Ruby

13

I Can't Be You

I felt as if I were caught in a whirlwind because of the way my new stepmother went about taking me shopping. As soon as we were finished in one boutique, Daphne whisked me out the door to go to another or to a department store. Whenever she decided something looked nice on me or looked appropriate, she ordered it packed immediately, sometimes buying two, three, and four of the same blouse, the same skirt, even the same pair of shoes, but in different colors. The trunk and the backseat of the car quickly filled up. Each purchase took my breath away and she didn't seem at all concerned about the prices.

Everywhere we went, the salespeople appeared to know Daphne and respect her, We were treated like royalty, some clerks throwing aside anything they were doing the instant Daphne and I marched into their stores. Most assumed I was Gisselle and Daphne did not bother to explain.

"It's not important what these people do and don't know," she told me when a saleslady called me Gisselle. "When they call you Gisselle, just go along for now. The people who matter will be told everything quickly."

Although Daphne didn't have much respect for the sales people, I noticed how careful they were when they made suggestions, and how concerned they were that Daphne might not approve. As soon as Daphne settled on a color or a style, all of them nodded and agreed immediately, complimenting her in chorus on the choices she had made for me.

She did seem very informed. She knew the latest styles, the designers by name, and the garments that had been featured in fashion magazines, knowing things about clothes that even the salespeople and store owners didn't know yet themselves. Being chic and up-to-date was obviously a high priority for my stepmother, who became upset if the salesperson brought colors that didn't coordinate perfectly or if a sleeve or hem was wrongly cut. Most of the time between stores and traveling in the car, she lectured to me about style, the importance of appearance, and being sure everything I wore matched and coordinated.

"Every time you go out of the house and into society, you make a statement about yourself," she warned, "and that statement reflects on your family.

"I know that living in the bayou you were used to plain clothes, to practical clothes. Being feminine wasn't as important. Some of the Cajun women I've seen who work side by side with their men are barely distinguishable from them. If it weren't for their bosoms—"

"That's not so, Daphne," I said. "Women in the bayou can dress very pretty when they go to the dances and the parties. They may not have rich jewels, but they love beautiful clothes, too, even though they don't have these expensive stores. But they don't need them," I said, my Cajun pride unfurling like a flag. "My Grandmère Catherine made many a gorgeous dress and—"

"You've got to stop doing that, Ruby, and especially remember not to do it in front of Gisselle," she snapped. A small flutter of panic stirred in my chest.

"Stop doing what?"

"Talking about your Grandmère Catherine as if she were some wonderful person," she explained.

"But she was!"

"Not according to what we've told Gisselle and what we are telling our friends and society. As far as everyone is to know, this old lady, Catherine, knew you were kidnapped and sold to her family. It's nice that she had remorse on her deathbed and told you the truth so you could return to your real family, but it would be better if you didn't show how much you loved her," she proclaimed.

"Not show how much I loved Grandmère? But—"

"You would only make us look like fools, especially your father," she said. She smiled. "If you can't say anything bad, don't say anything at all."

I sat back. This was too much of a price to pay, even though I knew Grandmère Catherine would tell me to do it. I bit down on my lower lip to keep from voicing any more protest.

"Lies are not deadly sins, you know," she continued. "Everyone tells little lies, Ruby. I'm sure you've done it before."

Little lies? Is that what she considered this story and all the stories that had to follow as a result? Little lies?

"We all have our illusions, our fantasies," she said, and threw me a quick glance of devilment. "Men, especially, expect it," she added.

What kind of men was she talking about? I wondered. Men who expected their women to lie, to fantasize? Could men be that different in the city world from what they were in the bayou?

"That's why we dress up and make up our faces to please them. Which reminds me, you have nothing for your vanity table," she said, and decided to take me to her cosmetic store next and buy me whatever she decided was appropriate for a teenager. When I explained I had never worn any makeup, even lipstick, she asked the saleswoman to give me a demonstration, finally revealing to someone that I wasn't Gisselle. Daphne abbreviated the story, relating it as if it were nothing extraordinary. Nevertheless, the tale flew through the large store and everyone fluttered about us.

They sat me before a mirror and showed me how to use the rouge, matched up shades of lipstick to my complexion, and taught me how to pluck my eyebrows.

"Gisselle sneaks on eyeliner," Daphne said. "But I don't think that's necessary."

We went through perfumes next, Daphne actually letting me make the final decision this time. I favored one that reminded me of the scent of the fields in the bayou after a summer rain; although I didn't tell Daphne that was the reason. She approved, bought me some talcum powders, some bubble bath, and fragrant shampoo, besides new hairbrushes and combs, bobby pins, ribbons, nail polish, and files. Then she bought a smart, red leather case for me to put all my toiletries in.

After that, she decided we must get my spring and summer coats, a raincoat, and some hats. I had to model a dozen of each in two different stores before she decided which suited me best. I wondered if she put Gisselle through all this every time she took her shopping. She appeared to anticipate my question when she saw me grimace after she had turned down six coats in a row.

"I'm trying to get you things that are similar but yet distinct enough to draw some differences between you and your twin. Of course, it would be nice for you to have some matching outfits, but I don't think Gisselle would approve."

So Gisselle had some say when it came to her own wardrobe, I concluded. How long would it be before I did, too?

I never thought shopping, especially a shopping spree like this in which everything purchased was purchased for me, would be exhausting; but when we left the last department store in which Daphne had bought me dozens of pairs of undergarments, slips, and a few bras, I was happy to hear her say we were finished for now.

"I'll pick up other things for you from time to time when I go shopping for myself," she promised. I looked back at the pile in the rear of the automobile. It was so high and so thick it was impossible to see through the back window. I couldn't imagine what the total cost had been, but I was sure it was an amount that would be staggering to Grandmère Catherine. Daphne caught me shaking my head.

"I hope you're happy with it all," she said.

"Oh, yes," I said. "I feel like . . . like a princess.‖

She raised her eyebrows and looked at me with a small, tight smile.

"Well, you are your daddy's little princess, Ruby. You had better get used to being spoiled. Many men, especially rich Creole men, find it easier and more convenient to buy the love of the women around them, and many Creole women, especially women like me, make it easy for them to do so," she said smugly.

"But it's not really love if someone pays for it, is it?" I asked.

"Of course it is," she replied. "What do you think love is . . . bells ringing, music in the breeze, a handsome, gallant man sweeping you off your feet with poetic promises he can't possibly keep? I thought you Cajuns were more practical minded," she said with that same tight smile. I felt my face turn zed, both from anger and embarrassment. Whenever she had something negative to say, I was a Cajun, but whenever she had something nice to say, I was a Creole blue blood, and she made Cajuns sound like such clods, especially the women.

"Up until now, I bet you've only had poor boyfriends. The most expensive gift they could probably give you was a pound of shrimp. But the boys who will be coming around now will be driving expensive automobiles, wearing expensive clothing, and casually be giving you presents that will make your Cajun eyes bulge," she said, and laughed.

"Look at the rings on my hand!" she exclaimed, lifting her right hand off the steering wheel. Every finger had a ring on it. There seemed to be one for every valuable jewel: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires all set in gold and platinum. Her hand looked like a display in a jewelry shop window.

"Why I bet the amount of money I have on this hand would buy the houses and food for a year for ten swamp families."

"They would," I admitted. I wanted to add and that seems unfair, but I didn't.

"Your father wants to buy you some nice bracelets and rings himself, and he noted that you have no watch. With beautiful jewelry, nice clothes, and a little makeup, you will at least look like you've been a Dumas for your whole life. The next thing I'll do is take you through some simple rules of etiquette, show you the proper way to dine and speak."

"What's wrong with how I eat and talk?" I wondered aloud. My father hadn't appeared upset at breakfast or lunch.

"Nothing, if you lived the rest of your life in the swamps, but you're in New Orleans now and part of high society. There will be dinner parties and gala affairs. You want to become a refined, educated, and attractive young woman, don't you?" she asked.

I couldn't help wanting to be like her. She was so elegant and carried herself with such an air of confidence, and yet, every time I agreed to something she said or did something she wanted me to do, it was as if I were looking down upon the Cajun people, treating them as if they were less important and not as good.

I decided I would do what I had to do to make my father happy and blend into his world, but I wouldn't harbor any feelings of superiority, if I could help it. I was only afraid I would become more like Gisselle than, as my father wished, Gisselle would become more like me.

"You do want to be a Dumas, don't you?" she pursued.

"Yes," I said, but not with much conviction. My hesitation gave her reason to glance at me again, those blue eyes darkening with suspicion.

"I do hope you will make every effort to answer the call of your Creole blood, your real heritage, and quickly block out and forget the Cajun world you were unfairly left to live in. Just think," she said, a little lightness in her voice now, "it was just chance Gisselle was the one given the better life. If you would have emerged first from your mother's womb, Gisselle would have been the poor Cajun girl."

The idea made her laugh.

"I must tell her that she could have been the one kidnapped and forced to live in the swamps," she added. "Just to see the look on her face."

The thought brought a broad smile to hers. How was I to tell her that despite the hardships Grandmère Catherine and I endured and despite the mean things Grandpère Jack had done, my Cajun world had its charm, too?

Apparently, if it wasn't something she could buy in a store, it wasn't significant to her, and despite what she told me, love was something you couldn't buy in a store. In my heart I knew that to be true, and that was one Cajun belief she would never change, elegant, rich life at stake or not.

When we drove up to the house, she called Edgar out to take all the packages up to my room. I wanted to help him, but Daphne snapped at me as soon as I made the suggestion.

"Help him?" she said as if I had proposed burning down the house. "You don't help him. He helps you. That's what servants are fore my dear child. I'll see to it that Wendy hangs everything up that has to be hung up in your closet and puts everything else in your armoire and vanity table. You run along and find your sister and do whatever it is girls your age do on your days off from school."

Having servants do the simplest things for me was one of the hardest things for me to get used to, I thought. Wouldn't it make me lazy? But no one seemed concerned about being lazy here. It was expected of you, almost required.

I remembered that Gisselle said she would be out at the pool, lounging with Beau Andreas. They were there, lying on thick cushioned beige metal framed lounges and sipping from tall glasses of pink lemonade. Beau sat up as soon as he set eyes on me and beamed a warm smile. He was wearing a white and blue terry cloth jacket and shorts and Gisselle was in a two-piece dark blue bathing suit, her sunglasses almost big enough to be called a mask.

"Hi," Beau said immediately. Gisselle looked up, lowering and peering over her sunglasses as if they were reading glasses.

"Did Mother leave anything in the stores for anyone else?" she asked.

"Barely," I said. "I've never been to so many big department stores and seen so much clothing and shoes." Beau laughed at my enthusiasm.

"I'm sure she took you to Diana's and Rudolph Vita's and the Moulin Rouge, didn't she?" Gisselle said.

I shook my head.

"To tell you the truth, we went in and out of so many stores and so quickly, I don't remember the names of half of them," I said with a gasp. Beau laughed again and patted his lounge. He pulled his legs up, embracing them around the knees.

"Sit down. Take a load off," he suggested.

"Thanks." I sat down next to him and smelled the sweet scent of the coconut suntan lotion he and Gisselle had on their faces.

"Gisselle told me your story," he said. "It's fantastic. What were these Cajun people like? Did they turn you into their little slave or something?"

"Oh, no," I said, but quickly checked my enthusiasm. "I had my daily chores, of course."

"Chores," Gisselle moaned.

"I was taught handicrafts and helped make the things we sold at the roadside to the tourists, as well as helping with the cooking and the cleaning," I explained.

"You can cook?" Gisselle asked, peering over her glasses at me again.

"Gisselle couldn't boil water without burning it," Beau teased.

"Well, who cares? I don't intend to cook for anyone . . . ever," she said, pulling her eyeglasses off and flashing heat out of her eyes at him. He just smiled and turned back to me.

"I understand you're an artist, too," he said. "And you actually have paintings in a gallery here in the French Quarter."

"I was more surprised than anyone that a gallery owner wanted to sell them," I told him. His smile warmed, the gray-blue in his eyes becoming softer.

"So far my father is the only one who bought one, right?" Gisselle quipped.

"No. Someone else bought one first. That's how I got the money for my bus trip here," I said. Gisselle seemed disappointed, and when Beau gazed at her, she put her glasses on and dropped herself back on the lounge.

"Where is the picture your father bought?" Beau asked. "I'd love to see it."

"It's in his office."

"Still on the floor," Gisselle interjected. "He'll probably leave it there for months."

"I'd still like to see it," Beau said.

"So go see it," Gisselle said. "It's only a picture of a bird."

"Heron," I said. "In the marsh."

"I've been to the bayou a few times to fish. It can be quite beautiful there," Beau said.

"Swamps, ugh," Gisselle moaned.

"It's very pretty there, especially in the spring and the fall."

"Alligators and snakes and mosquitos, not to mention mud everywhere and on everything. Very beautiful," Gisselle said.

"Don't mind her. She doesn't even like going in my sailboat on Lake Pontchartrain because the water sprays up and gets her hair wet, and she won't go to the beach because she can't stand sand in her bathing suit and in her hair."

"So? Why should I put up with all that when I can swim here in a clean, filtered pool?" Gisselle proclaimed.

"Don't you just like going places and seeing new things?" I asked.

"Not unless she can strap her vanity table to her back," Beau said. Gisselle sat up so quickly it was as if she had a spring in her back.

"Oh, sure, Beau Andreas, suddenly you're a big naturalist, a fisherman, a sailor, a hiker. You hate doing most of those things almost as much as I do, but you're just putting on an act for my sister," she charged. Beau turned crimson.

"I do too like to fish and sail," he protested.

"When do you do it, twice a year at the most?"

"Depends," he said.

"On what, your social calendar or your hair appointment," Gisselle said sharply. Throughout the exchange, my gaze went from one to the other. Gisselle's eyes blazed with so much anger, it was hard to believe she thought of him as her boyfriend.

"You know he has a woman cut his hair at his house," Gisselle continued. The crimson tint in Beau's cheeks rushed down into his neck. "She's his mother's beautician and she even gives him a manicure every two weeks."

"It's just that my mother likes the way she does her hair," Beau said. "I . . ."

"Your hair is very nice," I said. "I don't think it's unusual for a woman to cut a man's hair. I used to cut my Grandpère's hair once in a while. I mean, the man I called Grandpère."

"You can cut hair, too?" Beau asked, his eyes wide with amazement.

"Do you fish and hunt as well?" Gisselle inquired, not disguising her sarcasm.

"I've fished, helped harvest oysters, but I've never hunted. I can't stand to see birds or deer shot. I even hate seeing the alligators shot," I said.

"Harvested oysters?" Gisselle said, shaking her head. "Meet my sister, the fish lady," she added.

"When did you first learn what had happened to you as a baby?" Beau asked.

"Just before my Grandmère Catherine died," I replied.

"You mean the woman you thought was your grandmother," Gisselle reminded me.

"Yes. It's hard to think like that after so many years," I explained, more to Beau, who nodded with understanding. "And did you have a mother and a father?"

"I was told my mother died when I was born and my father ran off."

"So you lived with these grandparents?"

"Just my grandmother. My grandfather is a trapper and lives in the swamp away from us."

"So just before she died, she told you the truth?" Beau asked. I nodded.

"How terrible of them to keep the secret all these years," Gisselle said. She gazed at me for a reaction.

"Yes."

"Lucky your fake grandmother decided to tell you or you would never have known your real family. That was nice of her," Beau said, which fired up Gisselle.

"These people she lived with are no better than animals, stealing someone's baby and keeping her! Claudine Montaigne told me about these Cajuns who live in a one-room house, everyone in the family sleeping with everyone else. To them incest is nothing more serious than stealing an apple!"

"That's not so," I said quickly.

"Claudine wouldn't lie," Gisselle insisted.

"There are bad people in the bayou just like there are bad people here," I said. "She might have heard of them, but she shouldn't judge everyone the same. Nothing like that ever happened to me."

"You were just lucky," Gisselle insisted.

"No, really . . ."

"They bought a kidnapped baby, didn't they?" she pursued. "Wasn't that terrible enough?"

I looked at Beau. His eyes were fixed intently on me, waiting for my response. What could I say? Put-away thoughts. The truth was forbidden. The lie had to be upheld.

"Yes," I muttered, and shifted my gaze down to my entwined fingers. Gisselle sat back, contented. There was a moment of silence before Beau spoke.

"You know, you two are going to be the center of attention at school next Monday," he said.

"I know. I can't help being nervous about it," I confessed.

"Don't worry, I’ll pick the both of you up in the morning and escort you around all day," he promised. "You'll be a curiosity for a while and then things will settle down."

"I doubt it," Gisselle said. "Especially when everyone learns she's lived like a Cajun all of her life and cooked and fished and made little handicrafts to sell by the road."

"Don't listen to her."

"They'll make fun of her whenever I'm not around to protect her," Gisselle insisted.

"If you won't be around, I will," Beau declared.

"I don't want to be a burden for anyone," I said.

"You won't be," Beau assured me. "Right, Gisselle?" he asked. She was reluctant to answer. "Right?"

"Right, right, right," she said. "I'm tired of talking about this."

"I've got to go anyway," Beau said. "It's getting late. Are we still on for tonight?" he asked her. She hesitated. "Gisselle?"

"Are you bringing Martin?" she countered sharply. He threw a glance my way and then looked at her again.

"Are you sure I should? I mean . . ."

"I'm sure. You'd like to meet one of Beau's friends tonight, wouldn't you, Ruby? I mean, you've fished, harvested oysters, chased alligators . . . I'm sure you had a boyfriend, too, didn't you?"

I looked at Beau. His face had turned troubled and concerned.

"Yes," I said.

"So there's no problem, Beau. She'd like to meet Martin," Gisselle said.

"Who's Martin?" I asked.

"The best looking of Beau's friends. Most of the girls like him. I'm sure you will," she said. "Won't she, Beau?"

He shrugged and stood up.

"You'll like him," Gisselle insisted. "We'll meet you out here at nine-thirty," Gisselle said. "Don't be late."

"Right, boss. Ever see anyone that bossy in the bayou?" he asked me. I looked at Gisselle, who smirked.

"Just an alligator," I said, and Beau roared.

"That's not funny!" Gisselle cried.

"See ya later, alligator," Beau quipped, and winked at me before starting off.

"I'm sorry," I said to Gisselle. "I didn't mean to make fun of you or anything." She pouted for a moment and then broke a small smile.

"You shouldn't encourage him," she advised. "He can be a terrible tease."

"He seems very nice."

"Just another spoiled rich boy," Gisselle insisted. "But, he'll do . . . for now."

"What do you mean, 'for now'?"

"What do you think I mean? Don't tell me you promised to marry every boyfriend you had back in the swamp." Her eyes turned suspicious. "How many boyfriends did you have?" she asked.

"Not that many."

"How many?" she demanded. "If we're going to be sisters, we have to trust each other with the intimate details of our lives. Unless you don't want to be that kind of sister," she added.

"Oh, no. I do."

"So? How many?"

"Really only one," I confessed.

"One?" She stared at me a moment. "Well, it must have been a very hot and heavy romance then. Was it?"

"We cared a great deal for each other," I admitted.

"How much is a great deal?" she pursued.

"As much as we could, I suppose."

"Then you did it with him? Went all the way?"

"What?"

"You know . . . had sexual intercourse."

"Oh, no," I said. "We never went that far."

Gisselle tilted her head and looked skeptical.

"I thought all Cajun girls lost their virginity before they were thirteen," she said.

"What? Who told you such a stupid thing?" I asked quickly. She pulled back as if I had slapped her.

"It's not so stupid. I heard it from a number of people."

"Well, they're all liars then," I said vehemently. "I'll admit that there are many young marriages. Girls don't go off to work or go to college as much, but—"

"So it's true then. Anyway, don't keep defending them. They bought you when you were only a day or so old, didn't they?" Gisselle flared. I shifted my gaze away so she couldn't see the tears in my eyes. How ironic. It was she who had been bought and by a Creole family, not a Cajun. But I could say nothing. I could only swallow the truth and keep it down, only it kept threatening to bubble up and flow out of my mouth on the back of a flurry of hot words.

"Anyway," Gisselle continued in a calmer tone, "the boys will expect you to be a lot more sophisticated than you apparently are."

I looked at her fearfully.

"What do you mean?"

"What did you do with this one devoted boyfriend? Did you kiss and pet at least?" I nodded. "Did you undress, at least partially?" I shook my head. She grimaced. "Did you ever French kiss . . . you know," she added quickly, "touch tongues?" I couldn't remember if that had ever happened. My hesitation was enough to convince her it hadn't. "Did you let him give you hickeys?"

"No."

"Good. I hate them, too. They suck until they're satisfied and we're the ones who walk around with these ugly spots on our necks and breasts."

"Breasts?"

"Don't worry," she said, getting up. "I'll teach you what to do. For now, if Martin or anyone gets too demanding, just tell him you're having your period, understand? Nothing turns them off as fast as that.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go look at the things Mother bought you. I'll help you decide what to wear tonight."

I followed her back to the house, my footsteps on the patio a lot more unsure, my heart beating with a timid thump. Gisselle and I were so identical we could gaze at each other and think we were looking into mirrors, but on the inside, we were more different than a bird and a cat. I wondered what, if anything, we would find to draw us together so we could become the sisters we were meant to be.

Gisselle was surprised by many of the things Daphne had bought me. Then, after she gave it some thought, her surprise turned to jealousy and anger.

"She never buys me skirts this short unless I throw a tantrum, and these colors are always too bright for her. I love this blouse. It's not fair," she wailed. "Now I want new things, too."

"Daphne told me she wanted to buy things that were different from the things you had. She thought you wouldn't like it if we had identical clothes to go along with our identical faces," I explained.

Still pouting, Gisselle held one of my blouses against her and studied it in the mirror. Then she dropped it on the bed and opened the drawers of the armoire to inspect my new panties.

"When I bought a set of these, she thought they were too sexy," she said, holding up the abbreviated light silks.

"I've never worn anything like it," I confessed.

"Well, I'm borrowing this pair of panties, this skirt, and this blouse for tonight," she informed me firmly.

"I don't mind," I said, "but—"

"But what?" Sisters share things with each other, don't they?"

I wanted to remind her of the nasty things she had said on the stairway in the morning when I came upon her returning from the ball, how she would never let me borrow her pretty red dress, but I realized that was before my father had had his conversation with her. It did bring about a change in her attitude toward me. Then I recalled something Daphne had said.

"Daphne disapproves of girls sharing things. Even sisters. She said so," I told her.

"You just let me worry about Mother. There are a lot of things she says and then goes and does the exact opposite," Gisselle replied as she went through the blouses to decide if there were any others she wanted to borrow.

And so for the first dinner we would have together as a family, Gisselle and I wore the same style skirt and blouse. She thought it would be amusing for us to brush and tie our hair into French knots as well. We dressed in my room and sat at my vanity table.

"Here," she said, taking a gold ring off her pinky and handing it to me. "You wear this tonight. wear no jewelry, since you have none."

"Why?" I asked. I saw the impish glint in her eyes. "Daddy wants you on his left, I imagine, and me, as usual on his right."

"So?"

"I'll sit on his left; you sit on his right. Let's see if he knows the difference," she said.

"Oh, he will. He knew I wasn't you the moment he set eyes on me," I told her.

Gisselle didn't know whether to take this as something good or bad. I saw the confusion in her face for a moment and then the decision.

"We'll see," she said. "I told Beau there were differences between us, differences maybe only I can see. I know what," she said, bouncing in her chair. "We'll tease Beau tonight. You'll pretend you're me and pretend I'm you."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," I said, my heart fluttering with the thought of being Beau's girlfriend, even for a few minutes.

"Of course you can. He thought you were me the first time he set eyes on you, didn't he?"

"That was different. He didn't know I existed," I explained.

"I'll tell you exactly how to act and what to say," she continued, ignoring my point. "Oh, this is going to be fun for a change. I mean, real fun, with it all starting at dinner," she decided.

However, just as I predicted, our father knew instantly that we had taken the wrong seats at the dining room table. Daphne, who raised her eyebrows as soon as she saw the two of us in my new clothes, sat down, for the moment confused. But my father threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"What is so funny, Pierre?" Daphne demanded. She had come to dinner dressed formally in a black dress with diamond teardrop earrings and a matching diamond necklace and bracelet. The dress had a V-neck collar that dipped low enough to show the start of her cleavage. I thought she was so beautiful and elegant.

"Your daughters have dressed alike and conspired to test me at their first meal together," he said. "This is Ruby wearing Gisselle's pinky ring and this is Gisselle in Ruby's seat."

Daphne looked from me to Gisselle and then back to me.

"Ridiculous," she said. "Did you think we wouldn't know the difference? Take your proper seats, please," she commanded.

Gisselle laughed and got up. Father's eyes twinkled with delight at me, but then he turned serious, his expression sober when he gazed across the table at Daphne and saw she wasn't amused.

"I hope this is the beginning and the end of such shenanigans," Daphne declared. She directed herself to Gisselle. "I'm trying to teach your sister the proper way to behave at dinner and in the company of others. It's not going to be easy. anyway. The last thing I need is for you to set a bad example, Gisselle."

"I'm sorry," she said, and looked down for a moment. Then her head snapped up. "How come you bought her all these short skirts and carried on so much when I wanted them last month?"

"It's what she liked," Daphne said.

I whipped my head around. What I liked? I never was given a chance to offer an opinion. Why did she say that? "Well, I want some new clothes then, too," Gisselle moaned.

"You can get a few new things, but there's no reason to throw out your entire wardrobe."

Gisselle sat back and looked at me with a smile of satisfaction.

Our meal service began. We ate on a floral pattern set of porcelain china, which Daphne pointed out was nineteenth century. She made everything, down to the napkin holders, sound so expensive and precious, my fingers trembled when I went to lift my fork. I hesitated when I saw there were two. Daphne explained how I was to use the silverware and even how I should sit and hold it.

I didn't know whether or not the meal was something done especially for the occasion of our first dinner together, but it seemed overwhelming.

We began with an appetizer of crabmeat ravigote served in scallop shells. That was followed with grilled cornish game hens with roasted shallots and browned garlic sauce, and Creole green beans. For dessert we were served vanilla ice cream smothered in hot bourbon whiskey sauce.

I saw how Edgar stood just behind Daphne after he served each course, waiting for her to take her first taste and signal approval. I couldn't imagine anyone not being satisfied with anything on the table. My father asked me to describe some of the meals I had in the bayou and I described the gumbos and the jambalayas, the homemade cakes and pastries.

"It doesn't sound like they starved you," Gisselle remarked. I couldn't help sounding enthusiastic over the meals Grandmère Catherine used to make.

"Gumbo is nothing more than a stew," Daphne said. "The food is plain and simple. It doesn't take much imagination. You can see that yourself, can't you, Ruby?" she asked me firmly. I glanced at my father, who waited for my response.

"Nina Jackson is a wonderful cook. I never had such a meal," I admitted. That pleased Daphne and another little crisis seemed to pass. How hard it was for me to get used to belittling and criticizing my life with Grandmère, but realized that was the currency I would need to pay for the life I now had.

The conversation at the table moved from my description of foods in the bayou to questions Daphne had for Gisselle about the Mardi Gras Ball. She described the costumes and the music, referring to people they all knew. She and Daphne seemed to share opinions about certain families and their sons and daughters. Tired of hearing the gossip, my father began to talk about my artwork.

"I've already inquired about an instructor. Madam Henreid over at the Gallier House has recommended someone to me, an instructor at Tulane who takes pupils on the side. I've already spoken with him and he's agreed to meet Ruby and consider her work," he said.

"How come I never got my singing instructor," Gisselle whined.

"You never really showed that much interest, Gisselle. Every time I asked you to go to the teacher, you had some excuse not to," he explained.

"Well, she should have been brought here," Gisselle insisted.

"She would have come," he said, looking to Daphne.

"Of course she would have come. Do you want your father to call her again?" she asked.

"No," Gisselle said. "It's too late."

"Why?" he asked.

"It just is," she said, pouting.

When dinner was over, my father decided he would show me the room he had in mind for my art studio. He winked at Daphne and had a tight smile on his lips. Reluctantly, Gisselle tagged along. He took us toward the rear of the house and when he threw open the door, there it was—a full art studio, already in place with easels, paints, brushes, clays, everything I would ever need or dreamt of having. For a moment I was speechless.

"I had this all done while you were out shopping with Daphne," he revealed. "Do you like it?"

"Like it? I love it!" I whirled around the room inspecting everything. There was even a pile of art books, going from the most elementary things to the most elaborate and complicated. "It's . . . wonderful!"

"I thought we should waste no time, not with a talent like yours. What do you think, Gisselle?" I turned to see her smirking in the doorway.

"I hate art class in school," she remarked. Then she focused a conspiratorial look on me and added, "I'm going up to my room. Come up as soon as you can. We have some things to prepare for later."

"Later?" my father asked.

"Just girl talk, Daddy," Gisselle said, and left. He shrugged and joined me at the shelves of supplies.

"I told Emile at the art store to give me everything we would need to have a complete studio," he said. "Are you pleased?"

"Oh, yes. There are things here, materials and supplies I have never seen, much less used."

"That's why we need the instructor as soon as possible, too. I think once he sees this studio, he'll be encouraged to take you on as one of his pupils. Not that he shouldn't by just looking at your painting anyway." He beamed his smile down at me.

"Thank you . . . Daddy," I said. His smile widened.

"I like hearing that," he said. "I hoped you felt welcomed."

"Oh, yes, I do. Overwhelmed."

"And happy?"

"Very happy," I said. I stood on my toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. His eyes brightened even more.

"Well," he said. "Well . . ." His eyes watered. "I guess I'll go see what Daphne is up to. Enjoy your studio and paint wonderful pictures here," he added, and walked off.

I stood there in awe of it all for a few moments. The room had a nice view of the sprawling oak trees and garden. It faced west so I could paint the sun on the final leg of its journey. Twilight was always magnificent for me in the bayou. I had high hopes that it would be just as magnificent here as well, for I believed that the things I carried in my heart and in my soul would be with me no matter where I was, where I lived, and what I looked at through my windows. My pictures were inside me, just waiting to be brought out.

After what I thought was only a short while later, I left the studio and hurried up to Gisselle's room. I knocked on the door.

"Well, it's about time," she said, pulling me in quickly and closing the door. "We don't have all that much time to plan. The boys will be here in twenty minutes."

"I don't think I can do this, Gisselle," I moaned.

"Of course you can," she said. "We'll be sitting around the table at the pool when they arrive. We'll have bottles of Coke and glasses for everyone, with ice. As soon as they approach, you introduce me to Martin. Just say I want you to meet my sister, Ruby. Then, you'll take this out from under the table and pour globs of it into the Coke," she said, and plucked a bottle of rum out of a straw basket. "Make sure you pour at least this much into every glass," she added, holding up her thumb and forefinger a good two inches apart. "Once Beau sees you do that, he'll be convinced you're me," she quipped.

"Then what?"

"Then . . . whatever happens, happens. What's the matter?" she snapped, pulling herself back. "Don't you want to pretend you're me?"

"It's not that I don't want to," I said.

"So? What is it?"

"I just don't think I can be you," I said.

"Why not?" she demanded, her eyes darkening and her eyelids narrowing into slits of anger.

"I don't know enough," I replied. That pleased her and she relaxed her shoulders.

"Just don't talk much. Drink and whenever Beau says something, nod and smile. I know I can be you," she added. And then in a voice that was supposed to be imitative, she said, "I just can't believe I'm here. The food is sooo good, the house is sooo big and I'm sleepin' in a real bed without mosquitos and mud."

She laughed. Was I really like that in her eyes?

"Stop being so serious," she demanded when I didn't laugh at her mockery of me. She dropped the bottle of rum into the basket. "Come on," she said, picking it up and seizing my hand. "Let's go tease some stuck-up Creole boys until they beg for mercy."

Trailing along like a kite on a string, I followed my sister out and down the stairs, my heart thumping, my mind in a turmoil. I had never had a day packed with so much excitement. I couldn't begin to imagine what the night would bring.