All That Glitters

8

From Bad to Worse

During our ride back to the bayou, Paul tried to make small talk and then he tried to get me excited about some new things that were happening not only in our business, but also in politics. I listened with half an ear, filling every silence between us with the sound of Beau's voice, and filling every dark mile along the way with the images of Beau smiling, talking, gazing at me with that look of anguish in his eyes and yes, that look of love.

I tried to keep myself busy and not think about him during the days immediately following our New Orleans trip, but for the first few days I couldn't get myself to draw a line. I would just stare at the blank paper and think about my studio in New Orleans and Beau. I tried sketching and painting animals, flowers, trees, everything and anything but people, for I knew that every man I would envision would be a man who had Beau's hair, Beau's eyes, Beau's mouth.

What made it even worse was gazing at Pearl, who had developed more distinct facial features and had begun to look more like Beau. Maybe it was just that I was seeing him everywhere since the funeral, but when Pearl laughed and smiled, I heard Beau's laugh and saw his smile.

One afternoon a few weeks after we had returned from Daphne's funeral, I sat on the patio and tried to read a book while Mrs. Flemming played with Pearl on the grass. It was one of those rare days in the bayou when there was barely a breeze and the clouds looked pasted against the soft blue sky. It made everyone feel lazy. Even the birds barely flitted from tree to tree. They sat quietly on branches, looking more like stuffed animals. From off in the distance, I could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of one of our oil drills and occasionally the voices of the men shouting things to each other. But other than that, it was very quiet so that Pearl's laughter rippled over the grass toward the canals, a tiny tinkle of a laugh, making me feel we were all in a toy world.

Suddenly James came rushing out of the house carrying a large envelope.

"This was just brought special delivery for you, madame," he said excitedly, and handed it to me.

"Thank you, James."

He nodded and left while I undid the fastener and pulled a newspaper out of the envelope. Mrs. Flemming gazed at me curiously and I shrugged.

"It's just a New Orleans newspaper, two days old," I said. I gazed at it, wondering why it had been sent special delivery, when I saw that an inside page had been marked with a bright red clip. I opened to the page and gazed at a circled story. It was a wedding announcement, describing the marriage of Beau Andreas to Gisselle Dumas. They had eloped.

I reread the story to confirm that the words actually said what I thought they said, and for a moment it felt as if the air around me had been sucked away. I couldn't breathe; I couldn't swallow, and I was afraid if I tried too hard, I would gag and turn blue. My heart seemed to sink deeper into my chest, making me feel empty and cold inside.

"Something not unpleasant, I hope," Mrs. Flemming said.

I stared at her for a moment and then found my voice. "My sister . . . she eloped," I said.

"Oh. With a nice young man?"

"Yes. A very nice young man," I said. "I have to go upstairs for a moment," I added, and rose quickly so I could turn and walk away before any tears showed themselves on my cheeks. I charged through the house and up the stairs and threw myself on my bed, where I buried my face in my pillow. Of course, I knew that this might happen, but I had lived with the wish that Beau would come to his senses and not succumb. Now some of his last words spoken to me returned, words that had suggested otherwise.

I can't help it, Ruby. I'll never stop loving you, and if it means I have to live forever with an illusion, then that's what I'll do.

Apparently he had decided to do it. Could I be happy knowing that every time he kissed my sister's lips, he closed his eyes and made himself believe he was kissing mine? That every time he woke in the morning and gazed at her face, he convinced himself he was gazing at me? He was in love with me; he would always be in love with me. I knew that Gisselle thought she had achieved some sort of victory by winning him back and getting him to marry her, although in her heart she must know that it was a shallow victory, and that he was using her like some magic mirror into which he could gaze and see the woman he really loved.

But Gisselle didn't care. She didn't care about anything but making me unhappy even if it meant marrying someone she didn't really love, not that she could love anyone but herself, I thought. I tried to be more angry than sad, but my broken heart wouldn't permit it. I cried so hard, my ribs ached and my tears soaked my pillow. When I heard a knock on my doorjamb, I choked back my sobs and turned to see Paul standing there, his face dark and troubled.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing. I'll be fine," I said, and quickly wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. He stood there staring.

"It was this, wasn't it?" he said, bringing the newspaper around from behind his back. "I found it where you dropped it in the hallway. You don't have to answer," he followed quickly, his face red with frustration and fury. "I know how much you still love him."

"Paul . . ."

"No, I realize it's not something I can make disappear with my money. I can build you a house twice as big as this one on twice as much acreage and fill it with things ten times as expensive and you will still mope about, dreaming of Beau Andreas." He sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling. "I thought I could substitute devotion and security for romantic love, but I was a fool to think so. Mother was right after all," he moaned.

"I'm over it, Paul," I said determinedly. "He's married my sister and that's that."

His face brightened. "That's the way you should feel," he said, nodding. "He didn't come for you and the baby while you were living here in your Grandmère's shack, did he?"

"No," I said sadly.

"And he never even inquired about your well-being afterward. He's just as self-centered as your sister. They belong together. I'm right, aren't I?"

I nodded reluctantly.

He smirked. "But that doesn't mean you don't love him, does it?" he asked in a tired and defeated tone of voice.

"Love is something . . . you can't control sometimes," I said.

"I know," he replied. "I'm glad you think so, too." We stared at each other for a moment. Then he put the newspaper on the dresser and left.

I sat by my window thinking that Paul and I had more in common now than ever before. Both of us were in love with people we couldn't love the way we wanted to, the way we should love. I sighed just as deeply as he had sighed and then I took the newspaper and threw it in the nearest garbage can.

Despite Paul's and my desperate attempts to cheer each other up, a pall fell over Cypress Woods during the days that followed. The shadows seemed darker and longer, and the rain more persistent, heavier, gloomier than ever. I retreated to my work. I wanted to leave the real world and live in the world I was creating with my paintings. I continued painting the series of pictures of the Confederate soldier and his lover, but my next painting was a very melancholy one. In it I depicted the soldier being carried out of the wooded battlefield on a stretcher. He looked like Beau, of course, and on his lips one could almost read his call for me. . . Ruby. He had that far-off, dreamy look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who had focused on the woman he loved with all his strength, knowing that in moments the light would go out and he would lose her face, her voice, the scent of her hair and the touch of her lips, in the darkness forever and ever.

I actually sobbed while I painted, the tears dripping off my cheeks, and when I was finished, I sat in the window seat and gazed out at the canals, embracing myself and crying like a baby.

My next picture depicted his lover getting the terrible news. Her face was twisted with agony, her hands wrenching a handkerchief in them while a pocket watch he had given her dangled from her fingers. The messenger looked just as sad as she did, with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.

I did both pictures in darker shades and had the Spanish-moss-laden cypress either in the background or off to the side. I decided to paint the outline of gleeful Death in the cobweblike strands.

When Paul saw the pictures the first time, he said nothing. His eyes narrowed and then he walked to the window and gazed out over our beautifully landscaped gardens and hedges toward the canals where we used to pole in a pirogue together and talk about the sort of man and woman we wanted to be when we were adults living on our own.

"I've put you in a different sort of prison," he said sadly. "I've done a terrible thing."

"No you haven't, Paul. You've only tried to do the best things for Pearl and me. Don't blame yourself for anything. I won't hear of it."

He turned around, his face darker and more despondent than I had ever seen it.

"I wanted only for you to be happy, Ruby."

"I know that," I said, smiling.

"But I feel like the man who captured the beautiful mockingbird and put it in a cage in his house, giving it the best things to eat and the most loving attention he could. Even so, he woke up one morning and found it had died of a broken heart, its eyes turned toward the window and the freedom it had known and needed. It's true, you can love too much."

"I don't mind being loved too much," I said. "Please, Paul, I don't want you to be sad because of anything I say or do. I'll throw these pictures away."

"Oh no. They are some of your best work. Don't you dare!" he exclaimed. "You're going to become famous because of this series."

"It's almost more important to you than it is to me that I become a well-known artist, isn't it?" I asked.

"Of course. 'Wild Cajun artist captures the minds and imaginations of the sophisticated art world,′ " he announced, and drew the headlines in the air.

I laughed.

"Let's have a nice dinner tonight, a special dinner, and then go listen to some zydeco music. We haven't done that for quite a while," he suggested.

"Fine."

"Oh," he said on the way out, "did I tell you? I bought some more property this morning."

"What property?"

"All the land south of us to the canals. We're now the biggest landowners in all Terrebone Parish. Not bad for two swamp rats, huh?" he said proudly. He laughed and went down to tell Letty to do something special for us for dinner. Just before I went down to dinner, however, I received a phone call from Gisselle.

"I've been waiting for you to call me," she began, "to congratulate me on my marriage."

"Congratulations," I said.

"Sounds like sour grapes."

"It's not. If Beau wanted to marry you and you wanted to marry him, then I wish you both health and happiness."

"We're the most exciting couple in New Orleans again, you know. Everyone's inviting us to dinner parties, and when we walk into restaurants, everyone stops eating to watch us take our seats. We're a very handsome couple and quite famous. Our names and pictures are always in the society pages. Beau says we should attend as many charity functions as we can. It looks good and he feels he's doing something important. I don't mind, although I can't remember one from the other, so don't ask me."

"What is Beau doing?" I asked as casually as I could.

"Doing? What do you mean?"

"With his life. He once wanted to be a doctor, remember?"

"Oh, he's too busy looking after my affairs now. He's a businessman and he'll make more money than he would being a doctor anyway. And don't say he's too young. Look at how well Paul has done," she added quickly.

"He used to talk about helping people, healing people, and how rewarding he thought that might be," I said sadly.

"So? Now he's helping and healing me, and that's quite rewarding for him, too," Gisselle responded. "Well, I've got to go. We have so many affairs to attend, I'm running out of clothes to wear. I have an appointment with a designer later. I think I should be wearing originals, don't you? Of course, you're lucky. The only place you have to go is some shack bar and restaurant, so you don't have to worry about looking stylish. Say hello to Paul. 'Bye," she sang, and hung up the phone.

I felt like smashing my receiver against the wall, but swallowed back the knot of frustration in my throat and hung up gently. Then I took a deep breath and went to join Paul, driving Gisselle's voice and words as far down into the basement of my thoughts as I could.

But a week later, Paul came up to my studio to tell me Beau had just phoned.

"He says your attorneys have completed all the work on the estate and he would like to meet with us to go over everything. I thought it would be convenient to have them come here."

"Here? You invited them to Cypress Woods?"

"Yes. Why? Are you upset about it?"

"No, I'm not upset. I . . . Wait until he mentions it to Gisselle," I said. "He'll be calling back," I assured him.

But Beau didn't call back. He and Gisselle were coming and Beau would finally set eyes on his own daughter.

They drove up in Daddy's Rolls-Royce. I was pruning in the rose garden, doing everything and anything I could to keep busy and keep from thinking. Mrs. Flemming was on the other side of the house with Pearl. I had made sure that Pearl was dressed in one of her prettiest outfits and her hair was brushed and tied with a little pink bow. Of course, Mrs. Flemming didn't know who Beau really was, but she could tell from my excitement and nervousness that he was a special visitor.

Paul had gone to the cannery for what he promised was only a short visit, but he had not yet returned when I heard the car horn and turned to see the familiar luxurious automobile make its way up our long driveway. I took off my gloves and walked out to greet them.

"Where are your servants?" Gisselle demanded haughtily. "They should be right here when a guest arrives."

"Things aren't as formal in the bayou, Gisselle," I said. I turned to Beau. "Hello, Beau, how are you?"

"Fine," he said. "This is . . . magnificent. Gisselle's descriptions didn't do it justice," he added, looking around and nodding. "It's one of those places you have to see for yourself to really appreciate. I can see why you're happy here, Ruby," he added.

"Of course she's happy. She has a modern home and yet she lives in her beloved swamp," Gisselle said. James appeared in the doorway. "That's your butler, right? What's his name?"

"James," I said.

"James," she called immediately. "Will you get our bags from the trunk? I need to freshen up as soon as possible. The long ride and the swamp heat has turned my hair into steel wool."

James gazed at me and I nodded.

"Very well, madame," he said. I had already told him which guest room they would be using.

"I can't wait to be shown around," Beau said, his eyes fixed on me.

"I've seen the place," Gisselle said. "So I'll go right to our suite. We do have a suite, don't we?"

"Of course," I said. "Right this way."

"We'll be here just one night. Beau has brought all the paperwork and documents for you to sign, right, Beau?" "Yes," he said, his eyes still fixed on me.

"I want to get it over with as soon as possible so I don't have to make any more trips out to the swamps," she added, reprimanding Beau with a sharp look.

"We'll do whatever we have to do to move things along to everyone's satisfaction, I'm sure," I said.

"You sound just like Daphne. Doesn't she, Beau? Don't become a snobby rich woman, dear sister," she warned, and then threw her head back to laugh. I looked at Beau, who smiled softly and shook his head.

"All right, James. Lead the way," Gisselle commanded, and we all walked into the house.

Beau exclaimed his awe at the size of the foyer, the woodwork and the chandeliers. The more he complimented me on the house, the more irritated Gisselle grew.

"You have been in finer houses in the Garden District, Beau. I don't know why you're pretending to be so impressed."

"I'm not pretending, chérie," he said softly. "You must give Ruby and Paul credit for building a very dramatic house in the bayou."

"Don't you just love it when he uses French?" Gisselle squealed. "All right. I'll admit this is quite a shack," she said, and laughed. "James? Where is he?"

"Waiting for you with your things at the top of the stairway, Gisselle," I said, nodding toward it.

"Oh. Don't you have a maid, too?"

"All of my servants will be at your beck and call," I assured her. She smirked and started up the stairway.

"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, that‟s 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, chérie."

"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.

The flutter of wood ducks over the surface of the water caught our attention, and moments later, a large, old alligator raised its head and peered at us, dragonflies circling just above him. We floated through islands of lily pads and under the sprawling weeping willows. Beau asked Paul question after question about the vegetation, the animals, the way to read the canals and know what to anticipate.

Gisselle was forced to admit she had enjoyed the tour. "It was like floating though a zoo or something," she said. "But I can't wait to take a bath and get this gook off."

Afterward, we dressed for dinner. We had cocktails in the library, where Paul and Beau discussed New Orleans politics, and Gisselle described the new fashions and the original designs she had commissioned for herself. Letty prepared one of her gourmet meals, and Beau continually expressed his admiration. We all drank too much wine and talked incessantly, Paul, Beau, and myself filling every silent moment out of nervousness more than anything else, I thought. Only Gisselle seemed relaxed and comfortable.

After dinner we had cordials in the living room. The wine, the good food, the endless stream of conversation, and the emotional tension exhausted us. Even Gisselle was yawning.

"We should go to sleep and get up early," she suggested.

"Early?" Beau said, amazed. "You?"

"Well, as early as possible so we can finish the paperwork and get back to New Orleans. We have that performing arts ball tomorrow night. It's black tie," she said. "You ever go to a black-tie affair, Paul?"

Paul blushed. "Well, only in Baton Rouge at the governor's mansion," he said.

"Oh." Gisselle's face drooped. "I'm tired, Beau. I ate too much."

"We'll go right up. Thank you for a lovely day and a lovely evening," he said. He took Gisselle's arm. She did wobble a bit.

"Nighty-night, you two," she sang, and let Beau guide her to the stairway. Paul shook his head and laughed. Then he sat down again.

"Are you happy with these decisions? I didn't mean to interfere in your business," he said.

"My business is your business, Paul. I'm completely depending on you for this sort of thing. I'm sure you made the right choices."

He smiled. "If Beau thought he was coming here to deal with some dumb Cajun, he got a big surprise. Believe me, we came out better than they did," he said with uncharacteristic arrogance. "I was hoping he would be more . . ." He smiled at me. "Of a challenge. So," he said, sitting back, "what is it like for you two now?"

"Paul, please, don't."

"An accident of birth," he muttered. "A curse. If my father hadn't wandered into the swamp, hadn't betrayed my mother . . ."

"Paul . . ."

"I know. I'm sorry. It just seems so unfair. We should have a say in all this, huh? As spirits before we were born, we should have a say. And don't laugh at that, Ruby," he warned. "Your Grandmère Catherine believed the spirit was there even before the body."

"I'm not laughing, Paul. I just don't want you to agonize. I'm okay. We've all had too much to drink. Let's go to sleep, too."

He nodded.

"Go ahead up," he said. "I want to finish something in the office."

"Paul . . ."

"I'll go up soon. I promise." He kissed me on the cheek and held me tightly to him for a long moment. Then he sighed, turned away, and left quickly.

With a heavy heart I went upstairs. I checked on Pearl and then I went to my bedroom to go to sleep, knowing that in the rooms beside me there were two men who longed to be at my side. I felt like forbidden fruit, sealed away by ethical, religious, and written law. Years ago my parents listened only to the dictates of their hearts. Despite the prohibitions and the heavy weight of the sins they would commit, they went to each other, thinking about the touch of each other's fingers, the softness of each other's lips.

Was I built from stronger moral timber? More important, did I want to be, really, deep down want to be? Or did I want to throw myself into my lover's arms and become so drunk on love that no morning after, no days that followed, no nights filled with haunting voices, could ever matter?

It wasn't our fault; it couldn't be our fault that we were in love and events had made that love sinful. It was the events that were sinful, I told myself. But that didn't make it any easier to face the break of day and the longing that would inevitably follow.