The Gates of Evangeline (22 page)

T
hank goodness Rae is coming tonight. Amidst all these dead ends, our trip to New Orleans is a bright spot on my horizon. Perhaps a new city and an old friend will get me in a better headspace.

Rain moves in late morning and lingers. Noah and I lounge around his drafty cottage all afternoon, indulging our inner sloths. We're eating grilled cheese and tomato soup when Rae calls from JFK airport to let me know her flight's showing on time. Good news that goes bad within seconds, as I realize we have widely divergent views on our visit.

“I booked a hotel about five miles out of Chicory,” Rae informs me, “so I figure we'll get breakfast tomorrow and then you can give me the grand tour of Evangeline.”

“Chicory? I thought we were going to New Orleans.”

She dismisses our previous plans with maddening carelessness. “I've been to New Orleans a hundred times. You've gotta show me the
real
Louisiana. Seriously, Charlie, I'm psyched to see this house.”

It requires incredible restraint to keep from snapping at her. “I just got a lecture from the estate manager this week about not bringing my personal acquaintances on the grounds. If you'd asked me, I would've told you—”

Noah, who has been following my end of the conversation, intervenes. “I can get her in,” he offers.

I can just picture Rae's ears perking up at the sound of a male voice. “Who's that?” she wants to know. “Is someone with you?”

I scramble for an innocuous answer. I haven't told her about Noah yet, and I'm not about to do it with him sitting right here at the table. “The landscaper,” I say.

“Listen,” Noah tells me, loud enough that Rae can hear, “if your friend wants to visit, I'll talk to security, tell them she works for me.”

Rae cheers. “Woo-hoo! See, I knew you had connections.”

I glare at Noah. “I thought you were leaving for Texas tomorrow morning. You said you had business stuff to catch up on.”

“I'll leave a little later,” he says. “No problem.”

“Perfect! This is working out!” Rae chirps.

Before I can protest, the PA system begins blaring in the airport. “Looks like we're boarding,” she announces. “See you tomorrow, hon!”

I scowl at my phone and then at Noah. He slurps a spoonful of tomato soup, and I'm not sure if he fails to see my annoyance or is choosing to ignore it. “Cool,” he says. “I get to meet your friend.”

I pick apart my sandwich, still grumpy. “Maybe I don't want you to meet her.”

“Why?” he asks. “I'd
like
to meet one of your friends.”

“Rae's nosy. She's going to ask a lot of questions about you.”

“So?”

“So I don't know what to tell her.” I wasn't intending to launch a State of Our Relationship discussion, but that seems to be where we're headed.

“Tell her I'm great in bed,” Noah says with a grin, deftly avoiding the issue.

“That's actually more than she needs to know.”

“But true, right?” His confidence has come a long way from that first morning when he was so worried about his performance. I guess I've given him enough positive reinforcement at this point.

“Yes.” I roll my eyes. “You rock my world.”

He smiles and gulps down the last of his soup. “How 'bout you tell her the truth?”

“Which is?”

“You like me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You're happy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm happy, too.” Noah leans over and nuzzles my neck. I figure we're done talking, and that's fine by me. His breath, his lips, the feeling of his teeth on my ear—they give me goose bumps. The good kind.

He gives my earlobe one final kiss and then settles back in his chair. “You know, I should probably ask, seein' as Carmen and I never worked this one out.” His tone is so casual, I'm expecting a throwaway, not the ridiculously monumental question he lays on me. “Where do you stand on the whole kids thing?” From the way he's slung back in his chair polishing off his third sandwich, you'd think the issue was no big deal.

I want to shake him. I want to tell him that children are, in fact, a very big deal. That my child was a big deal.

I know what I'm supposed to say. He told me the night we met that he and his wife of ten years divorced because he changed his mind about having children. If I want to take our relationship to the next level, all I have to do is say,
Kids? I don't want kids.
Which is true. I have no love left to lavish on some small, fragile person who could be here one day and then, without warning, gone the next.

But Keegan matters. Losing Keegan matters. My four years as his mother will define me, at least in part, for the rest of my life, and Noah will never understand.

“Looks like I threw you off a bit there,” he observes. “Sorry. I'm gettin' ahead a myself.”

“Way ahead.” I fold my arms, not allowing myself to cry. I can't explain about my son. Won't even try. “At this stage, Noah, maybe let's talk about our plans for the weekend, not the rest of our lives. We're only three weeks in.”

He calculates quickly on his fingers. “Damn, you're right. Feels longer.”

“Well, it's not. It's three weeks.” I don't know why I'm getting snippy with him. I dated Eric about a month before deciding I wanted to marry him, and we discussed having children the second date. It's not the speed Noah's moving at but the territory he's trying to cover. “I'm going back to my place for a bit.” I'm already moving toward the door. “I should wrap up a chapter before I see Rae tomorrow.”

Noah furrows his brow. “You okay? Didn't mean to freak you out.”

“I'm fine.” My hand is on the doorknob.

“You want me to come by later?”

What began as a drizzle has now turned to a full-fledged downpour. Still, the rain remains more appealing than hanging around Noah's apartment while I'm on the brink of a breakdown. “I'll call you,” I promise before sprinting off.

But I don't.

•   •   •

I
MEET
R
AE
at a Waffle House (her guilty vacation pleasure) the next morning and we exchange all the customary hugs and greetings. Rae's a good-looking woman anywhere, but the suede jacket, leather boots, and perfectly coiffed curls attract more than the average amount of attention in a southern Louisiana Waffle House. From the looks of more than one patron, waffles aren't the only mouthwatering items in the restaurant today.

“A month here, and you already look better,” Rae tells me, ignoring the leers. “Less scary skinny. You came to the right state to fatten up.”

I slide into one of the booths. “How's Zoey?”

“She misses you. Asks about you all the time.”

Given how long I've known Zoey, my sudden absence from her life feels inexcusable. I should've called. At least sent a postcard. Before I can apologize, though, Rae drops the question she's doubtless been dying to ask since we talked yesterday.

“So who's this landscaper guy?” Really, the woman should work for the
National Enquirer
or TMZ. She has an uncanny ability to sniff out a story.

I'm a terrible liar, but I do my best to play it off. “You mean Noah? He's doing work at Evangeline.”

“Is he cute?”

I deliberately misinterpret her. “This is Louisiana, not Vegas. You're married, remember?”

“Yes, happily and boringly married.” She laughs. “I've gotta live vicariously. So is he cute or is he, like, a hundred years old?”

In a more reputable establishment, a waitress would come to get our orders. The lone Waffle House waitress, however, is speaking in hushed tones with one of the cooks. She's large and blocky with the kind of sour, world-weary expression normally reserved for mug shots. I don't dare wave her over.

“He's okay, nothing special.” I shrug. “Not really your type.”

“So he's young,” Rae says. “Are you guys, what, friends? You hang out?”

“I guess. You're making it sound way more exciting than it is.” I'm doing an amazing job at appearing blasé, but then Rae pulls her signature game-ending move, the Long Stare.

After about a minute, I start to squirm. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She doesn't answer, just looks.

“Jesus, Rae, it's just a guy! Why are you so stuck on him?”

I don't know what in this whole exchange gives me away, but her mouth drops open and she stares at me in shocked delight. “You
bitch
!” She shakes a finger at me. “You slept with him, didn't you?”

Poor Zoey,
I think.
I can only imagine what your teenage years will be like living with this.
I glance around at the other Waffle House customers, but no one else seems to care who I've been sleeping with.

Rae's rocking back and forth, half-covering her grin with one hand. I can't remember the last time I saw her this happy. “Well, hallelujah, Charlotte Cates, you've been making it with the gardener. God is good.” She thumps the table with her fist. “That's like a porno, hooking up with the hired help.”

“I'm the hired help, too, remember? And maybe you can lower your voice.”

Rae discounts this last plea entirely and stands up, flagging down our ex-con waitress. “When you get a minute, can I buy this lady some breakfast?” she calls, and casts one quick, beaming glance back at me. “We've got a lot to celebrate this morning.”

•   •   •

I'
M HOPING THAT
Evangeline's security will give Rae a hard time, but the guy barely looks at her driver's license. Noah must have got to him. It's the best kind of morning, sun streaming through the trees, everything a vibrant green after yesterday's rain, air rich with the smell of the bayou. Not bad for end-of-January weather. Rae hops out of the car, already gushing about the beauty of the home.

I'm a little nervous. Jules wouldn't normally be around on a Sunday, yet with Andre home and the state of their relationship seemingly in flux, all bets are off. Andre seemed quite personable, but I don't know if that extends to my traipsing through his home with my Northeastern acquaintances. Before I can explain these complexities to Rae, Isaac calls. He must've received the chapters I sent him last night.

“I have to take this call from my editor,” I tell Rae. “Feel free to look around the garden.”

She wanders off and I catch up with Isaac, who, to my enormous relief, wants me to continue with my hybrid nonfictional fiction approach. He still has some misgivings, he tells me, and it will never fit into the
Greatest Mysteries
series. Nevertheless, he advises me to follow my instincts. We hash through some of my chapters, and when I eventually end the call, I discover that a full half hour has elapsed.

As I mentally craft an apology to Rae, I catch sight of something frightening in the garden. It's Rae. Chatting animatedly. With Noah.

Not good.

I hurry over, trying to assess from their faces the level of damage control I need to do. How long have they been talking, and what exactly has she let slip? Has she mentioned Keegan?

“Hey.” My smile is more flustered than friendly. “I take it you two introduced yourselves?”

“Quit sweating bullets,” Rae says. “We've been having a nice little chat. Don't worry. I didn't tell him what you look like without your makeup on.”

“She didn't,” Noah affirms, although he has seen me without makeup plenty of times by now. “I was just telling her about the garden.” He studies me, uncertain, and I remember with a guilty twinge that I did blow him off last night.

“Your boy's got big plans,” Rae says. “This place will really be something.” Her use of “your boy” doesn't escape me, but I let it slide. Perhaps I am compartmentalizing a wee bit much if a conversation between my best friend and boyfriend-ish person sets me into such a tailspin.

“Glad I got to meet you, Rae,” Noah says. “I'm gonna hit the road now. Probably won't be back until Thursday.” He leans close to me for a hug and whispers, “Sorry 'bout yesterday. That was my bad.”

Then he's Texas-bound. I turn to Rae, suddenly anxious for her approval. He isn't much, not by the metrics she and I have always used. I think of the guys she set me up with after my divorce: Tom, a stockbroker who retired in his midthirties, and Elliott, whose uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere rendered me tongue-tied and blushy for the entirety of our one date. I want her to like Noah, but I can't help but see the college degree he never earned, the gun he keeps in his sock drawer, his failure to enunciate words ending in
-ing
.

Rae, however, proves a kinder judge than I. “That is a nice man,” she declares. “And that cute little Texas accent, my God. Does he wear a cowboy hat to bed?”

•   •   •

I
OPT NOT TO GO
inside Evangeline. There's been enough drama for one day—why invite more by setting up a potential Jules confrontation? Rae, surprisingly, doesn't argue. The tiny glimpse into my sex life was probably more exciting for her than a bunch of antique furniture, anyway. I do show her my cottage, and we bask in the awfulness of the lavender color scheme. Then it's off to town, where we tour Main Street and scarf down some jambalaya and shrimp étouffée at a price that wouldn't buy you a bowl of oatmeal in Manhattan. Running low on ideas, I suggest the Rail and River Museum. Rae, at last satisfied that Chicory is as boring as I've been telling her, whips out her iPhone and books us a hotel in the French Quarter.

The drive is peaceful, miles upon miles of highway through areas that vary mainly in their degree of swampiness. Sometimes the trees are tall and scraggly. Sometimes the land is flat and watery. We cross the occasional bridge, pass dilapidated shacks and rotting docks. I tell Rae about the people I've met, doing my best approximation of Deacon's thick Cajun accent. She chatters about the incredible food in New Orleans.