"It is a beautiful house in a beautiful location," Beau said.
We stared at each other for a moment, silence thicker than fog coming between us.
"Let me bring you to . . . Pearl," I said softly. His eyes brightened with anticipation. I led him out to the patio, where Mrs. Flemming had Pearl playing in a playpen.
"Mrs. Flemming, this is my brother-in-law, Beau Andreas," I said quickly.
"How do you do?" Beau extended his hand, his eyes really riveted on Pearl.
"Pleased to meet you," Mrs. Flemming said.
"And this is Pearl," I murmured. He was already moving toward her. He knelt down by the playpen, and she stopped fiddling with her toy to look into his face. Could one so tiny and young recognize her true father? Did she see something in his eyes, something of herself instantly? Unlike her curious look at other people that usually died in a flash, she studied Beau and formed a tiny smile on her diminutive lips, and when he reached over to lift her out of the playpen, she didn't cry. He kissed her cheek and hair, and she reached out to touch his hair and his face as if she wanted to be sure he wasn't a dream.
I couldn't keep the tears from filling my eyes, but I blinked them back before they could spill over my lids. Beau turned toward me, his face radiant.
"She's beautiful," he whispered. I bit down on my lower lip and nodded. Then I gazed at Mrs. Flemming, who was staring with great interest, a faint smile in her face. Her age and her wisdom were giving her signals that confused and intrigued her, I was sure.
"She likes you a great deal, monsieur," Mrs. Flemming said.
"I have a way with young women," Beau teased, and put Pearl back into her playpen. She began to cry instantly, which brought a look of astonishment to Mrs. Flemming's face.
"Now, behave, Pearl," I chastised gently. "I want to show Uncle Beau the house."
Without another word I led him toward the pool and the cabana.
"Ruby," he said after we were sufficiently away. "You did such a wonderful thing. She's more precious than I ever could have imagined. No wonder Paul is so taken with her. She looks just like you."
"No, she has more of your features," I insisted. "Here, as you can see, is our pool. Paul wants to build a tennis court over there next month. We have a dock on the canal over there," I said, pointing. Only by talking and concentrating on other things could I keep myself from bursting out in tears. But Beau wasn't listening.
"Why didn't I battle with my parents? Why didn't I run away, too? I should have fled to the bayou with you and started a new life."
"Beau, don't talk foolishness. What would you have done? Sat on the roadside and sold handicrafts with me?"
"I would have gotten an honest man's work. Maybe I would have ended up working for Paul's family or a shrimp fisherman or. . ."
"When there is a baby, a real, live infant, you can't live in a fantasy world," I said, perhaps too harshly and cruelly. Beau swallowed back his dream words and nodded.
"Yes, you're right. Of course."
"Do you want to see my studio here?" I asked quickly. "Very much. Please."
I led him around to the stairway. As we ascended, I rattled on an on about Paul's businesses, the way some state politicians had been courting him, not only for contributions but for a possible political office someday.
"You're very proud of Paul, aren't you?" Beau said at the entrance to my studio.
"Yes, Beau. He was always a very mature young man, years ahead of others his age, and he is an astute businessman. Most importantly, he is devoted to Pearl and me and would do anything to make us happy," I said as I opened the door to my studio.
"I've been buying some of your paintings, you know. I keep them in what is now my office," he said. "I start every day gazing at something of yours."
"As you can see," I said, ignoring his words, "I have a wonderful view of the canals and the grounds from up here."
He looked out the window and nodded. "Now that I see what you look out on every day, I will be able to conjure you more vividly every morning."
"This is my newest series of work," I said, pretending I didn't hear these words either. "My Confederate soldier series."
Beau studied the pictures. "They're
magnificent," he said. "I must have them. The whole series. How much?"
I laughed. "I'm not finished yet, Beau, and I have no idea what they're going to be worth. Probably a lot less than we imagine."
"Probably a lot more. When will you take them to New Orleans?"
"Within the month," I replied.
"Ruby," he said with such force and emotion, I had to turn to look into his eyes this time. He seized my hands and held them in his. "I must explain why I married Gisselle. I had to find a way to stay close to you although I had lost you. Despite the way she behaves, she has her quiet, intimate moments when she resembles you more than you can imagine. She's a very frightened and lonely girl who tries to cover it up by acting snobby and by being selfish. But she's selfish only because she's afraid she will have nothing, no one to love her.
"When she's like that, I think of you. I feel I am holding you in my arms, comforting you, kissing the tears off your cheeks and kissing your closed eyelids. I've even gotten her to wear your favorite perfumes so when I close my eyes, I see only you in my thoughts."
"Beau, thats wrong."
"I know it is. Now I know," he agreed. "She's not stupid. She senses it, too, but she has been willing to put up with it. Until recently, that is. She's . . . reverting to her old self quickly, throwing off the finer things she has learned and the better habits and behavior as if it were spare weight on a sinking ship. She's started drinking excessively again, inviting her old, degenerate friends back for late night parties. . . ." He shook his head. "It's not what I thought it would be. I can't make her into you," he confessed, and then he lifted his eyes to me, "but maybe I don't have to anymore."
"What do you mean, Beau?"
"I've taken an apartment off Dumaine Street in the French Quarter. Gisselle knows nothing about it. I want you to meet me there when you come into New Orleans."
"Beau!" I said, pulling my hands from his and stepping back in astonishment.
"I'm not suggesting anything horrible, not even sinful, Ruby. We love each other. I know we do, and do completely. I know what sort of arrangement you have with Paul. It's half a marriage, and I'm telling you the truth about my marriage to Gisselle. We can't leave this part of our lives so empty. We can't live with such longing unanswered. Please, Ruby, please come to me," he pleaded.
For a moment I was speechless. The images his proposal generated in my own imagination were overwhelming. I felt the heat rush to my face. To go to him and throw myself into his arms, to cling to his body and feel his lips on mine, to hear his soft words of love and listen to the beating of his heart, to reach the ecstasy we had known again, had seemed beyond possibility, even be-yond dreams.
"I can't," I whispered. "Paul would be . ."
"No one has to know. We'll make perfect arrangements. No one will be hurt, Ruby. I've been planning this for days. It's consumed my thoughts. Yesterday, when I took the flat in the French Quarter, I knew we could do it and I knew we had to do it. Will you come? Will you?"
"No," I said, stepping toward the door. "We can't." I shook my head. "Let's go down. Paul must have arrived by now," I said.
"Ruby!"
I walked out of the studio and started down the stairs, fleeing from my own temptations. Beau finally came after me. I waited for him at the bottom of the stairs,
"Ruby," he said again, in a quiet, reasonable tone of voice, "if--"
"There you are," we heard, and saw Paul and Gisselle coming from the patio.
"I was just showing Beau my studio," I said quickly.
"Oh," Paul said, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at Beau. He kissed me on the cheek. "Did you see her new series?" he asked, his eyes shifting to me and turning dark.
"It's fantastic," Beau said. "I've already offered to buy the entire thing, but she cleverly said it's too soon to set a price," he added with a laugh.
"You paid too much for the ones you have," Gisselle reprimanded. "It's not like she's a famous artist or anything."
"Oh, but she will be," Paul assured her. "And you're going to be very proud of her, as proud of her as I am," he added, looking at me.
"Let's get down to some business," Gisselle said impatiently. "I don't need another tour of the swamps."
"Ah, but you've never really had a tour of the swamps, Gisselle," Paul said. "Please permit me to take you in the motorboat and show you the beauty of the canals."
"What? You mean go into that?" she said, nodding toward the swamp. "I'll be eaten alive."
"We have something to put on your face and arms that will keep all bugs away," Paul promised. "You must be a tourist, just for a short while. I insist on impressing you."
"I would really like to do it," Beau said.
"Then it's settled. Right after lunch, we all go for a spin through the canals. In the meantime let's go to my office and begin to unravel the legal work."
"Fine," Beau said. He moved forward and took Gisselle's arm in his. Pleased, she started for the house, and Paul gazed at me.
"You all right?" he asked softly.
"Yes. Everything's fine," I said.
"Good." He took my hand and we followed.
Gisselle began our meeting by declaring that she thought everything in New Orleans should go to her. "Beau and I are willing to trade other properties and assets that are of. . . what was the word, Beau?"
"Comparable value," he offered.
"Yes, comparable value."
"Ruby?" Paul said.
"I have no problem with that. I have no interest in owning anything in New Orleans right now."
"Daddy, or I should say, Daphne, had bought apartment buildings in other places. We're big landlords, right, Beau?"
"Rather impressive portfolio," he said, presenting the first pages of the documents. "All of the properties are listed here with their appraised values. This land on Lake Pontchartrain is like gold."
Paul leaned over and studied the list. Soon it became a conversation between the two of them. Gisselle took out an emery board and began doing her nails as we talked. I had no interest in being a landlord and was more than willing to sell commercial holdings.
"What about Bruce?" I asked after a while.
"We haven't heard a word from him or his lawyer since his lawyer spoke with ours. I think he realizes that he would only be throwing away in wasted legal fees whatever money he's been able to get."
"Is he still in New Orleans?"
"Yes. He has an apartment building of his own and a few other holdings, but nothing like the fortune he might have inherited had Daphne not foreseen the possibilities and blocked them with her lawyers."
"Why, though?" I wondered aloud. "She certainly didn't want the money and the property to go to us," I said, looking at Gisselle for agreement.
"That's for sure," she said.
"Maybe . . . she was afraid of Bruce," Beau suggested. "Afraid? How do you mean that?" Paul asked. "Afraid that if he could get such wealth at her death, he might . . . what should I say, accelerate her death?" Everyone was quiet for a moment, even Gisselle, as we pondered what Beau was saying.
"She knew what kind of man she had married and the things he was capable of doing," Beau continued. "We came across some of their
shenanigans together before Pierre died. There were documents forged, false papers created . . . a trail of deceit."
"Then Bruce isn't getting anything he doesn't deserve," Paul concluded.
Beau and he continued to go through the details of the holdings. Gisselle, who had demanded the meeting take place immediately, grew more fidgety. Finally we decided to adjourn for lunch.
We ate on the patio. Paul kept Beau intrigued with his talk of politics and oil, and Gisselle rambled on about some of her old friends, the things they bought, the places they had been. When Mrs. Flemming brought Pearl to see us, I held my breath, expecting Gisselle to make some embarrassing comment, but she held her tongue and performed like the perfect aunt, suddenly taking delight in her niece.
"I'm going to wait to have children," she declared. "I know what it can do to your figure and I'm not ready for that yet. Beau and I are completely agreed about it, right, Beau?"
"What? Oh, sure,
cherie."
"Say something romantic in French, Beau. Just like you used to when we walked along the banks of the Seine. Please."
He looked at me and then he said, "Whenever you come into a room,
mon coeur battait la chamade."
"Oh, isn't that beautiful. What does it mean, Beau?"
His eyes fell on me for an instant again and then he smiled at Gisselle and said, "Whenever you come into a room, my heart goes bumpety bump."
"You Cajuns have any French expressions of love?" she asked.
"A few," Paul said. "But our accent is so different, you'd probably not understand. Well, how about our tour of the swamp. Ready?"
"I'll never be ready for that," Gisselle complained. "You're going to be fascinated, despite yourself," Paul promised.
"I don't have anything to wear. I don't want to get any of the clothes I have with me spotted with swamp mud and grease."
"I have some old pants that will fit you, Gisselle," I said. "And some old shirts. Come on. Let's get ready."
She whined and complained all the way up the stairs, in the room changing, and back down again. Paul had some bug repellent for her to smear on her face and exposed arms and neck.
"What if I break into a rash from this?" she whined. "You won't. It's an old Cajun recipe."
"What's in it?" she demanded.
"It's better if you don't know," Paul wisely replied.
"It stinks."
"So the bugs will stay away from you," Beau said. "As well as everyone else."
We laughed and, after Gisselle was properly smeared, went down to the boat. Beau sat between Gisselle and me.
"Laissez les bon temps rouler!"
Paul cried. "Let the good times roll!"
Gisselle screamed when we pulled away from the dock, but in minutes, she grew calm and interested. Paul pointed out the ropes of green snakes, the movement of alligators, the nutrias, the birds, and the beautiful honey-suckle covering the banks of the canals. He was a wonderful guide, his voice filled with his love of the swamp, his admiration for the life that fed and dwelt within the canals. He cut the engine and we floated over shallow brackish lakes, observing the muskrats busily building their dried domes of grass. He pointed out a cottonmouth sunning itself on a rock, its triangular head the color of an old penny.