All That Glitters

4

Another New Family

Very early the next morning, I heard the adjoining door open and saw Paul poke his head around to check if I was awake. He was about to retreat when I called to him.

"Oh, I didn't mean to wake you," he said quickly.

"What time is it?"

"It's very early, but I wanted to check on the wells before going over to the cannery this morning. I'll be home for lunch. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. It's a very comfortable bed," I said. "And these pillows . . . it's like sleeping in a vat of butter."

He smiled. "Great. See you later, then." He closed the door and I rose and got dressed before Pearl woke. By the way she was giggling and playing in her crib, I saw that she, too, had enjoyed her first night in her new home. I dressed her and took her downstairs. After breakfast, I took Pearl up to the attic to plan out my studio and make a list of what I would buy when we were in New Orleans. When Pearl took her late morning nap, I went out to the side patio to watch the men Paul had hired work on our landscaping.

The scent of new bamboo was in the air, and off in the distance, a pair of snow white egrets soared into the blue sky. I sighed with pleasure, dazzled. I was so entranced in my own visions of the rolling lawns, the flagstone walkways, the flower beds and bushes, that I didn't hear a car come up our drive, nor did I hear the door chimes.

James came out to the patio to inform me I had a visitor. Before I could go back into the house, Paul's father appeared. As soon as James retreated, Octavious hurriedly approach me. A chilling shiver ran down my spine.

"I told Paul I'd join you two for lunch and then go over to the wells with him, but I left early so I would have a chance to speak with you alone," he quickly explained.

"Mr. Tate . . ."

"You might as well start calling me Octavious or . . . Dad," he said, not quite bitterly, but not quite willingly either.

"Octavious, I know this is something you left my house believing I wouldn't go through with, but Paul was so heartbroken―and after I had been attacked by Buster Trahaw—"

"Don't explain," he said. He took a deep breath and gazed out at the swamp. "What's done is done. Long ago," he continued, "I stopped believing that Fate or Destiny owes me anything. Whatever good fortune I have, whatever blessings I receive, I don't deserve. I live only to see my children and my wife happy and secure."

"Paul is very happy," I said.

"I know. But my wife . . ." He looked down a moment and then raised his dark, sad eyes to me. "First off, she's terrified that somehow, because of this marriage, the truth will rear its ugly head in our small community and all of the make-believe she has constructed around Paul and herself will come crashing down. People think because we are a rich, successful family that we are as hard as rock, but behind closed doors . . . our tears are just as salty."

"I understand," I said.

"Do you?" He brightened. "Because I've come early to beg a favor."

"Of course," I said without hearing his request.

"I want you to keep the . . . for lack of a better word . . . illusion alive whenever you see her. Even though you know the truth and Gladys knows you know."

"You didn't have to ask me," I said. "I'd do it for Paul as well as for Mrs. Tate."

"Thank you," he said with relief, and then gazed around. "Well, this is quite a home Paul is building. He's a nice young man. He deserves his happiness. I'm very proud of him, always have been, and I know your mother would have been proud of him, too." He backed away. "Well . . . I . . . I'm just going out to speak to one of the workers in front," he stammered. "I'll wait for Paul. Thanks," he added, and quickly turned to disappear into the house.

My quickened heartbeat slowed, but the emptiness in my stomach that made it feel as if I had swallowed a dozen butterflies live continued. It would take time, I thought, and maybe even time wouldn't smooth the rough edges between me and Paul's parents, but for Paul's sake, I would try. Every day of this specially arranged marriage would be a day full of tests and questions. At least in the beginning. Despite all we had and all we would have, I had to question whether or not I could go through with it.

James returned to interrupt my heavy thoughts. "Mr. Tate is on the phone, madame," he said.

"Oh. Thank you, James." I started for the house, realizing I didn't know exactly where the closest phone was.

"You can take it right here on the patio," James said, and nodded toward the table and chairs. A telephone had been placed on a small bamboo stand beside one of the chairs.

"Thank you, James." I laughed to myself. The servants were more familiar with my new home than I was. "Hello, Paul."

"Ruby, I'll be home very soon, but I had to call you to tell you about this stroke of luck. At least, I think it is," he said excitedly.

"What is it?"

"Our foreman here at the cannery knew this nice elderly woman who just lost her job as a nanny because the family's moving away. Her name is Mrs. Flemming. I just spoke to her on the phone and she can come to Cypress Woods this afternoon for a personal interview. I spoke with the family and they can't stop raving about her."

"How old is she?"

"Early sixties. She's been a widow for some time. She has a married daughter who lives in England. She misses her family and seeks employment to be around children. If she works out, maybe we can hire her immediately and leave her with Pearl while we go to New Orleans."

"Oh, I don't know if I can do that so soon, Paul."

"Well, you'll see after you speak with her. Should I tell her to come around two?"

"Okay," I said.

"What's the matter? Aren't you happy about it?" he asked. Even through a telephone, Paul could sense when I was nervous or anxious, sad or happy.

"Yes, it's just that you keep moving so fast, I barely have time to catch my breath over one astounding thing when you present me with another."

He laughed. "That's my plan. To overwhelm you with good things, to drown you in happiness, so that you will never regret what we have done and why we have done it," he said. "Oh, my father is going to join us for lunch. He might arrive before I do, so . . ."

"Don't worry," I said.

"I'll call Mrs. Flemming and then I'll start for home. What's Letty making?"

"I was afraid to ask her," I said, suddenly realizing. He laughed.

"Just tell her you'll put the hoodoo on her if she doesn't behave," he said.

I hung up and sat back. I felt like I was in a pirogue going over one waterfall after another, with no chance to catch my breath.

"The little one's up, Mrs. Tate," Holly called from an upstairs window.

"Coming," I said. There wasn't time to think about anything now, but maybe Paul was right. Maybe that was for the best.

At lunch neither I nor Paul's father did or said anything to reveal we'd spoken earlier, but we were all nervous. Paul did most of the talking. He was so full of excitement, it would have taken a hurricane to slow him down. His conversation with his father finally centered around their business problems.

Promptly at two, Mrs. Flemming arrived in a taxi. Paul's father had left, but Paul had remained to greet her with me. The first thing that struck me about her was how close in size she was to Grandmère Catherine. Standing no taller than five feet three or four, Mrs. Flemming had the same doll-like, diminutive facial features: a button nose and small, delicate mouth with two bright grayish blue eyes. Her light silvery hair still had some strands of corn yellow running through it. She kept it pinned up in a soft bun with her bangs trimmed.

She presented her letter of reference and we all went into the living room to talk. But none of her previous experience, nor an arm's length of references, would have made any difference if Pearl didn't take to her. A baby is completely reliant on its instincts, its feelings, I thought. The moment Mrs. Flemming saw my baby and the moment Pearl set eyes on her, my decision was made. Pearl smiled widely and didn't complain when Mrs. Flemming took her into her arms. It was as if they had known each other from the day Pearl had been born.

"Oh, what a precious little girl," Mrs. Flemming declared. "You are precious, you know, as precious as a pearl. Yes, you are."

Pearl laughed, shifted her eyes toward me as if she wanted to see whether or not I was jealous, and then gazed into Mrs. Flemming's loving face.

"I didn't get much chance to be with my own granddaughter when she was this small," she remarked. "My daughter lives in England, you know. We write to each other a lot and I go there once a year, but . . ."

"Why didn't you move there with her?" I asked. It was a very personal question, and perhaps I shouldn't have asked it so directly, but I felt I had to know as much as I could about the woman who would be with Pearl almost as much as, if not more than, I would be. Mrs. Flemming's eyes darkened.

"Oh, she has her own life now," she said. "I didn't want to interfere." Then she added, "Her husband's mother lives with them."

She didn't have to explain any more. As Grandmère Catherine would say, "Keeping two Grandmères under the same roof peacefully is like trying to keep an alligator in the bathtub."

"Where are you living now?" Paul asked.

"I'm just in a rooming house."

He looked at me, while Mrs. Flemming played with Pearl's tiny fingers.

"Well, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't move right in, then," I said. "If the arrangements are satisfactory for you," I added.

She looked up and brightened immediately.

"Oh yes, dear. Yes. Thank you."

"I'll have one of my men take you back to the rooming house and wait for you to get your things together," Paul said.

"First let me show you where you will sleep, Mrs. Flemming," I said, pointedly eyeing Paul. He was doing it again, moving along so fast, I could barely catch my breath. "Your room adjoins the nursery."

Pearl didn't complain when Mrs. Flemming carried her out and up to her room. I kept feeling there was almost something spiritual about the way the two of them took so quickly to each other, and sure enough, I discovered Mrs. Flemming was left-handed. To Cajuns that meant she could have spiritual powers. Perhaps hers were more subtle, the powers of love, rather than the powers of healing.

"Well?" Paul asked after Mrs. Flemming had left with one of his men to get her things.

"She does seem perfect, Paul."

"Then you won't be upset leaving her here with Pearl?" he followed. "We'll be away only a day or two." I hesitated and he laughed. "It's all right. I've come up with the solution. I have to be reminded from time to time how rich I really am. We really are, I should say."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll just take Pearl along, reserve an adjoining room with a crib," he said. "Why should I care what it costs, as long as it makes you happy?"

"Oh, Paul," I cried. It did seem like his newfound wealth could solve every problem. I threw my arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes widened with happy surprise. As if I had crossed a forbidden boundary, I pulled back. For a moment my happiness and excitement had overwhelmed me. A strange look of reflection came into his blue eyes.

"It's all right, Ruby," he said quickly. "We can love each other purely, honestly. We're only half brother and sister, you know. There's the other half."

"That's the half that worries me," I confessed softly.

"I just want you to know," he said, taking my hands into his, "that your happiness is all I live for." His face became dark and serious as we just stared into each other's faces.

"I know, Paul," I finally said. "And that frightens me sometimes."

"Why?" he asked with surprise.

"It's . . . it just does," I said.

"All right. Let's not have any sad talk. We have to pack and plan. I have to go make some arrangements with the oil drill foreman and then go back to the cannery for a few hours. In the meantime, draw up your shopping list and don't spare a thing," he said. "My family will be here about six-thirty," he added, and left.

I had forgotten about that. Facing Paul's mother was something I dreaded. It started my heart tripping with anxiety. Despite the promise I had made to Paul's father, I wasn't good at looking someone in the face and ignoring the truth. My twin sister, Gisselle, was the expert when it came to that, not me. Somehow, though, I had to do it.

I changed my dress five times before deciding on the one I would wear to dinner with my new family. I couldn't decide whether I should pin up my hair or wear it long. Every little detail suddenly took on paramount importance. I wanted to make the best impression I could. In the end I decided to pin up my hair and went down to dinner just as the Tates arrived. Paul was already dressed and waiting in the entryway.

Toby and Jeanne entered first, Jeanne bubbling over with excitement and eager to describe how the community was reacting to our elopement. Octavious and Gladys Tate followed; she clung to his arm as if she were afraid she wouldn't be able to stand straight or keep from fainting if she were on her own. She kissed Paul on the cheek and then gazed up at me as I descended the stairway.

A tall woman, only an inch or so shorter than her husband, Gladys Tate usually projected a regal stature. I knew she had come from a wealthy Cajun family in Beaumont, Texas. She had attended a finishing school and college where she had met Octavious Tate. It often surprised me that more people didn't suspect Paul was not really her child. Her features were so much sharper, thinner. There was a hardness in her face, a look of superiority and arrogance, and aloofness, that set her apart from most of the women in our Cajun community, even the ones who were wealthy, too.

She usually kept her hair stylishly cut and wore the most up-to-date designs, but tonight she looked so dark and depressed that not even the most fashionable clothing or best hairstylist could change her sad appearance. She gave me the feeling she was attending a wake rather than a family dinner. Her eyes searched my face anxiously as I approached.

"Hi," I said, smiling nervously. I gazed at Paul and then said, "I guess I should start calling you two Mom and Dad."

Octavious smiled nervously, his eyes shifting to Gladys, who, only because Paul's sisters were present, let her lips slip into a quick grin. Immediately she returned to her more formal expression.

"Where's the baby?" she asked in a cold, hard voice, directing the question at Paul rather than me.

"Oh, we've just hired a nanny today, Mom. Her name is Mrs. Flemming. Both she and Pearl are upstairs in the nursery. She fed Pearl earlier, but she'll bring her down after we eat."

"A nanny?" Gladys said, nodding, impressed.

"She's very nice," I offered. Gladys Tate's lips softened slightly when she gazed at me. I felt we could slice the air between us, it was that thick.

"I'll go see about dinner," I said. "Why don't you show everyone into the dining room."

"I haven't really seen your house, Paul," Gladys complained.

"Oh. Right. Let me take my mother around first, Ruby."

"Fine," I said, happy for the chance to get away. This was going to be harder than I had imagined, I thought.

Letty, as though she knew the deepest, darkest secrets, prepared a meal that was even more special than the first she had prepared for us. Octavious kept saying how jealous he was that his son had a finer cook. For her part Gladys complimented everything properly, but every time she spoke, I sensed a control wound so tight that at any moment it could spring loose and become hysteria. It was as if she might burst out in shrill screams suddenly over the slightest thing. It kept Paul, his father, and me on pins and needles. I was relieved when we had gotten through the dessert, which was a chocolate rum soufflé Paul's father said rivaled any he had ever had.

Just as Molly refilled everyone's coffee cup, Mrs. Flemming appeared with Pearl in her arms.

"Isn't she gorgeous, Mom?" Jeanne cried. "I think she has Paul's eyes, don't you?"

Gladys Tate stared at me a moment and then looked at Pearl. "She is a pretty child," she said in a very noncommittal tone of voice.

"Do you want to hold her, madame?" Mrs. Flemming offered. I held my breath. Mrs. Flemming was a Grandmère who knew how much any Grandmère would want to hold and kiss her own grandchild.

"Of course," Gladys said with a forced smile. Mrs. Flemming brought Pearl to her. She squirmed uncomfortably in her arms, but didn't cry. Gladys Tate stared into her face for a moment and then kissed her quickly on the forehead. She smiled up at Mrs. Flemming and nodded to indicate she wanted her to take her back. Mrs. Flemming's eyes narrowed for a moment and then she hurried forward.

"How does it feel to be a Grandmère, Mom?" Jeanne asked.

Gladys Tate smiled coldly. "If you mean do I feel any older as a result, Jeanne, the answer is no." She turned and fixed her gaze on me across the table, and then Paul suggested we all go into the library.

"It's not much yet. Nothing is, but after Ruby and I return from New Orleans, this place is going to be a showcase."

"Why don't you two tell your mother some of your plans for the house decor," Octavious suggested. He turned to me. "Gladys did most of our decorating."

"Oh, I'd love to get some suggestions," I said, turning to her.

"I'm not a decorator," she snapped.

"Now, don't be modest, Gladys," Octavious said, undaunted. He nodded at me. "Your mother-in-law knows her way around when it comes to furnishing and decorating expensive houses. Why, I bet she could just walk through this house with you and make suggestions off the top of her head."

"Octavious!"

"You could, Gladys," he insisted.

"You two go on," Paul suggested. "I'll entertain everyone else in the library."

Gladys looked enraged for a moment. Then she gazed at her two daughters, who looked puzzled by her reluctance.

"Of course, if Ruby would really like that," she said reluctantly.

"Please," I said, my lips trembling.

"Fine," Paul said, and rose.

"What should we look at first?" I asked Gladys Tate. "You should do your bedroom first," Jeanne suggested.

"They have separate bedrooms with an adjoining door. Isn't that like a royal couple, Mother?"

There was a deep moment of silence. Then Gladys smiled and said, "Yes, it is, dear. Very much so."

As we walked upstairs and down the hallway, Gladys remained a few inches behind me. She said nothing. My heart was thumping as I searched frantically through my mind for small talk that wouldn't make me sound silly or nervous. I started to talk about the colors I was considering, babbling quickly about color coordination, furniture design, and accent pieces. When we paused in the doorway of my bedroom, she finally looked at me.

"Why did you do it?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. "Why, when you knew the truth?"

"Paul and I have always been very close, Mother Tate. Once before, I was forced to break Paul's heart so that I could hide the truth from him. You know what it was like for him once he found out," I said.

"And how do you think it was for me?" she demanded. "We weren't even married that long before Octavious . . . before he was unfaithful. Of course, your mother wove a spell over him. Catherine Landry's daughter wasn't without mystical powers, I'm sure," she said.

I swallowed hard. I wanted to defend the mother I had never known, but I saw how Paul's mother had developed this theory to accept her husband's infidelity, and I wasn't about to poke holes in her balloon.

"But what did I do?" she continued. "I accepted and I covered things up and I made it possible for us to remain respectable and for Paul to grow up protected. Now the two of you . . . go off and . . . It's sinful," she said, shaking her head, "just sinful."

"We're not living together that way, madame. That's why we have separate bedrooms."

She shook her head, her flinty eyes unrelenting in their condemnation. Then she sighed deeply and took on an expression of self-pity.

"Now I must pretend again, swallow my pride once more and do what I must do so that my children are not disgraced. It isn't fair," she said, shaking her head. "It isn't fair."

"No one will know anything from my lips," I promised. She laughed a short shrill laugh.

"Why should you say anything? Look at all you have now," she added harshly, and lifted her arms. "This house, these grounds, this great wealth . . . and a father for your child." She fixed her eyes on me.

"Madame, Mother Tate, I assure you—"

"You assure me. Ha! I'm sure you cast the same sort of spell over Paul that your mother cast over Octavious. From mother to daughter, only I'm the one who pays for it all . . . not my dear husband, not my dear adopted son. Funny," she said, pausing. "I have never used that term once, never; but now, here with you, I can't say anything else but the truth: my adopted son."

"It's not the truth," I spit back. "You love Paul in your heart the same way you would had you been the one to give birth to him, and he loves you that way, too. I will make you one promise, Mother Tate, and that is that I will never do anything to interfere with that love. Never," I insisted, my eyes narrow and fixed with determination on hers.

She smiled coldly as if to say I couldn't even if I wanted to with all my heart.

"But you should know that Paul loves Pearl as much as he would had she been his from the start," I warned. "I hope you will accept that and love her as much as a Grandmère should."

"Love," she said. "Everyone needs so much of it, no wonder we're all so exhausted." She sighed again and then looked into my room, her face hardening with criticism. "You should do something nice with drapes on those windows. The sun will be setting on this side. And those colors you were thinking about . . . I thought you were supposed to be an artist. You'll use beige with a little pink in it in here," she commanded. "Now, when you get to New Orleans," she continued as she walked on, "there's this place I know on Canal Street . . ."

I followed along, grateful for the truce that had fallen between us, even though it was a truce on her terms.

We rose early the next morning for our trip to New Orleans. Fortunately, the morning overcast broke and the patches of blue with the bright sunlight seeping through made the trip more enjoyable. I hated going long distances in the rain. But as we traveled the familiar highway, I couldn't help but feel like someone reliving an old nightmare. I recalled my first trip, when I had run away from Grandpère Jack. I had arrived in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras and was nearly raped by a man in a Mardi Gras mask who pretended to help me find my way through the city.

But that was the day I had met Beau for the first time, too, I remembered. Just as I was about to give up and turn away from my father's house, Beau arrived like some dreamboat stepping off a movie screen. I knew from the first moment I set eyes on him that he was special, and from the way he gazed at me once he knew I wasn't my twin sister, I knew he thought the same about me. When Lake Pontchartrain came into view with its water a dark green and its small waves capping, I vividly recalled my first date with Beau and how passionate we had been even then.

I was so lost in these memories, I didn't even realize Paul had driven us into the city until we pulled up to the Fairmont Hotel. Pearl had slept for most of the trip, but when we stepped out, she was fascinated with the sounds of traffic and people and all the activity around us as we checked into our suite of rooms. Paul had arranged for us to have a room with two double beds that adjoined a room for Mrs. Flemming and Pearl.

After we had a little lunch in the hotel, Mrs. Flemming took Pearl up for a nap, and Paul and I began our shopping spree. I had forgotten how much I loved the city. It had its own special rhythms that changed as the day grew into night. In the morning it could be so quiet. Most of the shops weren't open and the shutters and balcony doors were closed, especially in the famed French Quarter, the Vieux Carré. The shadows were still deep and the streets relatively cool.

By late morning the shops were open and the streets were filling with people. The scrolled balconies above us were bursting with flowers. Hawkers called out their wares; music started to draw the tourists to the doors of restaurants and bars. Then, as the afternoon continued, the rhythm quickened. Street performers took their positions on the corners, tap-dancing, juggling, playing guitars.

Paul had a list of places to go, a list he revealed his mother had prepared.

"She knows a lot more about all this than we do," he stated, and then he showed me a list of items she had dictated we buy. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Fine," I said, although many of the things were not particularly things I would have chosen.

Paul and I went from store to store, buying the furnishings, lighting fixtures, lamps, and tables, as well as accoutrements, his mother had suggested. I began to feel as if I were just tagging along.

"My mother is a woman of great taste, isn't she?" he declared before I had much of a chance to comment.

"Yes," I said. It was as if she were right there beside us.

Late in the afternoon, Paul and I took a break and went to the Café du Monde for coffee and their famous beignets. We could watch the artists at their easels and the tourists marching by, their eyes big, their cameras swinging on their necks. There was a cool breeze off the river, and the magnolia blossoms that lifted and fell in the air seemed particularly brilliant.

"I've made a dinner reservation for us at Arnaud's," Paul declared.

"Arnaud's?"

"Yes. Mother suggested it. Don't you think it's a good choice?"

"Oh yes, it's nice," I said, quickly smiling. How was Paul to know that it was to Arnaud's that Beau had taken me on our first formal date? However, to me it seemed as if the city were conspiring to stir up each and every memory I had of living here, whether they be good ones or bad.

We had a wonderful dinner and Pearl was well behaved. Afterward, Paul wanted to sit in the hotel lobby and listen to the jazz. We did so for a while, but the day's traveling and shopping with all its emotional implications had been more exhausting than I believed. I couldn't keep my eyes from closing. Paul laughed and we went up to our room.

This was the first night we spent together sleeping in the same bedroom, and although we weren't sharing a bed, there was an intimacy that at first made me a little uncomfortable. As I stood before the sink and mirror dressed only in my slip and washed the makeup off my face, I saw Paul in the mirror, standing behind me, staring, the blue in his eyes so deep, I felt naked. Once he saw my gaze go to him, he moved away quickly.

I went into the bathroom and dressed for bed. Paul was already in his when I put out the light and crawled under the cover.

"Good night, Ruby," he said softly.

"Good night." The silence and the darkness seemed to grow thicker between us. We would share everything a man and a woman who married and became one could share, except one thing: each other. That thought lingered in the darkness above me, taunting, tormenting. I turned on my side and when I closed my eyes, my thoughts fled back to my memories of Beau and our passionate lovemaking. For now, those recollections were all I had.

We continued our shopping safari the next day, following the list Mrs. Tate had written. I went to an art supply house and gave them my list. Everything would be delivered. After lunch, Paul and I walked through the French Quarter, now looking for gifts for his sisters and parents.

"You haven't mentioned it yet," he said, "but do you intend to see your stepmother? She has yet to learn about us."

"I was thinking about it, yes," I said. "Although I'm not eager to do it."

"I'll go with you."

"No. I think I'd better do this alone for now," I said.

"Okay." He smiled. "Should I get you a cab or . . ."

"No, I think I want to take the streetcar," I said. I had done it so often when I had lived in my father's great house in the Garden District. It was still a quaint and delightful ride for me, but the moment I stepped off the car and began to walk toward the mansion, I felt my heart begin to pound.

Could I do this, walk back into that house and face my stepmother after I had run away? I knew Gisselle was at school, so I wouldn't have to contend with her, but to go into that great house knowing my father was gone, Nina was gone, and Beau was off in Europe involved with some other young woman seemed like self-imposed torture.

I paused across the street and gazed at the ivory white mansion. It looked unchanged, frozen in time. Maybe if I crossed this street, all that had happened since the day I had arrived would disappear and I would be starting over again, I thought. Daddy would still be alive, vibrant and handsome. Nina Jackson would be in the kitchen mumbling over some ingredients and complaining about some evil spirits that had camped in the closets, and Otis would still be at the door, waiting to greet me. I would hear Gisselle shrieking some complaint from upstairs.

I started to walk across when the familiar Rolls-Royce pulled into the driveway. I watched it come to a stop in front of the house and then Daphne step out. If anything or anyone looked unchanged, it was she. Still the ice queen, she rose to her statuesque posture instantly and uttered some command to the driver. The car pulled away and she started up the steps. A new butler, a shorter man with dark gray hair, instantly opened the door. It was as though he did nothing but wait just behind it for her return. Without acknowledging him, she marched into the house. He bowed slightly and then looked out as if he were looking at freedom. A moment later the door was closed and I stepped back onto the walk.

Suddenly nothing seemed more frightening and unpleasant than the thought of facing her. I pivoted quickly and hurried away, walking so fast, I'm sure I looked like someone in flight. But I was fleeing, after all. I was fleeing from the horrible memories of Daphne's spiteful ways, her attempt to have me committed and locked away, her jealousy of my father's love for me, her eagerness to make me look terrible in the eyes of Beau's parents. I was fleeing from the emptiness of that great house once Daddy had died, from the shadows and the darkness that lingered in its corners.

I didn't get back onto the streetcar for blocks, and by the time I arrived at the hotel and Paul opened the door for me, I looked frenzied, my hair disheveled, my face full of agony.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "What did she do?"

"Nothing," I said, throwing myself down on the bed. "I never spoke to her. I couldn't do it. I'll write to her," I said. "And leave it at that. Let's go home . . . now!"

He shook his head. "But we still have a few things to get. Mother thought we should have—"

"Oh, Paul," I cried, seizing his hand. "Take me home. Please . . . just take me home. You can get the rest yourself, can't you?"

He nodded. "Of course," he said. "We'll leave immediately."

It wasn't until we had arrived in the bayou and began up the drive to Cypress Woods that I felt a sense of relief again. Our new great house loomed before me and I realized this was my home, even if my mother-in-law was the one decorating it and not me. Now, more than ever, I was happy I had made the decision to marry Paul and come here. It was far enough and isolated enough to keep out the ghosts of my horrid past.

I couldn't wait to begin setting up my studio and painting again. The swamps and our great acres of land and our oil wells would comprise the walls keeping the demons away was safe here, I thought . . . safe.