Forever (3 page)

Mae frowned as she regarded her friend sitting broodingly on the porch swing. She had failed to stop Gussie's obsession, and Gussie's behaviour had not gone unnoticed elsewhere. She had overheard her own mother saying tartly that Gussie was no different from her grandmother Gallière.

Their grandmothers. Why was it that no one would ever talk about their grandmothers? Mae's mother could not be coaxed, would change the subject the moment Mae entered the room. All that Mae knew about her own grandmother was that she lived the life of a recluse in a crumbling, tumble-down plantation deep in the bayous in Cajun country. Mae had heard it said that Leila Derbigny had been a beauty in her time and that Henry Jefferson had been fortunate in winning her for a bride. Mae still thought her grandmother beautiful in her grandmother's own strange and eccentric way. But visits to her were discouraged – had always been discouraged. As for Augusta's grandmother, she was never spoken of. Not even in the Lafayette household. All that Gussie herself knew was that, within a year of Chantel marrying Julius Lafayette and then giving birth to Charles Lafayette, Chantel had committed suicide, drowning herself in one of the deserted, desolate lakes that lay deep in the Louisiana forests.

Had Chantel been mad? Unbalanced? A normal, healthy woman would never have chosen such a death, and Chantel Lafayette had been scarcely a woman. Only twenty whèn she had waded into the alligator-haunted water, deeper and deeper, her wheat-gold hair fanning around her as she embraced death.

Mae shivered. Was Gussie unbalanced? Certainly her obsession with Beau Clay – nearly a year old now – had become alarming in its fixation.

‘Austin Merriweather has asked me to the Carlton dance, I know Bradley wants to take you. Why don't we make a foursome? It would be fun.'

Gussie swung to and fro, fanning her face as the heat throbbed in the air, rising in waves over St Michel's lushly tended lawns.

‘If I go to the Carlton dance, I'll go with Beau.'

‘But Beau isn't even aware of your existence!' Mae cried exasperatedly. ‘You're wasting your life, Gussie. Throwing it away on a dream.'

Gussie's eyes sparked fire. ‘I'm waiting for my life to begin, Mae! And it will. I'm seventeen now – nearly eighteen. I can go to the same places Beau goes. The same parties. The same clubs. Just another few months and I'll be Mrs Beau Clay. I will.
I will
!' Feverishly she pummelled the cushions on the swing.

Mae stared at her and the nape of her neck prickled. The Gussie before her was not the Gussie she had grown up with. There was nothing more to say. She left awkwardly. She couldn't confide in Austin. She certainly couldn't confide in her mother. Her mother would say Gussie was mad: as Gussie's grandmother had been. She couldn't confide in Gussie's father, Charles Lafayette. If he knew for one second that his daughter was obsessed with Beau Clay, he would send her to Europe and Mae would have lost her best friend.

Miserably she drove her Mercury down St Michel's long drive. She would go and see Eden Alexander. Eden had enough common sense to restore her spirit and put everything into perspective.

Eden regarded Mae with amusement. ‘Gussie is no madder than you or me. Let's take some rum over this evening and have a party. Her father is playing bridge with my parents and Mrs James-Stanley. One thing about having no mother is that it makes fun at home easier.'

They laughed.

Gussie's mother had died in childbirth and Gussie had grown up the adored child of her father and had never for a moment missed the presence of a mother. As for Eden and Mae, although they loved their respective mothers, there were certainly times when they were an inconvenience.

To Mae's relief Gussie was undeniably pleased to see Eden. It wasn't always so easy since Eden's parents were newcomers to New Orleans, French-Canadians who were not of the same social elite as the Jeffersons or the Lafayettes, but who were intent on storming the bastions of the city's rigid society.

‘I'm not going out with Don Shreve again,' Eden said, expertly mixing up an exotic rum punch as they sat listening to records in the grandeur of St Michel's main salon. ‘He takes liberties I wouldn't allow Burt Reynolds.'

Mae giggled. ‘I'd allow Burt Reynolds anything.'

Eden and Gussie laughed. ‘Mae Jefferson. You're becoming perfectly immoral.'

‘Not with Austin,' Mae said, and the laughter increased.

Austin Merriweather III had many agreeable qualities. He was kind, rich and suitable but he was certainly no sex symbol.

The glasses were handed round. Jazz filled the room, soft and low. ‘I don't think I
can
be in love with Austin when I still want to date Bradley Hampton so badly,' Mae said, hugging her knees as they sat companionably on scatter rugs, the highly polished wood floor gleaming in the lamplight.

‘I think I'm in love with Dean Kent,' Eden said calmly.

‘Dean Kent!'
Mae nearly choked on her drink and Gussie stared, round-eyed. Dean Kent was a lawyer: a close friend of Eden's father. A suave, sophisticated, handsome man in his late thirties.

‘Does your father know?'

‘Don't be silly,' Eden said smugly. ‘He'd throw a fit.'

‘But Dean Kent is
old
,' Mae protested, shock making her unwise. ‘He's even older than Beau Clay.'

Eden's eyes took on a dreamy expression. ‘Now
there's
a man who could tempt me from Dean.'

Mae's eyes swung in Gussie's direction but Gussie was sipping her drink, seemingly undisturbed. Mae relaxed. Gussie was all right. She'd been foolish to imagine otherwise.

‘Wouldn't it be marvellous if you could make who you wanted fall in love with you?' Eden said idly, helping herself to more punch. ‘Who would I choose? Burt Reynolds? Dean Kent? Beauregard Clay?'

Eden's exotic mixture of rum and curaçao had made Mae light-headed. ‘You can if you really want to,' she said suddenly. ‘If you really want to bad enough you can make anyone fall in love with you. I saw Bradley last night and I lay awake for hours wondering if I should make him love me. But I don't know whether I want to badly enough. Besides, the thought scares me a little.'

Eden laughed. ‘Don't be a goose, Mae. You couldn't make Bradley fall in love with you. He's in love with Gussie.'

‘I could make him love me if I wanted to,' Mae repeated stubbornly.

‘How?' Eden's voice was amused, but in the glow from the lamps Gussie's eyes had taken on a peculiar light and she had gone very still.

Mae drained her glass and obligingly allowed Eden to refill it. ‘My grandmother says it's an old New Orleans tradition that if you want someone to love you forever you need only write his name
backwards
on a piece of paper … and then eat it!'

Eden laughed delightedly. ‘How do you spell Burt Reynolds backwards? I'd just love a six-month
affaire
with that man.'

‘It's forever, Eden.'

‘Can't it work just for a few weeks?'

‘No. It's forever and forever and forever.'

‘Then it's no good. I don't want Burt Reynolds forever. I shall want someone else afterwards. I'm growing up an insatiable lady.'

‘I want Beauregard Clay forever,' Gussie said suddenly.

The laughter faded. ‘Would you do it, Gussie?' Eden asked.

Gussie's eyes were feverish. ‘I'm
going
to do it. I'm going to make Beauregard Clay love me forever. Just you see if I don't.'

‘It only works on Midsummer's Eve,' Mae said apprehensively. Gussie's eyes gleamed. ‘It's Midsummer tomorrow. That's why you remembered it, why you thought of writing Bradley Hampton's name on the paper and eating it. Are you still going to do it?'

‘I don't know. I'd
like
to, but I'm scared.'

‘Who could be scared of eating a piece of paper?' Eden said affectionately.

‘Then you do it as well.'

Eden shrugged. ‘There's no one that I want forever. It's too long a time.'

‘Not for me,' Gussie said passionately. ‘For me, forever won't be long enough!'

‘I bet you don't go through with it,' Eden said, replacing Miles Davis with Cleo Laine.

‘I shall. Come over tomorrow night and see.'

The instant Mae had spoken Gussie had known that what she had said was true. She had felt the truth deep within her. It had seemed to strike some primeval chord that had previously lain dormant. She had known all along about the Midsummer's Eve ceremony, though no one had told her of it. The knowledge was in her blood and bones. She couldn't wait for Eden and Mae to leave. To run up to her bedroom and savour the excitement rising within her. She sat on the enormous bed, her arms around a carved rosewood post, her cheek pressed close to the wood.

Soon Beau Clay would be hers. She could almost feel the weight of his body forcing hers to be still. His mouth bruising and burning, his hands searching and demanding. With single-minded determination she began to count away the long hours.

Thoughts of Beau Clay had driven all other thoughts from her mind. She woke next day with an exclamation of horror. Tomorrow was not only Midsummer's Day, it was her father's birthday and she had still not brought him a present. A book, she decided as she dressed, ignoring the breakfast tray that had been brought up for her. Something that showed it had been chosen with care. She wriggled her slim hips into a pair of Parisian-cut jeans. She could order one over the telephone and have it delivered, but for the life of her she could not think of a suitable title. She needed to go down to Dolpen II and browse around.

Picking up a slice of toast, she ran lightly down the balustraded stairs and out into the heavy sunshine. Going for the book would help pass the time until evening. She felt sick with excitement. Mae's grandmother was known for her skill in telling the future and there were rumours that she possessed far more sinister talents. It was whispered that she was far too friendly with her Black servants; that she knew secrets of voodoo and witchcraft. Even that she was an initiate. If Leila Jefferson said a man's heart could be bound forever by such a simple ritual, then Augusta believed her.

Augusta parked her Chevrolet in Royal Street and strolled into Dolpen's. She selected a glossy coffee-table book retelling for the hundredth time the Battle of New Orleans. It wasn't a very original present but it was one that would please. There were suitably flattering mentions of the Lafayettes who had fought alongside General Jackson. How was it, Gussie thought, her arms clasping the book, her eyes taking on their all-too-familiar far-away expression as she left the shop, that in the days of old New Orleans all the men had been so dashing and devil-may-care and now, in the same city, they all seemed so everyday and ordinary. Apart from Beau, of course. Beau still carried a sense of danger and excitement with him wherever he went. He had only to enter a room for the whole atmosphere to become electric.

A dark figure stepped forward and caught hold of her arm. She gasped. For a second she thought it was Beau, for he moved with the same easy strength and confidence, and then disappointment flooded through her.

The hair was nearly as dark but instead of hanging in a glossy sheen, it was coarse and curly, tumbling low over well-marked brows. The laughing eyes held none of the black glitter of Beau's.

‘You scared me half to death,' she said bad-temperedly, wrenching her arm away from Bradley's grasp.

He grinned. ‘I saved you from disappearing beneath the wheels of a Cadillac.'

There was an ominous roll of thunder and the sun disappeared behind burgeoning black clouds. The first heavy drops of rain spattered on the cover of the book.

‘We'd best take cover.' His hand was on her arm again.

She shook it away, saying irritably, ‘I
like
rain. I
enjoy
thunder-storms.'

Bradley shrugged. A little rain never hurt anyone. If she didn't mind, he sure as hell didn't.

‘Which way are you going?'

She hesitated, looking around her with slight bewilderment. They were in the middle of Jackson Square. The band that had been playing was hurrying for shelter. The pavement artists were rapidly removing their pictures from the railings. With a slight furrowing of his brow Bradley realized that she had not known where she was.

‘To my car. I left it near Dolpen's.'

The rain was coming down with a vengeance. The square, full only minutes ago, was now empty. Lightning flashed viciously over the cathedral and the rows of balconied nineteenth-century buildings. Taking her arm for the third time, Bradley led Augusta firmly in the direction of Royal Street. He preferred her like this: bad-tempered, out of breath, her face streaked with rain, her hair falling wildly around her shoulders as she was forced into a run by the rain that bounced off the pavement like bullets. At least she was with him in mind as well as body. Not just lost in some private world of her own.

‘Storms suit you,' he said as they raced to the far side of the square.

‘You're crazy.' She was panting, her nipples showing clearly beneath the saturated cotton of her T-shirt.

‘I know.' His voice caught and deepened. There was a sudden flexing of muscles along his jaw line. Without any warning he halted and swung her round to face him.

‘What the—' she began.

Her breasts were pushed flat against his chest as he caught her to him, silencing her protests with a long, deep kiss. The book scored her ribs so that she wanted to cry out in pain. She let go of it and pummelled clenched fists against his rain-soaked shoulders. His lips were hard and insistent and he had wound one hand in her hair so that she could not twist free.

She struggled vainly, the book slipping and then falling on to the flooded pavement. Finally she tore her mouth from his, her nails scoring deep marks down the side of his face.