queen. Her smile was assured and radiant as she presided over the court of love and beauty.
    â€œIt was painted by Scott MacNutt,” a firm but gracious voice called behind me. “He was rather old by then, but still much in demand by everyone in St. Louis.”
    Margot Desouche smiled with benign charm as she limped into the drawing room, supporting herself on a shiny black cane. The butler helped her in until she nodded. “Please bring us tea,” she instructed. With a slight bow, he reluctantly withdrew.
    â€œYou were very beautiful,” I said.
    She sat in an Empire chair, looked at the portrait, and sighed. “Thank you for using the past tense. I hate flattery. Had enough of it. Sick of it all, and now I’m sick in the final way.”
    I was aware I was being studied by her clear gray eyes, much as I had done so with the portraits.
    She motioned toward a matching chair and said, “Please have a seat, Mrs. Bridger, or is it Ms.?”
    â€œCall me Lee.”
    â€œYes,” she was relieved, “Lee is a pretty name. Please call me Margot.”
    The French name was expected. In St. Louis society, although long immersed in America, the French families often give themselves French names. Her children were Pierre, Therese, also known as Terri, and Lucas. Lucas committed suicide fifteen years ago.
    â€œI spoke to Dr. Kemper,” I began. “He said your cancer is pancreatic.”
    â€œThat means I’ll die.” Margot passed sentence calmly.
    I was used to patients euphemizing, but Margot would have none of it. I took out some booklets and brochures from my case.
    â€œThe recovery rate is three percent,” I said. “Colon or breast cancer has an eighty-eight to ninety-one percent recovery, but it usually means half make it, half don’t. Dr. Kemper is prepared to try some radical therapy—”
    â€œNo, Lee. I prefer to make my peace. That is why you are here. Saul said the nicest things about you. I don’t want to die in a hospital. A hospice … is different, isn’t it?”
    The butler returned with a tea tray and poured for both of us.
    I smiled at him, and then turned to Margot.
    â€œIt’s more a state of mind than an actual place.”
    â€œA place to die, then.” Margot was determined not to sound helpless.
    â€œI think of it more as a place of meeting. A place of transit. Of arrival and departure.” I let that sink in, then offered one of the booklets.
    â€œAs this explains—”
    Margot quickly took the glossy booklet and set it down. “Please. I want you to tell me. To hear your voice … Lee.”
    â€œThe hospice began in medieval Europe,” I continued. “It was used by pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land and a refuge for the dead and dying. The root word is
hospes
, which means both host and guest.”
    Margot nodded with intent eyes, waiting for me to continue.
    â€œThe modern hospice was created by Dame Cicely Saunders. It is St. Christopher’s, in Sydenham. West London.”
    â€œHave you seen it?”
    â€œOn my first trip abroad, I went and was able to meet Dame Cicely herself. In America we treat it more as a program of care than an actual place.”
    â€œYou help people die in their homes.”
    â€œWe should speak with your relatives.”
    â€œMy children?” she scoffed. “They’re vultures. The estate is all they care about. They’ve run away from me for years, and now that I’m dying, they’ll all reappear with lawyers.” For the first time, her gracious expression hardened into a mask. “I warn you, Lee: the bile they have for me will be passed on to you.”
    This came out of nowhere. Why would I be a target? Okay, I thought, the family has wounds. There was bad blood between her and her surviving children, Pierre and Terri. Luca’s suicide had been a media event, and the sibling’s accusations at