These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (3 page)

            “Of
course. That’s what we’re here for.” He followed her down the hallway and out
into the foyer. “I’ll let Bernice know you’re coming back on Friday.”

            She
turned just as he opened the door. The heat and humidity hit like a wall. “You
won’t be here?”

            “No,
but if you have any problem, just leave me a note and I’ll do everything I can
to help.”

            An
emotion crossed her face that he didn’t quite catch. “Thank you, again.” She
held out a hand and he took it. A second later she was out the door, striding
across the parking lot.

            It
had been so many years since he’d felt regret that at first he didn’t recognize
the emotion. As he watched her get into her car and reverse out of the parking
space, it solidified in the pit of his stomach. If only he hadn’t sought
revenge. If only he had known the whole truth.

            “Well,
I never.”

            Bernice’s
voice brought him back to the present. The past was done. There was no wishing
it away for a life he couldn’t have.

            “I
wonder why Birdie never mentioned Henry coming back to town.” She peered past
him. “I get the impression she doesn’t get along with her family, ya know? Just
an inkling.”

            Gideon
nodded without commenting.  Family drama and gossip held no fascination for him
whatsoever. If he could make it back to his desk without hearing about every
person in Henry’s whole family tree, he’d be happy.

            “Sure
is pretty, though. I can see the resemblance in those green eyes, but it’s her
smile that really gives it away. Just like Kimberly Gray, that’s for sure.”
Bernice touched her hair, a self-conscious gesture.

            Fine,
he’d bite. “Who?”

            “The
actress. She was in some big movies, but I haven’t seen her as much lately. Yes,
sir, it’s probably hard to get a decent role when you’re over forty, even as
pretty as she is. Anyway, you know Birdie and Frank Pascal? Those are Kimberly
Gray’s parents. They don’t brag on her much, since she’s livin’ a worldly life
in Hollywood, and all. Lisette, their other daughter, is Henry’s mom. I heard
her daddy walked away when she was real little, something about a waitress in―”

            “I
see.” Gideon tried to cut off the litany of family issues. The only thing worse
than having an ugly family background and dealing with gossip must be also having
a famous relative. He felt a surge of sympathy for Henry Byrne. He knew what it
was like to navigate a small town with your past clinging to you, like toilet
paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “Well, she seems like she’s serious
about renovations over at Cane River and that’s the good news.”

            Bernice
adjusted her necklace. “I just hope Kimberly Gray comes to visit soon. The last
time she was here, I didn’t get to see her. My friend Margie texted me that she
was down in the Pastime Café, but by the time I got my hair done and got down
there, she was gone again.” She sighed. “Margie got her signature on her
pocketbook and she waves that thing at me every time we go out together. She’ll
never let me live it down.”

            Gideon
flashed back to how Henry had agreed with him on hero worship and the
distasteful habit of delving into personal details, how she hadn’t bothered to
research him at all, other than his professional papers. Fame and infamy were
two sides of the same coin. Henry probably dealt with invasion of her privacy
on a daily basis. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t like to go out.

            “Do
you need something?” Bernice was giving him a quizzical look.

            “No,”
he said, turning back toward his office. “Just thinking.”   

            Gideon
sat down at his desk and picked up the silver pen Tom had given him when he’d
first arrived in Natchitoches. It had been a gift to symbolize his new
beginning, a new start. Most of the locals thought they were the oddest of
friends, even though they were brothers, but they were more alike than anyone
knew.

            Maybe
it was just that time of year, where everything reminded him of the choices
he’d made. Maybe he needed to spend more time at the river with Tom and old Bix.
Maybe he needed to take a few days off and work in his garden. For years he’d
been satisfied with his life. Now he’d lost his equilibrium faster than a
spinning top knocked off its axis.

             Standing
up, he walked to the window and stared out at the meadow. The water in the
shallow creek glinted in the sunlight. A red tailed hawk circled lazily in the
sky, hoping to snag a field mouse. Something about Henry Byrne reminded him he
wasn’t dead yet. He wasn’t even that old. But hoping for a different kind of
life was an exercise in futility. He had set his future the moment he’d strangled
Mark Daniels to death on that cold November night.

            He
needed to put the whole situation out of his head.
Tell the truth, ruin the
party.
That old Cajun saying was true. The moment he’d explained where he’d
been for the past fifteen years, cold reality had arrived.

            Gideon
straightened his back. There was still so much to be grateful for. There had
been a time when his future was only darkness and revenge. He’d fought for this
well-ordered, quiet existence in Cane River. It was a better life than he could
have hoped for. Certainly better than he deserved.

“We are all sentenced to solitary confinement in our
own skins, for life.”

Tennessee Williams

            Henry
pulled into the long driveway of Oakland Plantation and let out a sigh. This
new position was everything she’d ever wanted but here it was, the second week,
and already dissatisfaction had settled over her.

            She
parked, leaning her forehead against the wheel for a moment and letting the
cool air from the AC ruffle her hair. The stereo pumped out an upbeat pop song,
the bass thumping in time to the ache behind her eyes.

            Being
linked to Kimberly Gray was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill day in
Natchitoches. Hearing people lie with every other word wasn’t out of the norm,
either, but her visit to the archives that morning had rattled her. All she
wanted to do was go home, let down her hair, crawl into bed, pull up the
covers, and not come out until tomorrow. Or next week.

            She
wasn’t a quitter. Tightening her ponytail, she checked her makeup in the
rearview mirror. On the outside, she looked fine. Confident, polished, and with
a deliberately academic air, thanks to her glasses. She flashed a smile.  She
was used to having the upper hand in a conversation, whether she wanted it or
not, but today she’d been flying blind.

            Gideon
hadn’t tried to impress her, hadn’t uttered a word that was even a slight
exaggeration. There was no false cheerfulness, no social nicety, no careful
shading in his tones. Whether or not someone wanted to make friends, there was
always a little kernel of pride that prompted them to put their best foot
forward. It had been a very long time since she’d met anyone who didn’t lie.
Everybody
lied.  

            Shutting
off the car, she headed for the front porch.  Not having a close working
relationship with Gideon Becket wasn’t a total disaster. She wasn’t sure how
much she would see him, but she could still say they worked together. Plus,
this was her dream job and the position carried a lot of weight.

            Oakland
Plantation, originally known as the Jean Pierre Emmanuel Prud’homme,
Plantation, wasn’t one the most beautiful antebellum plantation homes. Visitors
who came expecting long rows of white pillars and a third floor ballroom would
be sorely disappointed. But for those people who treasured Cane River’s rich
Creole history of free slave industries and farming, Oakland was a jewel in the
crown of the historic park. Meticulously preserved and staffed year round,
Henry had set her sights on working at the small plantation before she’d even
finished her undergraduate degree.

            She
could hear hammering from the small row house to the north. With a full time
staff of five, and a part time construction crew of another ten, she had plenty
of workers. Her previous jobs had been relatively solitary except for an
assistant or two and she’d been worried about being seen as too young or
inexperienced. But, aside from a few small bumps, the staff had made her feel
nothing but welcome. She was intensely grateful for that.

            The
screen door squealed as she swung it open and she made a mental note to check
the hinges. They wanted to preserve everything, including the original
hardware, but one good windstorm and the door might blow clean off, never to be
found again.

            As
she walked into the main foyer, the first thing she noticed was the smell of
stale wood smoke. The next was the body of the main house caretaker near the
wood stove, awkwardly placed on the wide plank oak floor. Her heart seized in
her chest.

            “Miss
Byrne, you back already?” Clark Thompson sat up slowly from his position near
the old woodstove. He grimaced a little and rubbed his back. “They must not
a-had what you needed.”

            She
took a moment to calm herself before answering. The eighty year old handy man
had spent his whole life working on the grounds of the historic park and he
would die here, one day. But not today.

            “Mr.
Thompson, I’m happy to report that they’ll help us in any way they can.”

            “And
how did you find Gideon Becket?” He put a hand on a nearby chair and heaved
himself to his feet. “He seems standoffish, but he’s a good man.”

            Henry
paused. She wasn’t sure how many people knew about Gideon’s stint in prison.

            “Oh,
I can tell what you’re thinkin’. I know about what he done.” He pulled out a
blue hankie and wiped the sweat from his face. “But I believe a person can
change. I believe in grace.”

           
Truth.

            Henry
felt a twinge of shame. She couldn’t deny that knowing about his past had
changed her view of him. “Of course. I’m sure he’s a very nice person and I’ll
see him around. We’ll be working together,” she said, more to herself that to
Clark.

            “I
wouldn’t bet on seeing a whole lotta him.”

            “Why
not?”

            He
squinted at the ceiling for a moment. “When I was just a little guy, there was
an old lady name of Miss Aggy, living along the river, way back under the trees
in a little shack. She’d been there years and years. One day, the ladies in the
church decided she shouldn’t be livin’ down there all by herself so’s they came
and dragged her into town. They bathed her and dressed her up real nice.
Everybody was right pleased with themselves,” he said. “And you know what
happened?”

            Henry
shook her head.

            “The
next day, she slipped away from all of ‘em and went right back to her place in
the trees, back to that dark little hut. My mama said that some people like
Miss Aggy spent too much time in the quiet of the woods to be comfortable
living on a sunny porch in the middle of town.”

            “You’re
talking about his time in jail? You think he doesn’t like being around a lot of
people?”

            “I’m
sayin’ he don’t like people, period.”

            Henry
let that sink in for a moment. Maybe she and Gideon Becket had more in common
than she’d thought.

            He
jerked one shoulder up. “Anyways, he’s not real social. Sticks to his own
business. I would probably avoid the man myself, but if Father Tom says he’s
okay, I’m gonna take his word for it.”

            “Wait,
Father Tom Clerc? From St. Augustine’s?” Usually her grandparents went to the
Minor Basilica downtown but she’d visited the beautiful little historic church called
Isle Brevelle a few times over the years. It was officially part of the Cane
River Creole National Historic Park but she hadn’t made her way over there to
formally introduce herself. Father Tom was young, and gregarious, and seemed to
be a cheerful extrovert. Her mind couldn’t put Gideon, unsmiling and
soft-spoken, into a friendship with Father Tom.

            Clark
tucked the hanky back into his pocket. “They were raised up together. Best
friends, those two. Father Tom said he wouldn’t be a priest without Gideon.”

            How
very odd. Gideon was more and more of conundrum every passing moment. As soon
as she got a chance, Henry would have to do some research. She didn’t mind
being out of the loop, but this was getting ridiculous. “I didn’t think he was
from around here.”

            “Father
Tom is, I think. At least, he’s got people here. Miss Jenny LaRoche is his
aunt, if I recall. She mentioned it at the St. Augustine Gumbo Feed last year
while she was dishing me up a bowl of her secret recipe, which will remain
secret because nobody’s interested in it, for sure. It was so thin, the more I
ate, the hungrier I got. Anyway, in a town like Natchitoches, seems most
everybody is related to somebody, Miss Byrne.”

            She
had to smile, knowing exactly what he meant. “Why won’t you call me Henry? I
first met you when my grandmamma brought me here. I wasn’t more than six or
seven. ‘Miss Byrne’ just sounds so formal.”

            “Well,
I might never have told you this, but my brother’s name is Henry and I just
can’t see you as a Henry.” He cocked his head, dark eyes narrowed. “You sure
you don’t have any other name? You sayin’ Miss Birdie couldn’t talk your momma
into a better choice? A girl with a smile that pretty should have a pretty name
to go with it.”

            She
stepped toward him and lowered her voice a little. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mr.
Thompson, just because you and my family are so close.”

             “I’m
listenin’,” he said.

            “Henry
is my middle name. But my first isn’t really much better,” she said softly.
Then she put a finger to her lips.

            “What?”
He leaned back, disbelief on his face. “How could it be worse?” Then he seemed
to take note of her expression and hurried on. “I mean, Henry is a fine name
but really, I can’t imagine not preferring somethin’ else. Is it another man’s
name? You know, I’ve never been fond of Horton. There was a boy in my school
named Horton and he was a real bully. I don’t like Alfred, either. Sounds
sniffy.”

            “Alfred,
like Batman’s butler?” She considered that for a moment. “I don’t think I’d
mind that one, actually.”

            “So,
what is it? Now I’m downright curious.”

             “No,
sir. I’m not telling. You’ll have to trust me that Henry is better.”

            “Huh.”
He shot her a look. “You think you the only one who can dig around for some old
papers?”

            Henry
felt her insides go cold. “I’m just teasing you. I’ll tell you. Just not
today.” She forced herself to smile. “Now, I’m headed out to the overseer’s
house to check the limewashing, and then to the slave quarters to see how those
archeology students are coming with the excavation.”

            “Awright.
I’m gonna fiddle with this flume a bit longer. I’ve looked for a replacement
for this model but if it don’t work, we’ll have to quit using the stove.” He
rubbed his chin. “It was real nice havin’ that going during the chilly days.
Felt just like old times.”

            Henry
knew he meant before electricity, before all the updates that had come to the
house. She knew the changes were needed, especially when they transferred
ownership to the national park system and the house became a visitor’s center.
But she also longed to have seen the home, as it was, before it the desks and
phones and visitor displays.          

            She
stepped into her office and set her purse on the antique desk. She flipped
through the pile of new mail without really seeing the addresses. Even though
she’d intended to walk straight out to the check on the lime washing she found
herself sitting down in her chair, swiveling toward the window and staring out
at the tree-lined driveway. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back here.
She’d spent so long researching the area, uncovering the long-hidden drama of
the past, she’d almost forgotten that she had a few secrets of her own.

            There
was a light tap on her door and a young woman’s head appeared in the crack. Her
round cheeks were flushed and the scarf around her curly brown hair was askew.
“Henry, I hate to bother you but you’ve got a visitor.”

            “Oh,
you’re not bothering me, Vonda.” Henry hated being caught staring out the
window. Vonda Mason and Jeremy Marlowe were the two newest archeology students
and she didn’t want them to think they did all the work while she watched the
grass grow. “And you don’t have to be the secretary. How’s the excavation
coming along?”

            Vonda
wiped a hand over her brow. “Jeremy and I just came in to get some more ice for
our water bottles. We’re just not used to this humidity yet.”

            Henry
checked her hair in the mirror next to her desk and straightened her skirt. “Minneapolis
is a different climate, for sure. It’ll be better by September.” She glanced
up. “I know that sounds like a long time, but it will fly by.”

            “Right.
I bet it will,” Vonda said, forcing a smile.

           
Lie.

            She
took a breath and stepped through the door. The first few weeks were bound to
be filled with meeting new people and then it would settle down. It wouldn’t
always be this hard to talk to her coworkers.

            A
man stood by the old wood stove, toeing a spot near one of the cast iron legs.
His cream linen suit was wrinkled at the knees as if he’d been sitting for most
of the day. He turned as she crossed the foyer and she saw his gaze flick from
her head to her toes, and back.

            She
pushed up her glasses with one finger and held out a hand. “How can I help
you?”

            He
dropped her hand after a second and reached for a business card. “I’m Barney
Sandoz. I’ve been workin’ with local leaders and community officials for
decades to preserve Cane River Creole culture.”

           
Lie.

            Henry’s
stomach clenched. She wasn’t sure what part of his statement was wrong, but
glancing at his business card, it wasn’t his name.