All That Glitters

14

Shadows from the Past

Beau was apparently right about what would happen in regards to Bruce and anything he might do or say. Bruce had lost all his credibility in the business world, and the bank did foreclose on his one major means of making money, his apartment building. Somehow he continued to find money for his drinking, but anything he did tell anyone was considered a pathetic attempt at getting back at the Dumas family. Those who knew him when he was married to Daphne remembered how disdainfully she had treated him. They referred to him as just another ornament on her arm, another piece of jewelry.

Finally, one day Beau called to tell me he had heard that Bruce had moved to Baton Rouge, where he had gotten a job through one of his few friends as the manager of a small hotel.

"So we're rid of him," Beau said, but somehow I thought Bruce Bristow was like a swarm of swamp mosquitoes: One day they were gone, but you knew they would return to pester you again someday.

Meanwhile, the situation at Cypress Woods remained at status quo. Gisselle lingered in her comatose state; Paul had his good days when he did some work and was sensible, but according to Toby and Jeanne, he still spent most of his time wallowing in self-pity. Jeanne told me he even visited Grandmère Catherine's old shack.

"The shack! Why would he go there?" I asked, feeling myself slide into the abyss of yesterdays.

"It's become something of a shrine to him," she said in her small, sad voice one afternoon on the telephone.

"What do you mean?"

"He doesn't care if the gardens and the landscaping are looked after here at Cypress Woods, but he brings some of his men down to the shack and has them cut the grass, plant new grass, and even repair the shack." She paused. "He has even spent evenings there."

"Evenings?" I felt my ever-present anxiety slip into a knot.

"Slept there," she revealed.

My heart stopped beating and then pounded. "Slept at the shack?"

Jeanne mistook the shock in my voice for disgust. "I know how revolting that must sound to you, Gisselle. He doesn't admit to it. It's almost as if he really does forget the things he does," she continued, "but my husband and I drove down there one night and we saw the dim light of a single oil lamp. We spied on him," she admitted.

"What do you see?"

"He was curled up on the floor at the foot of that old settee, sleeping like a baby. We didn't have the heart to wake him. It's so sad."

I didn't speak. I couldn't speak. My own tears were falling inside me. I crumpled like a rag in the chair. Paul's pain was far more intense than I ever imagined it might be. He wasn't, as Beau expected, coming to terms with the way things were and would be. He was falling back in time, clinging to happier memories, destroying himself with his return to the past.

"I know you don't care, but he's getting worse and worse, and if he doesn't get hold of himself soon, how will he ever be able to be a father to his child again?" Jeanne said, because she thought that was the one thing that would disturb and worry Gisselle.

"He'll get hold of himself. One day he'll just wake up and realize that what has to be done, has to be done," I said in as cold a voice as I could muster, but it was a voice without any confidence in what it was saying, and Jeanne heard it.

"Sure. I believe that as much as you do." After a pause she asked, "Do you intend to visit your sister again?"

"It upsets me too much," I said. Gisselle would say that, although it would upset me, I thought. It was just that as Ruby, I wouldn't be thinking of myself as much and I would go.

"It doesn't exactly make the rest of us ecstatic, but we go," Jeanne said dryly.

"It's easier for you. You don't have to make the trip to the bayou," I complained.

"Right, that enormous trip. How is the baby?" "She's doing fine."

"Doesn't she ask for her father and mother all the time? You don't even talk about her."

"She's all right," I insisted. "Just do what you can for your brother."

"I think if he had Pearl here with him, he would do better," she said. "Toby thinks so, too."

"We have to think about what's best for the baby," I insisted, perhaps too strongly for Gisselle.

"Being with her father is best," Jeanne replied. A flutter of panic crossed my stomach and sent a chill up to my heart. Then Jeanne added, "But Mother seems to agree with you for the time being, and Paul. . . Paul won't discuss it."

"Then leave it alone," I warned.

"Who'd have thought you of all people would want an infant roaming about her house, as big as it is," Jeanne said.

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do, Jeanne."

"Maybe I don't." She sighed. "Maybe some of your sister's goodness is in you after all. I know I'm just sick to my stomach over all this. It's so unfair. They were the most perfect couple in the world, the two people who were living the fantasy romance all of us wish to live."

"Maybe it was a fantasy," I said softly.

"You would say that."

"This conversation isn't going anywhere important," I snapped in my best Gisselle tone of voice. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Why do you call so much? Is Beau making you do it?"

"There's no reason to be insolent, Jeanne."

She was quiet a moment. "Sorry," she said. "You're right. I'm just overwrought myself these days. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Now that my conversations with Jeanne were a strain, it was becoming harder and harder to keep in contact with Cypress Woods and learn what was happening there. Beau's advice was to let things go for a while.

"It's more in Gisselle's character anyway, Ruby. None of them are in the mood to be particularly nice to you as it is."

I nodded, but not calling to see how Paul was and what, if anything, was new about Gisselle was very difficult. I didn't have all that much to distract me now that we had servants looking after the house.

Ever since my confrontation with Bruce in the studio, I was hesitant about returning and starting a painting. Keeping my talent a secret stifled the creative impulse, but I didn't want to hover around Mrs. Ferrier all day and give her the impression I didn't trust her with Pearl. So I would spend hours sitting in the studio, staring at an empty canvas, waiting for the inspiration that appeared to be clouded by my darker thoughts.

One morning after breakfast, just before I was preparing to go into the studio, the doorbell rang and Aubrey came to tell me I had a gentleman visitor.

"A Monsieur Turnbull," he said, handing me the man's card. For a few seconds the name didn't register.

Then I looked at the card and saw it read "Louis Turnbull."

"Louis," I said aloud, a wave of ecstatic joy coming over me. It was Louis, Mrs. Clairborne's grandson, the blind young man I had met and become friends with at the Greenwood School for girls, the private school in Baton Rouge to which Daphne had sent Gisselle and me.

The school's chief benefactor was a widow, Mrs. Clairborne, who lived in a mansion on the school grounds with her grandson Louis. Louis, a man in his twenties, had become blind when he was still a young boy after he had suffered the traumatic experience of seeing his father kill his mother, smother her to death with a pillow. His blindness lingered and handicapped him even after dozens and dozens of sessions with a psychiatrist.

However, he was a talented pianist and composer who put all of his feelings into his music. I met him accidentally when I had attended a tea at the mansion with the other new students from our dormitory. Drawn by the sound of his music, I wandered into the study, and Louis and I became close friends. Louis claimed my friendship helped him start to regain his sight. He came to my rescue when I was nearly expelled from Greenwood because of something Gisselle had done. His testimony provided an alibi for me and ended the incident.

Louis had gone to Europe to get further treatment for his condition and study at the musical conservatory. We had lost contact, and now, seemingly out of the blue, here he was on my doorstep.

"Show him in," I told Aubrey, and waited anxiously for our meeting when suddenly it occurred to me: I couldn't greet him as Ruby. I was Gisselle! It stopped me cold in my tracks.

Aubrey brought him to the study. Louis had grown a bit heavier since I had last seen him, but his face had matured, his cheeks and chin somewhat leaner. He wore his dark brown hair longer and swept back on the sides. He was still quite a handsome man with a strong, sensuous mouth and a perfectly straight Roman nose. The only real change was he wore a pair of glasses with the thickest lenses I'd ever seen.

"Thank you for seeing me, Madame Andreas," he said. I approached him and gave him my hand in greeting. "I don't know if you remember me or not. I was very friendly with your sister, Ruby," he said, and I realized he had heard the news and thought I was Gisselle.

"Yes, I know. Please, have a seat, Mr. Turnbull."

"Just call me Louis," he said, and went to the settee across from my chair. I sat and gazed at him for a moment, wondering if I could just blurt out the truth. I felt my stomach churn with frustration. It was as if hundreds of soap bubbles were popping inside.

"I have just returned from Europe," he explained, "where I studied music and performed."

"Performed?"

"Yes, in some of the finest concert halls," he said. "As soon as I arrived in New Orleans, I made some inquiries and was told the dreadful story about your sister. The fact is, I'm going to perform here in New Orleans this coming Saturday at the Theater of the Performing Arts in Louis Armstrong Park on St. Ann Street. I had been hoping your sister would be in the audience." He paused.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know how much she would have wanted to be there."

"Do you?" He studied me a moment and then added, "I brought along a couple of tickets for you and Monsieur Andreas, should you wish to attend." He took them out and laid them on the table.

"Thank you."

"Now," he said, his face turning glum, "please be so kind as to tell me about your sister. What dreadful thing has happened?"

"She was infected with a virus that causes a severe form of encephalitis," I said. "She is in a hospital in a coma, and I'm afraid the outlook is bleak."

He nodded. I had confirmed what he knew and feared.

"I see your eyesight has been completely restored. My sister told me about you," I added quickly.

"My vision is now as good as it would have been had I suffered no problems, but as you can tell from these glasses, I wasn't born to have the best eyesight anyway. As long as I can see the pages and write my notes, I'm fine," he added, and smiled. "That's what I'm doing here Saturday night, you know, playing original compositions. I think you might be very interested in one. I wrote it for your sister. It's Ruby's Symphony."

"Yes," I said. A lump came to choke my throat and a tiny tear trickled from my right eye and then one from my left. I wondered if his eyes permitted him to see something as small. He fixed his gaze on me for a moment without speaking.

"Pardon, madame, I mean no disrespect, but Monsieur Andreas," he said, "was he not your sister's boyfriend?"

"Once," I said softly.

"I knew she was quite in love with him. You see, I was in love with her and she made sure to let me know her heart already belonged to another and nothing I could do or say would ever change that. Such a strong love is rare, I thought, but I understand she married someone else?"

"Yes." My eyes skipped guiltily away. Like a raging river against a dam, my story longed to gush forward.

"And had a child, a daughter?" he continued.

"Yes. Her name is Pearl. She is living here with me now."

"Ruby's husband is quite distraught, I imagine."

I nodded. "How is your grandmother, Madame Clairborne?" I asked.

"My grandmother passed away three months ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Yes. She suffered more than anyone knew. Her life, despite her wealth, was not a happy life. But she lived to see me regain my sight and play in great concert halls."

"That must have made her very happy. And your cousin, the Iron Lady who ran Greenwood? Is she still lording it over all the young women?"

He smiled. "No. My cousin retired shortly after my grandmother's passing and was replaced by a much gentler and kinder woman, Mrs. Waverly." He smiled. "Your family doesn't have to be afraid of sending Pearl there someday."

"That's good," I said.

He took out a pen and a pad. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the name and address of the hospital where your sister is being treated. I would like to send some flowers."

I told him and he jotted it down.

"Well, I don't want to take up any more of your time. This is a trying period for you and your family." He stood up and I rose slowly. He picked up the tickets and brought them to me, placing them in my hands. "I hope you and your husband will be able to attend the concert," he said. He held on to my fingers and fixed his dark brown eyes on mine with such intensity, I had to look down. When I looked up again, he was smiling. "You will recognize the piece, I'm sure," he whispered.

"Louis . . ."

"I ask no questions, madame. I hope only that you will be in the audience."

"I will."

"Very good then."

I walked him to the front door, where Aubrey gave him his hat. Then Louis turned to me.

"I want you to know that your sister was a major influence on my life. She touched me deeply and restored my desire not only to live, but to continue my music. Her sweet, innocent nature, her pure outlook on things, restored my own faith in life and has given me the inspiration to write what I hope people will consider significant music. You should be very proud of her."

"I am," I said.

"We'll all pray for her, then."

"Yes, we'll all pray," I said. The tears were trickling down my cheeks, but I made no attempt to wipe them away. "God bless you," I whispered, and Louis nodded and left. My heart sunk in my chest like a rock in the swamp canal. I finally wiped away my tears.

One lie spawns another, Grandmère Catherine used to say. And then the lies feed upon each other like snakes feasting on their young.

How many more lies would I have to tell? How much deeper did my deceptions have to go before I could live in peace with the man I loved? Louis knew the truth, discerned who I was. It made perfect sense. He had known me mostly through my voice, my touch. He had gone beneath the surface because the surface was dark to him, so he recognized me instantly. And yet he understood there were reasons for the switch of identities and he didn't challenge or do anything to jeopardize the intricate illusion Beau and I had conceived and performed. Louis cared for me too much to ask embarrassing questions.

When Beau returned home that day, I told him about Louis's visit.

"I remember him, remember you talking about him all the time. Do you think he'll keep what he knows to himself?"

"Oh yes, Beau. Absolutely."

"Perhaps we shouldn't attend that concert," Beau suggested.

"I must go. He expects me to and I want to go." I spoke so firmly that Beau raised his eyebrows. He thought a moment.

"It's not the sort of thing Gisselle would attend," he warned.

"I'm tired of doing only the things Gisselle would do; tired of thinking only the thoughts she would think and saying only the things she would say. I feel like a prisoner trapped in my sister's identity!" I cried.

"All right, Ruby."

"I keep myself locked up in this house most of the time out of fear that I might go out and say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing without you at my side," I continued, my voice shrill.

"I understand."

"No, you don't. It's torture," I insisted.

"We'll go to the concert. If anyone asks, you're doing it for me, that's all," he concluded.

"Sure. I'm the stupid, crass, and insensitive one, a lump of . . . upper-class, spoiled flesh and bones," I moaned. Beau laughed. "Well?"

"You're right. You've just described what Gisselle was."

"Then how did you convince yourself to marry her?" I demanded, far more sharply than I had intended.

I saw him wince. "I explained all that to you once, Ruby. The reasons haven't changed. I love you; I've loved only you," he said, and lowered his head before he turned to walk away.

I stood there feeling absolutely dreadful. It seemed there was no one I wouldn't hurt in this state of mind. Everyone I loved was in emotional pain as well as myself. My mind did flip-flops. How did I get all of us into this twisted and painful situation? I was drowning, drowning in that old familiar pool of hopeless despair.

Of course, I realized it wasn't entirely my fault. : eau shouldn't have deserted me and driven me to the point where I believed there was no hope for myself and my baby if I didn't marry Paul, and Paul shouldn't have pleaded and persuaded and worn me down with his temptations of a rich comfortable life. Most of all, Gisselle shouldn't have taken advantage and married Beau just to hurt me. I had already learned she didn't really love him; she had been unfaithful to him, who knew how many times? We're all guilty of something that brought us to this point, I thought, but that didn't make me feel better nor diminish my own sense of blame.

Still, what good did it do to bite at each other now? What good did it do to add to the turmoil that already existed and may never end? I thought. I went after him and found him standing in the study, gazing out the window.

"I'm sorry, Beau," I said. "I didn't mean to explode like that."

He turned slowly and smiled. "It's all right. You have a right to explode now and again. You are under a great deal of pressure. It's much easier for me. I just have to be myself and I can occupy myself with the business. I should be more understanding and more sensitive to your needs. I'm sorry."

"Let's not argue about it, then," I said.

He came to me and took my shoulders into his hands. "I can't imagine ever getting angry at you, Ruby. If I do, I will hate myself more for it afterward. I promise you that," he said, and then we kissed and held each other and walked out to the patio together to see how Pearl was doing with Mrs. Ferrier.

I decided that nothing Gisselle had in her wardrobe was right for Louis's concert, and so I went out and purchased an elegant ankle-length black velvet gown. When Beau saw me in it, he was quiet for a long moment. Then he shook his head.

"What?" I demanded.

"Only the most insensitive clod wouldn't see the difference between you and your sister and realize who you really are," he said.

"That's because you know me so well, Beau. On the surface Gisselle wouldn't look all that different from me if she wore something like this, too. She was just not interested in looking like a mature woman. She thought that wasn't sexy."

"Perhaps you're right," he said. "In any case, she was wrong if she thought sophisticated wasn't sexy. You take my breath away." He thought a moment and then nodded. "I think tonight you should wear one of Daphne's diamond necklaces. Gisselle would," he added pointedly.

I sighed, looked at myself in the mirror, and agreed I could use something to dress my neck.

"Besides," Beau continued, chasing away my hesitation, "why hold it against the jewelry? The diamonds couldn't choose who would be their owner, could they?"

I laughed and went to Daphne's jewel box.

"I'm sure they never looked as good on her," Beau said, beaming, after I put on the necklace I recalled my father had bought her.

"No, they did, Beau. As bad as she was and as cruel as she could be to us, she was still a beautiful woman, an enchantress who captured my father's heart and love and then twisted and tormented him because of it."

"And his brother, too," Beau reminded me.

"Yes, and his brother, too," I said, thinking about poor Uncle Jean.

It was good to crawl out from under my dark, heavy thoughts and get out for an elegant evening. The richest and most renowned people in New Orleans were attending Louis's concert. It filled my heart with joy to see his name in lights and his picture on the billboards. We followed the parade of expensive automobiles and limousines to the front of the theater, where drivers and doormen leapt to open the doors for women in designer gowns and men in tuxedos. When we stepped out into the lights, I felt as if all eyes were on me, watching my every move, listening to my every word. Recalling what Beau had said about Gisselle's attending such an affair, I tried to appear unhappy and uncomfortable. The uncomfortable part wasn't hard because I was so nervous.

Those who approached us to talk all asked about Ruby's condition. "Unchanged," was Beau's stock response. They looked sympathetic for a moment and then went on quickly to discuss other things. Most of the people who attended held season tickets and followed all the concerts. I was surprised at how many knew about Louis, how he had composed music while he was blind and then, as he regained his vision, began performing throughout Europe.

Since none of Gisselle's friends would attend such a concert, I had no problem dealing with their surprise at seeing me dressed this way. Nevertheless, I was happy when we finally were seated and the audience grew quiet. The conductor walked out to the sound of applause and then Louis entered to an even greater ovation. He took his seat at the piano, the hall grew absolutely still, and the music began.

As Louis played concerto after concerto, I closed my eyes and recalled those nights at his grandmother's mansion. Memories flooded back. I saw him sitting at his piano, his eyes shut in darkness, but his fingers bringing him light and putting a glow in his face. I remembered the way we would sit together on the stool as he played, and I remembered his touching me and kissing me. Then I recalled his great outburst of tears and emotion in his room when he finally told me the dreadful story of his parents, his mother's obsession with him and his father's anger.

Like the rainbow after the storm, Louis had risen out of this turmoil and pain to become a world-class pianist. It filled my heart with not only warmth and joy, but hope for Beau, Pearl, and myself. Our storm would end soon, too, I thought, and we would have a quiet, sweet aftermath.

Finally, before the concert ended, Louis got up and addressed the audience. "This last piece, as your program explains, is entitled Ruby's Symphony. It's a piece inspired by a wonderful young lady who came into my life briefly and helped me to find hope and self-confidence again. You might say she showed me the light at the end of the tunnel. So it is with particular pleasure that I play this for you tonight," he said. Only a few people in the audience suspected it was actually me, Ruby Dumas, for whom the music had been written and to whom it had been dedicated.

Beau held my hand but said nothing. I tried not to cry, for fear people would notice, but holding back these tears was a feat beyond Samson. My cheeks were soaked by the time the music ended; however, the audience had been enraptured and everyone rose to his feet to applaud. Beau and I did, too. Louis took his bows and left the stage in glorious success.

"I just have to go backstage to see and congratulate him, Beau," I said.

"Of course," he said.

Louis's dressing room was packed with people complimenting him. Champagne bottles were popping open all over the place. I thought we wouldn't get within five feet of him, but he spotted me in the back of the crowd and beckoned us forward, asking people to step aside. Naturally all eyes were on us, people wondering, who were these special guests?

"It was wonderful, Louis," I said. "I'm so glad we were able to attend."

"Yes, spectacular," Beau added.

"Thank you. I'm so happy I could bring a little joy into your lives at this particularly trying time, Madame Andreas." He kissed my hand.

"I wish Gisselle's sister could have been here herself," Beau said quickly, and loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. My heart paused in the silence that followed. Louis's smile widened.

"Yes, don't we all?" he said. "But of course, in a real sense, she was," he added with a soft smile. We gazed at each other for a moment and then another champagne bottle was popped and Louis's attention was drawn away long enough for Beau and me to effect a graceful retreat.

My heart felt like a twisted ball of Spanish moss in my chest. Even with the car window wide open and my face practically in the breeze, I couldn't get enough air.

"I'm happy you talked me into going to that concert," Beau said. "He really was spectacular. I'm not just saying it. When he played, the music had a life of its own and melodies I had heard before suddenly became as beautiful as I imagine they were meant to be."

"Yes, he has an extraordinary talent."

"You should be proud you helped him regain his purpose in life," Beau said.

"I don't know how much I really had to do with it."

"One look in his eyes told me you had all to do with it," Beau said. "But I'm not jealous," he added quickly with a smile. "You passed through his life like some angel of mercy, touched him and went on. But you are my life."

He drew me to his side and kissed me quickly. I snuggled against him and felt truly safe and happy for the first time since our arrival in New Orleans as man and wife. That night we made love gently, gracefully, sweetly, and fell asleep in each other's arms. Both of us slept longer than usual. Not even the sunlight streaming in through the windows woke us, and Beau had disconnected our telephone at the bed so we wouldn't be disturbed.

I was the first to hear Aubrey's footsteps and gentle knock. At first I thought I was dreaming. Then I opened my eyes and listened again. Beau groaned when I stirred.

"Just a moment," I called, and got up to put on my robe. Beau turned over in bed and closed his eyes again.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, madame, but Madame Pitot is on the phone and she is rather distraught. She insisted I bring you to the phone immediately."

"Thank you, Aubrey," I said. I went to the night table and plugged in our telephone, my hands already shaking badly in anticipation of bad news.

"What is it?" Beau asked, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"It's Jeanne," I said, and lifted the receiver.

"Hello, Jeanne."

"She's dead," she said in a voice that sounded like it belonged to a corpse itself. "She died early this morning. Paul was there, holding her hand."

"What?"

"Ruby's gone. They told me to call you. No one else wanted to do it. I'm sorry if I woke you up. You can go back to sleep," she added.

"Jeanne, when? How?"

"What do you mean, when, how? It wasn't exactly unexpected, was it? But you have a way of avoiding unpleasant things, ignoring them, don't you, Gisselle? Well, the Grim Reaper doesn't tolerate being ignored, even by rich, high-society Creoles from New Orleans."

"How's Paul?" I asked quickly, ignoring her bitter sarcasm.

"He won't leave her side. He's following the body every step of the way, even to the undertaker's parlor. He won't listen to my parents. He's uttered only one sensible sentence, and to me because he knew I was calling you."

"What was that?"

"He told me to tell you not to bring the baby to the funeral. He doesn't want her seeing any of it. That is, if you attend the funeral."

"Of course we'll be at the funeral," I said. "She was my sister."

"Yes, she was your sister," Jeanne said dryly. "I'm sorry. I can't talk anymore. You can call later and ask James for the details about the funeral,"

After I cradled the phone, I sat back on the bed. I felt as if all my blood had drained down to my feet. I chocked back a sob.

Beau knew but asked anyway. "What happened?"

"She died this morning."

He shook his head and released a deep sigh. I felt his hand on my shoulder. We both sat silently for a moment, digesting the reality of what had happened.

"At least it's over," he said. "Finally."

I turned to him. "Oh, Beau, it's so strange."

"What?"

"Their thinking it's me who died. I couldn't bear the sadness and the anger in Jeanne's voice."

"Yes, but this seals it forever. You and I, just as I told you, as I promised. We've defeated Fate."

I shook my head. These were words that should be making me happy, but all they did was fill my heart with heavy dread. I had felt Fate's surprising and unexpected stings before. I didn't have Beau's confidence and probably never would have.

Despite all the terrible things Gisselle had done to me in the past, and despite her jealousy and her way of looking down at me because I had been brought up in the bayou, a Cajun, I couldn't help but recall the softer moments when I would look at her and see her desire to be loved and to be a real sister. I know Beau would tell me I had a heart so soft it must be made of marshmallow, but I couldn't help shedding tears for the Gisselle I saw longing to be wanted.

Later in the afternoon, I called and spoke to James. He was very polite, but cold, too. I couldn't think of anything stranger than attending my own memorial service and burial. When we arrived at Cypress Woods on the day of the funeral, we found the pallor of death and gloom had settled over the grand house and grounds. The leaden sky had grown swollen and turgid, the thick overcast stretching from one horizon to another. The darkness stole the blush from the petals of flowers and put shadows everywhere I looked. Grounds staff, the bereaving, everyone looked weighted down by the tragedy. People whispered, glided, touched and hugged each other as if to join in a circle to keep the melancholy at bay. I thought the servants looked the saddest, their eyes bloodshot, their shoulders slumped.

It was hard, if not impossible, for me to accept expressions of condolence and sympathy. I felt horrible about deceiving people in grief and turned and walked away as quickly as I could. But once again, people mistook my feelings for Gisselle's indifference and selfishness.

Paul's parents, his sisters, Toby and Jeanne, and Jeanne's husband stationed themselves in the living room, where they greeted people. I felt Gladys Tate's eyes fix on me with a cold glare the moment I entered, and then I thought I saw a sneer in her knife-sliced mouth when I greeted her. She made me feel so uncomfortable, I left the room as quickly as I could.

Paul kept himself secluded most of the time. We understood he was drinking heavily. The only people he would see were his immediate family, mainly his mother. He even shut his door to Beau and me. Toby, who went up to inform him that I was there, returned to tell me he said it was too painful for him to gaze at me since I resembled Ruby so much. Beau and I looked at each other with surprise.

"He's really overdoing it now," Beau admitted in a whisper.

I was very worried and went up to his suite anyway. I knocked on the door and waited, but he didn't respond. I tried the handle, but the door was locked.

"Paul, it's me. Open the door. We have to talk. Please," I begged. Beau stood back to be sure no one overheard my pleas.

"It's no use," he said. "He doesn't want to see you. Wait until later."

But I didn't see him until it was time to attend the services. Despair had washed the radiant color from his face until it resembled a death mask. He gazed at me with vacant eyes and moved like someone in a trance. I squeezed Beau's hand and shot him a troubled glance and he nodded. He tried to approach Paul before me and speak to him, but Paul didn't acknowledge him. He barely acknowledged his own parents, and with people all around him continuously, it was difficult for me to say the things I wanted to say to him.

The church was filled to capacity, not only because of the people the Tates knew and did business with, but because of the people who knew and remembered my Grandmère Catherine. My heart nearly burst when I saw their faces. Beau and I sat up front in the pew behind Paul and his family and listened to the priest deliver the eulogy. Every time I heard my name, I winced and gazed around. There wasn't a dry eye in the church. Paul's sisters were crying openly, but Paul was like one of Nina Jackson's zombies, his body stiff, his eyes so empty, they sent chills down my spine. Who in his or her right mind would look at him and not believe it was really Ruby in that coffin? I thought. It gave me a sick, empty feeling in the base of my stomach.

I'm watching people cry over me, listening to a priest talk about me, and gazing at a coffin that is supposed to have my body in it, I thought. It made me feel absolutely ghoulish. It was all I could do to keep myself from fainting.

It was worse at the cemetery. It was I who was supposedly being lowered into the ground; it was I over whose coffin the priest was saying the final words and giving the last rites. My name, my identity, was about to be buried. I thought to myself that this was the final chance, the last time for me to cry out and say, "No, that's not Ruby in the coffin. That's Gisselle. I'm here. I'm not dead!"

For a moment I thought I had actually spoken, but the words died on my lips. My actions had made them forbidden. The truth had to be buried here and now, I realized.

The rain started and fell relentlessly, colder than usual. Umbrellas sprouted. Paul didn't seem to notice. His father and Jeanne's husband, James, had to hold his arms and keep him standing. When the coffin was lowered and the priest cast the holy water, Paul's legs folded. He had to be carried back to the limousine and given some cold water. His mother gave me a scathing glance and followed quickly.

"He's going to win the Academy Award for this," Beau said, shaking his head. Even he was beyond amazement; he was in awe and, from the look in his face, as frightened by Paul's behavior as I was.

"You're right," he whispered to me as we walked back to our vehicle. "He was so disturbed about losing you, he went a bit mad and accepted the illusion as reality. The only way he could accept the fact that you had left him was to believe it was you who was sick and now you who died," Beau theorized, and shook his head.

"I know, Beau. I'm so worried."

"Maybe now that it's over, that she's gone, he'll snap out of it," Beau suggested, but neither of us was filled with any confidence.

We returned to Cypress Woods, mainly to see how Paul was. The doctor went up to the suite to examine him, and when he came down, he told us he had given Paul something to help him sleep.

"It will take time," he said. "These things take time. Unfortunately, we have no drug, no medicine, no treatment, to cure grief." He pressed Gladys's hand between his, kissed her on the cheek, and left. She turned and glared at me in the strangest way, shooting icicles out of her eyes. Then she went upstairs to be with Paul.

Toby and Jeanne went off in a corner to comfort each other. People began to leave, anxious to put this dreadful sadness behind them. Paul's mother remained in the suite with him, so I couldn't get to see him even if I had wanted. Octavious came down to speak to us. He directed himself at Beau as if he, too, couldn't fix his eyes on my face.

"Gladys is as bad as Paul is," he muttered. "It's the way she is about him. Whenever he was sick, even as a child, she was sick. If he was unhappy, so was she. Dreadful, dreadful thing, this," he added, shaking his head and walking off. "Dreadful."

"We should leave now," Beau said softly. "Give him a day or two and then call. After he comes back to himself somewhat, we'll invite him to New Orleans and work out everything sensibly."

I nodded. I wanted to say good-bye to Jeanne and Toby, but they were like two clams who had closed their shell of grief tightly around themselves. They wouldn't look at or talk to anyone. And so Beau and I started out. I paused at the door. James was holding it open, waiting impatiently, but I wanted to gaze around at the grand house once more before leaving. I was filled with a sense of termination. This was the end of so many things. lut it wasn't until late in the afternoon of the next day that I was to discover just how many.