All That Glitters

5

Sad News

Each day of my first six months as mistress of Cypress Woods was so filled with responsibilities and activities, I barely had time to ponder over the life I had chosen for myself and my daughter. I don't think I noticed the winter until I saw the snow geese leaving and realized it had ended. The first buds of spring were opening in an explosion of flowery splendor the likes of which I had never seen. Furnishings and decorations for the great house had begun arriving shortly after our trip to New Orleans. Painters and decorators, tile and carpet people, drapery and mirror people, a parade of artisans, marched through the house daily.

Paul's mother arrived nearly every morning to supervise. When I commented about it, Paul either misunderstood or ignored my meaning.

"Isn't it wonderful how much interest she's taking in us," he replied. "And her being here, running from room to room, upstairs and downstairs, answering questions, frees you to work on your studio."

I did direct my attention to it because it was the one place Gladys refused to enter. Paul was caught up in a flurry of activity, too. His days were divided between his work at the cannery and his supervision of the oil wells. Two weeks after our return from New Orleans, a new well was drilled. He called it Pearl's Well and decided that all the proceeds from it would go into a trust for her. Before she was a year old, she was wealthier than most people were by the end of their productive lives.

On weekends we had grand dinners for the husbands and wives of the people whom Paul dealt with in his oil business. Everyone was impressed with our home and grounds, especially the ones who came from Baton Rouge or Houston and Dallas. I knew they had all expected quite a bit less in the Cajun bayou. Paul never stopped bragging about me, bragging shamelessly about my artistic talents and successes.

I finally did write my letter to Daphne, but not until nearly a month had passed since my attempt to confront her in New Orleans. Paul would occasionally inquire if I had done so and I would say, "Soon. I'm just composing my thoughts." He knew I was procrastinating, but he didn't nag. At last, one afternoon while I had a chance to catch my breath, I sat on the patio with pen and paper and began to write.

Dear Daphne,

We haven't written or spoken to each other for nearly a year now. I know you have little interest in what's happened to me and where I am now, but for my father's sake and memory, I have decided to write this letter.

After my horrible experience at that disgusting clinic where you sent me to have an abortion, I ran off and returned to my roots, to the bayou. For months I lived in my Grandmère's old shack, doing the things she and I had done to keep ourselves alive. I gave birth to a beautiful daughter whom I have named Pearl, and for months I struggled to provide for both of us.

I realized that my first responsibility now was to my daughter and her welfare, and with that in mind, I have married Paul Tate. I do not expect you to understand, but we have a very special life together. We are more like partners, devoted to making each other happy and secure and providing a secure future for Pearl, than we are husband and wife. Paul's inherited land turned out to be rich with oil. We have a beautiful home called Cypress Woods.

I ask nothing of you, certainly not your forgiveness, nor should you interpret this letter as my forgiveness of you for what you have tried to do to me in the past. Actually, I feel pity for you more than anger. I do expect, however, that what my father had decided to give me will be given to me. My love for him has not diminished one iota. I miss him dearly.

Please see that the attorney in charge of my trust has my new address.

Ruby

I received no reply, but that didn't surprise me. At least I had put myself on record and she couldn't claim I had disappeared and disavowed all contact and connection with my father's estate. I really had never accepted her as a mother or as family. She was a stranger to me when I had lived in the House of Dumas, and she was even more of a stranger to me now.

Jeanne came more often than Toby to play with Pearl and visit. With my marriage to Paul, she eagerly embraced me as her new sister and, at times, confided more intimately in me than she did in her own blood sister, Toby, and certainly more than she did her mother. One afternoon we sat on the patio and sipped fresh lemonades, watching Mrs. Flemming take Pearl for a little walk through the gardens.

Jeanne had come to Cypress Woods especially to talk to me about her boyfriend, James Pitot, a young attorney. He was a tall, dark-haired, handsome man whose politeness and charm reminded me a bit of Daddy.

"I think we're going to become engaged," Jeanne revealed. I knew from the way she spoke that I was the first to learn of it.

"You think?"

"The thought of such a big yes terrifies me!" she exclaimed. I had to laugh. "It's not funny, Ruby. I lay awake nights just tormenting myself over it."

"No, it isn't funny. You're right. I shouldn't laugh."

"What made you finally decide to marry Paul?" she asked.

If she only knew the truth, she wouldn't be so sisterly, I feared.

"I mean, I don't know what love is, really is. I have had crushes on so many boys, and you remember I used to go with Danny Morgan."

"I remember."

"But he became such an . . . an idiot. James is different. James is . . ."

"What? Jeanne," I said.

"Caring and considerate, loving and gentle. We haven't done it yet, you know," she said, blushing. "He wanted to, of course, and so did I, but I just couldn't without being married. I told him that and he understood. He didn't get angry."

"Because he really does care for you and for what makes you happy," I concluded. "That's love or at least the most important part of it. The other things are important, of course, but there doesn't have to be an explosion of bells every time you kiss. What I have learned is that dependability is the soil in which a long and lasting love is planted, Jeanne."

"But surely there was an explosion of bells for you and Paul. The two of you have been in love for so long. I remember when he couldn't wait to finish dinner just so he could get on his motor scooter and ride out to see you, even if it was for just ten minutes. It was like . . . like the sun rose and fell on your face.

"I don't have that intense a feeling for James," she admitted, "so I'm afraid I'm going to make a tragic error if I say yes."

"Some people love too much," I said softly.

"Like Adam loved Eve," she replied, nodding. "He ate of the forbidden fruit after Eve had just so he wouldn't lose her. That's what Father Rush told me once."

"Yes, like Adam, then," I said, smiling.

"But that made the story so romantic for me. I want my marriage to be romantic, as romantic as yours is," she said. "And yours is, isn't it, Ruby?"

I stared at her. Was it only her youth that prevented her from seeing the truth in my eyes or was it my own ability to mask reality? I smiled softly.

"Yes, Jeanne, but it doesn't happen overnight, and from the way you speak of James and from what you tell me of him, it sounds like you will have happiness together."

"Oh, I'm so glad you said that!" she exclaimed. "For I value your opinion more than anyone's, even more than Mother's, and certainly more than Toby's."

"I wish you would speak to your mother first," I said. "I don't want to be the one who convinces you of doing something. You have to convince yourself."

In the back of my mind, I could see Gladys Tate hating me for giving intimate advice to her daughter.

"Don't worry, silly," she said. "I am convinced. I just needed to be sure. You were once just as insecure, weren't you?"

"Yes," I confessed.

"You never talk about your life in New Orleans. Did you have many boyfriends there or when you went to private school?"

"No, not many," I said, and looked away quickly. She was alert enough to catch the shifting of my gaze.

"But there was one?"

"There was . . . no one, really," I said, turning back with a smile. "You know how those rich Creole boys can be. . . . They make you promises just to tempt you to go to bed with them and then they rush off for another conquest."

"Did you?" she asked quickly.

"Did I what?"

"Go to bed with any of them?"

"Jeanne!"

"I'm sorry. I thought I could ask. I thought we could be sisters, better sisters than you and your twin were."

"That wouldn't be hard to do," I said, laughing. I stared at her a moment. "No," I said. "I didn't." I knew if I told her the truth, I would burst into tears myself and this whole wonderful world Paul had created for Pearl and me would come crumbling down around us.

She looked relieved. "Then I'm right to wait until we're married?"

"If it feels right, it's right," I told her. She seemed satisfied for the moment. I was troubled giving advice to anyone when it came to romance and marriage. Who was I to do so?

The next—day, Jeanne came over to announce her engagement to James Pitot. They had set a date. Once Paul heard that, he declared the wedding would be at Cypress Woods if she liked. She gazed at me with the expression of a coconspirator and cried her delight.

"Ruby will help me plan the wedding, won't you, Ruby?"

"Of course," I said.

"Oh, Paul," she said, "you did more than marry the woman you always loved and give us a beautiful little niece. You gave me a wonderful new sister."

We hugged and kissed and I hoped I had said the right things and Jeanne was destined for a good and happy marriage. In any case, we had a great family event to plan. It seemed Paul was right: Our lives would be full of excitement and never dull.

That evening Paul knocked on the adjoining door and came into my bedroom as I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror brushing out my hair. I was already in my nightgown. He was in his light blue silk pajamas, one of the birthday presents I had bought for him.

"I just got off the phone with Dad. He says his home now resembles an army command post. They have already drawn up long lists of guests and started to plan the preliminaries. He swears it's like preparing for battle."

I laughed.

"I wish we could have had a grand wedding," he said. "You deserved nothing less than to be treated like some Cajun princess."

"I am treated that way, Paul."

"Yes, but . . ." His eyes fixed on mine in the mirror. "How has it been for you? I mean . . . are you really happy, Ruby?"

"Yes, Paul. I am."

He nodded and then shifted from a deep, pensive look to a soft, gentle smile. "Anyway, thank you for taking my sisters to your heart so quickly and making them your family, too. They adore you, and Mother. . . Mother has learned to do more than simply accept. I know she respects you now."

I wondered how he could make such a statement. Was he blind to the cold, gray look in his mother's eyes whenever she set them on me or was he so determined to be happy that he ignored it and lived in an illusion himself?

"I hope so, Paul," I said, but not with much conviction.

"She does," he insisted. "Well, good night." He stepped up to me and kissed me softly on the neck. He hadn't kissed me like that since we had married. The warmth of his lips radiated in waves over my shoulders and down to my breasts. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again, I saw him still there, his lips inches from my face.

"Good night," I said in a broken whisper.

"Good night." He turned quickly and left my room.

For a moment I just stared after him. I took a deep breath and got ready for bed.

That night I tossed and turned for hours before finally falling into an exhaustion and sleep.

Three days later the happy bubble that had settled over Cypress Woods was shattered with the arrival of Gisselle. She and two of her boyfriends from her ritzy prep school came speeding up our driveway, the horn of their Cadillac convertible blaring. It brought all the servants and myself to the front window. We thought it was some emergency. James looked at me with surprise.

"It's only my twin sister," I said. "Don't bother yourself, James. I‟ll greet her and show her in."

“Very good, madame," he said, and happily retreated. I went out to the gallery to face them.

It had been some time since Gisselle and I had last set eyes on each other. The two boys she was with were handsome, slim young men, one with dark brown hair and the other quite blond with blue eyes and a very fair complexion. He was the driver. They both wore navy blue blazers with their fraternity emblems embossed in gold on their breast pockets. The dark-haired young man stepped out first and held the door for Gisselle, sweeping himself into a European bow as if she were royalty emerging. The laughter on the lips suggested they had been doing some drinking or maybe smoking pot. I had no reason to expect Gisselle had changed or grown up any since we last saw each other, but I had hoped for some miraculous metamorphosis.

"There she is," she cried as soon as she set her eyes on me. "My dear, darling twin, the mistress of Cypress Woods. I have to admit, sister dear," she said, nodding as she looked around, "you ain't done bad for a Cajun."

The two men laughed, the driver getting out to join them.

"Well, can't you say hello?" Gisselle demanded, her hands on her hips. "We haven't seen each other for a long time. You'd think you'd at least pretend to be pleased."

"Hello, Gisselle," I said dryly.

"What, no sisterly kiss and hug?" She stepped up to me. I shook my head and embraced her. "That's more like it. You should be impressed. We drove all the way up here to visit you and it's a terribly boring ride. Nothing to look at but those shacks on sticks and old shrimp boats rotting along the canals and poor dirty children playing with rusty old tools on their mangy front yards. Right, Darby?" she said, turning to the dark-haired young man. He nodded, his eyes on me.

"Why don't you introduce everyone properly, Gisselle," I said.

She smirked. "Of course, just the way we were taught to do it at Greenwood, huh?" She turned and imitated our etiquette teacher at Greenwood, speaking with nasality. "This is Darby Hennessey, of the filthy rich Hennesseys from the Bank of New Orleans." Darby laughed and bowed. "And this shy, fair-haired young man on my left is Henry Howard. His father is one of Louisiana's most famous and important architects. Either one of these young men wouldn't hesitate to spend his inheritance on me, would you, gentlemen?"

"I'd save a little to keep myself in champagne," Darby quipped, and they all laughed.

"This house . . . I must confess, Ruby," Gisselle said, stepping back, "I had no idea. You are rich even before you inherit your share of our trust. Can you imagine how wealthy my twin sister is going to be, Henry?"

He nodded, gazing around.

"Wealthy," he admitted.

"Brilliant. Henry's working on his doctorate in brain surgery," she said, and Darby laughed. "Well, are you going to show us around or do we have to stand out here all day in the swamp heat?" she demanded.

"Of course, I'll show you around."

"Is it all right to leave the car right here?" Henry asked me.

"Why isn't it?" Gisselle snapped before I had a chance. "What do you think she has, valet parking?" She laughed and threaded her arm through Darby's. "The tour, madame," she said.

"You haven't changed one iota, Gisselle," I said, shaking my head.

"Why should I? I was always perfect. Right, Darby?" "Right," he said obediently.

I opened the door and led them into the house.

"Daphne would bust a gut if she saw how well you've done for yourself, dear sister," Gisselle said as she gazed at the grand entryway, my paintings and small statues, the long marble floors and grand stairway. She whistled at the elegant furnishings in the living room and den, but her sarcastic attitude dwindled to a quiet look of awe as I took them through the rest of the downstairs and they saw the large pictures, the expensive lamps and chandeliers, the enormous kitchen and dining room with a table that could seat twenty comfortably.

"This beats anything I've seen in the Garden District," Henry confessed.

"You haven't seen everything in the Garden District," Gisselle spit, and he was silent. "How about the bedrooms?" she inquired.

"Right this way."

I showed them the guest rooms first and then Paul's and my bedrooms, skipping the nursery because Pearl was taking her nap.

"Separate but adjoining bedrooms," Gisselle re-marked, and smiled licentiously. "How often do we use that doorway?" she whispered. Although I blanched, I didn't reply. She laughed and gazed about. "You don't have an art studio anymore," she said with delight.

"Oh, that's in the attic," I replied nonchalantly.

"The attic?"

"Let me show you," I said, and took them upstairs.

"This is incredible," Darby said, now genuinely impressed. "The place is a palace. Look at the view from this window," he declared, turning to Gisselle. She sulked behind us.

"It's only a view of the swamps," she said.

"Yeah, but . . . it's beautiful. That's a big pool, and those flowers."

"All right," Gisselle said, bursting with frustration. "You have anything to drink? I'm parched."

"Of course. Let's go down to the patio and Molly will bring us some lemonades."

"Lemonades," she ridiculed. "Don't you have anything with a little kick to it?" she asked sharply.

"Whatever you want, Gisselle. Just tell my maid." "Her maid. Do you hear how my Cajun sister talks?

Just tell my maid."

We started out, the young men behind us. Gisselle seized my arm.

"Where's Beau's baby?" she demanded.

"Pearl's asleep and no one knows her as Beau's baby here," I said.

"Of course." She smiled with satisfaction. "And our brother, your husband?" she whispered.

"He's at work in the oil fields right now." My heart began to pound. "If you've come here to make trouble for us . . ."

"Why should I do that? I don't care what you've done, although I know you did it just to spite Beau."

"That's not true, Gisselle."

"Don't you want to hear about him?" she teased. I didn't reply. "He broke up with his fiancée in Europe, so you see, if you hadn't rushed into this sinful arrangement, you might have still won him," she said with great self-satisfaction. I felt the blood rush into my face so quickly, it felt as if it had drained completely out of my legs and I might tumble down the stairs. Then she laughed and put her arm through mine. "But let's not talk of old romances. Let's catch up on other news first. I do have a lot to tell you, a lot you will enjoy and a lot . . . you won't," she suggested with an impish grin.

She paraded me downstairs with her obedient escorts behind us ready at her beck and call.

"Daphne's wedding," Gisselle began once she had her mint julep in hand, "was an affair to remember. She and Bruce spared no expense. There were hundreds of guests. The church was bursting at the seams. Most people came because they were curious and just wanted to be part of the highlight of the social season. You know she really never had any friends. She just has business acquaintances, but she never cared and still doesn't."

"Are they happy together?"

"Happy? Hardly," she said, and laughed.

"What do you mean?"

"Bruce is still her little gofer. Remember how I used to tease him—Bruce, go for this, Bruce, go for that? Do you know what I discovered listening in on their business conversations one night? She made him sign a prenuptial agreement. He inherits nothing if anything happens to her. Nothing. And he can't divorce her and sue her for any property."

"Why did she marry him?"

"Why?" Gisselle raised her eyes to the sky and then smirked. "Why do you think? . . . To keep his mouth shut. They were embezzling from poor, dear Daddy. But Daphne was shrewd. She kept control of everything and made Bruce dependent upon her.

"She needed an escort, that's all. They don't sleep together. It's like what you have," she said, nodding toward the bedroom windows, "separate bedrooms. Only, they don't even have an adjoining door." She laughed. Then she looked at Darby and Henry, who were sitting there, sipping their drinks, staring and smiling stupidly at her like two infatuated lovebirds. "Why don't you two go look at the oil wells or something. Ruby and I have to talk girl talk," she snapped.

They both rose obediently and walked off.

"They adore me," she said, looking after them, "but they're both unimaginative and boring."

"They why are you with them?"

"Just to amuse myself." She drew closer. "So, Bruce came to my bathroom one day while I was taking a bath."

"What happened?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"What do you think?"

I wasn't sure I should believe her or not, but I did recall the way Bruce used to gaze at me, undressing me with his eyes, and I recalled how I would shrink under his touch.

She jerked her head high, threw back her shoulders, and with an arrogant air bragged, "I've been with many older men. I've even slept with one of my teachers at the school."

"Gisselle!"

"So? How is any of that any worse than what you're doing . . . sleeping with your half brother?" she snapped.

"I'm not. We don't sleep together. We're married, but we're not husband and wife that way. We both agreed."

"Why?" she said, grimacing. "Why get married then?"

"Paul's always loved me, and before we knew what our true relationship is, I was very fond of him. He loves Pearl as much as he would had she been his own daughter. We have a very special relationship now," I said.

"It's special, all right. And boring. You have a lover, then, I assume, some dashing, tall, dark Cajun swamp man who sneaks up to your room at night?"

"No, of course not."

"Of course not, not you, not Miss Goody Two-Shoes." She sat back, her arm dangling over the arm of the chair. "I wrote to Beau and told him of your wedding and how rich you are," she said.

"I bet you couldn't wait."

"Well, you ran away. You should have had the abortion and stayed in New Orleans. Even with all this, you're still living in the swamps."

"The swamps are beautiful. Nature can't be ugly," I said.

She took a long sip of her drink. "Did I tell you about Uncle Jean?" she suddenly asked.

"Uncle Jean? No. What about him?"

"You don't know anything?"

"What is it, Gisselle?"

"He killed himself," she said nonchalantly.

"What?" I gasped. I felt the blood drain from my face and my feet become nailed to the patio.

"One day he stole one of those knives they use to cut clay in their recreation room and cut his wrists. He bled to death before anyone discovered what he had done. Daphne put on a big show, of course, threatening to sue the institution. For all I know, she got some sort of settlement. I wouldn't put it past her. If there's a way to make money in something, she'll find it."

"Uncle Jean . . . killed himself'? When?"

"Months ago," she said, shrugging.

I sat back, stunned. The last time I had seen him was when I had gone to him with Beau to tell him about Daddy's death.

"Why didn't anyone write to tell me? Why didn't you?"

"Daphne said you relinquished your relationship to the family when you ran off," she replied. "And you know how I hate writing letters, especially bad news. Unless it's other people's bad news," she added with a slight laugh.

"Poor Uncle Jean. I should never have told him Daddy died. I should have left him thinking he was just not visiting."

"Maybe it is your fault," Gisselle said, enjoying my misery. Then she shrugged again and sipped her drink. "Or maybe you should be congratulated. After all, he's better off."

"How can you say such a terrible thing? No one's better off dead, not even Uncle Jean," I cried back in a choked voice.

"All I know is, I'd rather be dead than live forever in that stuffy institution," she proclaimed.

My eyes filled with tears as I thought about Uncle Jean lost and alone.

"And who do we have here?" we heard, and turned to see Paul come out of the house.

"Well, if it isn't my wealthy brother, or is it brother-in-law?" Gisselle quipped.

Paul turned crimson and shifted his eyes to me. "What's wrong, Ruby?" he asked instantly.

"I just learned that my uncle Jean committed suicide in the institution."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't I get a kiss hello?" Gisselle asked.

"Sure." He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, only she turned her face quickly so his lips met hers. Surprised, he stood back. Gisselle laughed.

"When did this suicide happen?" Paul asked.

"Forget about that. I don't want to dwell on bad news," Gisselle said, and twisted her shoulder. "Ruby was just explaining your special marriage arrangement," she teased. Her licentious smile made both Paul and me feel guilty.

"Gisselle, stop it."

"Oh, don't be so sensitive. Besides, what do I care what you two do?" She looked out toward the fields. "Did you see two young, wealthy Creoles wandering about your oil wells?"

"Who?"

"Gisselle's boyfriends," I said dryly.

"Oh. No."

"Maybe they fell into some swamp," she said, and laughed. Then she got up and put her arm through Paul's. "Why don't you show me around your grounds and your oil fields," she said.

"Of course."

"Are you staying for dinner, Gisselle?" I asked.

"How do I know? If I'm bored, leave. If not, I'll stay," she said, winking. "Come along, Mr. Oil Baron."

Paul looked at me helplessly. "You know what I think you would really enjoy, Gisselle, a ride through the swamps. She can get a better view of things that way anyway, can't she, Ruby?"

"What? Oh yes," I said in an empty voice. My mind was still fixed on poor Uncle Jean.

"Not me. I'm not going into the swamps. Where are those idiots?" she said, gazing over the grounds. We saw them walking back from the pool. "Darby, Henry," she shouted. "Get back here."

They broke out in a jog as if she held them on a long, invisible leash. When they arrived, she introduced them to Paul and the three of them started to talk about the oil wells, Paul explaining how one is drilled and capped. Gisselle grew bored quickly.

"Aren't there any places to go around here . . . you know, for dancing or something?"

"There's a lounge nearby that has a great zydeco band," Paul said. "Ruby and I go often to listen."

"I don't think that's for us," Gisselle complained.

"How about a clean restaurant?"

"We have a wonderful cook. You're all welcome to stay for dinner," Paul said.

"I don't mind," Henry said.

"Me neither," Darby followed.

"Well, I do. I want to get back to New Orleans so we can go to some nightclubs," Gisselle said. "It's too quiet around here and I can't get that sour smell out of my nose."

"Sour smell?" Paul looked at me, but I just closed and opened my eyes.

"The swamp stench," Gisselle said.

"I don't smell it," Darby said.

"You wouldn't know a skunk if it crawled into bed with you," she snapped. Henry laughed.

"Oh yes he would. He's slept with a few before." Gisselle laughed and released Paul's arm to take Henry's.

"To the car, James. I've visited my sister and have seen her wealth. Don't worry," she said, "I'll double everything when I describe it to Daphne."

"I don't care what you tell her, Gisselle. She doesn't matter to me anymore," I said.

Disappointed, Gisselle led her boyfriends back to the house, with Paul and me following. At the patio door, Gisselle suddenly turned on me.

"I would like to see . . . what do you call her . . . Pearl, before I go."

"We can look in on her. She's napping," I said. I took Gisselle upstairs to the nursery. Mrs. Flemming was dozing in the easy chair by the crib. Her eyes snapped open with surprise when she looked upon our duplicate faces.

"My twin sister, Gisselle," I whispered. "Gisselle, Mrs. Flemming."

"How do you do, dear," Mrs. Flemming said, rising. "My, you two are the mirror image of one another. I bet you're often mistaken for each other."

"Not as often as you might think," Gisselle replied sharply. Mrs. Flemming just nodded and then stepped out to go to the bathroom. Gisselle moved to the crib and looked down at Pearl, who slept with her little hand curled under her chin.

"She has Beau's nose and mouth," she said. "And Beau's hair, of course. You know, I'm thinking of spending the remainder of my summer in Europe. I'll see Beau and spend some time with him. Now I'll be able to describe his child to him," she said with a mean little laugh.

Her wide smile of self-satisfaction cut into my heart. I swallowed back my sadness and turned away from her as she marched out of the room. For a moment I stood there gazing at Pearl and thinking of Beau, my heart feeling like a hollowed-out drum. Every beat echoed through my thoughts.

A short while later, it was as if a cool breeze of relief had come blowing through the bayou when Gisselle and her two male friends got back into their car and went tearing away down the drive. I could hear her shrill laughter lingering for a moment after they disappeared around a turn.

Then I charged up the stairs and went to my room to throw myself on my bed, where I sobbed uncontrollably for a few moments. I was so depressed with the news of Uncle Jean's tragic death and Beau, I couldn't keep the tears from streaming down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. Paul knocked softly on my door and came hurrying in when he saw me crying. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Ruby," he said softly, and I turned and threw myself into his arms. From the day we were married, we were afraid to touch each other, afraid of what every kiss, every embrace, even holding each other's hand, would mean in light of who and what we were, but when we made promises to each other, we forgot that we would need each other's intimate contact from time to time.

I needed to feel his arms around me; I needed to sense him close and have him hold me and soothe me with his petting my hair and kissing my forehead and cheeks, kissing away the tears and whispering words of solace. I sobbed harder, my shoulders shaking, as he stroked my hair and rocked me softly in his arms.

"It's all right," he said. "It'll be all right."

"Oh, Paul, why did she have to come and bring me all the bad news? I hate her. I do. I hate her," I said.

"She's just so jealous of you. No matter how much she runs down the bayou and the Cajun world, she's still full of green envy. That's a woman who's never going to be happy," Paul said. "You shouldn't hate her; you should pity her."

I sat back and ground back some tears.

"You're right, Paul. She is to be pitied and she won't ever be happy no matter what she has. But I feel so bad about Uncle Jean. I wanted to go to him soon, bring Pearl along, and maybe . . . maybe find a way to get him out of the institution and even here with us."

"I'm sorry. It would have been nice, but you can't blame yourself. What was destined to happen was decided by events and choices made before your time, Ruby." He reached across the bed to touch my cheek. "I hate to see you unhappy, even for a few minutes. I can't help the way I love you."

I closed my eyes and kept them closed, knowing, sensing, what he was about to do. When his lips touched mine, I wasn't surprised. I let him kiss me and then I lay back on the pillow.

"I'm a little exhausted," I whispered, my heart pounding.

"Rest a bit and let me think of ways to cheer you up," he said. I felt him lift off the bed and heard him walk out. Then I turned over and embraced the pillow.

Beau had broken his engagement. Gisselle was going to see him and tell him about me. What would he think? How would he feel? Far away, across the ocean, he would gaze toward America and the opportunity for a great and lasting love he had lost . . . I had lost.

My heart felt like a twisted rubber band about to snap. I swallowed down my sadness like castor oil. I'm a woman, I thought, a young, vibrant woman, and my needs are greater than I had anticipated.

For the first time since I had taken the vows with Paul, I regretted what I had done and wondered if I had piled one great tragic decision on top of another. Despite the beauty and the splendor of our great home and estate, I felt the walls closing in around me, shutting out the sun, covering me in a dark, deep, depressing blanket of regret from under which I feared I would never escape.