Ruby

17

A Formal Dinner Date

Edgar greeted me at the door, a look of concern on his face when he took one look at mine. I quickly brushed away any lingering tears, but unlike my alligator skinned twin sister, I had a face as thin as cotton. Any mask of deception I tried to wear might as well be made of glass.

"Is everything all right, mademoiselle?" he asked with apprehension.

"Yes, Edgar." I stepped inside. "Is my father downstairs?"

"No, mademoiselle." Something soft and sad in his voice made me turn to meet his eyes. They were dark and full of despair.

"Is something wrong, Edgar?" I asked quickly. "Monsieur Dumas has retired for the evening," he replied, as if that explained it all.

"And my . . . mother?"

"She, too, has gone to bed, mademoiselle," he said. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you, Edgar," I said. He nodded, then turned and walked away. There was an eerie stillness in the house. Most of the rooms were dark. The teardrop chandeliers above me in the hall were dim and lifeless, making the faces in some of the oil paintings gloomy and ominous. A different sort of panic grew in my chest. It made me feel hollow and terribly alone. A chill shuddered down my spine and sent me to the stairway and the promise of my snug bed waiting upstairs. However, when I reached the landing, I heard it again . . . the sound of sobbing.

Poor Daddy, I thought. How great his sorrow and misery must be to drive him into his brother's room so often and cause him still to cry like a baby after all these years. With pity and compassion in my heart, I approached the door and knocked gently. I wanted to talk to him, not only to comfort him, but to have him comfort me.

"Daddy?"

Just as before, the sobbing stopped, but no one came to the door. I knocked again.

"It's Ruby, Daddy. I came back from the pajama party. I need to talk to you. Please." I listened, my ear to the door. "Daddy?" Hearing nothing, I tried the doorknob and found it would turn. Slowly, I opened the door and peered into the room, a long, dark room with its curtains drawn, but with the light of a dozen candles flickering and casting the shadows of distorted shapes over the bed, the other furniture, and the walls. They performed a ghostly dance, resembling the sort of spirits Grandmère Catherine could drive away with her rituals and prayers. I hesitated, my heart pounding.

"Daddy, are you in here?"

I thought I heard a shuffling to the right and walked farther into the room. I saw no one, but I was drawn to the candles because they were all set up in holders on the dresser and surrounded dozens of pictures in silver and gold frames. All of the pictures were pictures of a handsome young man I could only assume was my uncle Jean. The pictures captured him from boyhood to manhood. My father stood beside him in a few, but most of the pictures were portrait photos, some in color.

He is a very handsome man, I thought, his hair the same sort of blond and brown mixture Paul's is. In every color portrait photo, he had soft bluish-green eyes, a straight nose, not too long or too short, a strong, beautifully drawn mouth that flashed a warm smile full of milk white teeth. From the few full body shots, I saw he had a trim figure, manly and graceful like a bullfighter's with a narrow waist and wide shoulders. In short, my father had not exaggerated when he had described him to me. Uncle Jean was any girl's idea of a dreamboat.

I gazed about the room and even in the dim light saw that nothing had been disturbed or changed since the accident years and years ago. The bed was still made and waiting for someone to sleep in it. It looked dusty and untouched, but everything that had been left on the dressers and nightstands, the desk and armoire was still there. Even a pair of slippers remained at the side of the bed, poised to accept bare feet in the morning.

"Daddy?" I whispered to the darkest corners of the room. "Are you in here?"

"What do you think you're doing?" I heard Daphne demand, and I spun around to see her standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. "Why are you in there?"

"I . . . thought my father was in here," I said.

"Get out of here this instant," she ordered, and backed away from the door. The moment I stepped out, she reached in and grabbed the doorknob to pull the door shut. "What are you doing home? I thought you and Gisselle were attending a slumber party tonight?"

She scowled at me, then turned her head to look at Gisselle's door. She had a lovely profile, classic, the lines of her face perfect when she burned with anger. I guess I really was an artist at heart. In the midst of this, all I could think of was what it would be like to paint that Grecian visage.

"Is she home, too?" Daphne asked.

"No," I said. She spun on me.

"Then why are you home?" she stormed back.

"I . . . didn't feel well, so I came home," I said quickly. Daphne focused her penetrating gaze on me, making me feel as if she were searching my eyes, maybe even my soul. I was forced to shift my eyes guiltily away.

"Are you sure that's the truth? Are you sure you didn't leave the girls to do something else, maybe something with one of the boys?" she asked suspiciously. Really feeling sick now, I still managed to find a voice.

"Oh, no, I came right home. I just want to go to bed," I said.

She continued to stare at me, her eyes riveted to mine, pinning me to her like butterflies were pinned to a board. She folded her arms under her breasts. She was in her silk robe and slippers and had her hair down, but her face was still made up, her lipstick and rough fresh. I bit softly on my lower lip. Panic seized me in a tight grip. I imagined I did look quite sick at this point.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded.

"My stomach," I said quickly. She smirked, but looked a bit more believing.

"They're not drinking liquor over there, are they?" she asked. I shook my head. "You wouldn't tell me if they were, would you?"

"I . . ."

"You don't have to answer. I know what it's like when a group of teenage girls get together. What surprises me is your letting a mere stomachache stop you from having fun," she said.

"I didn't want to spoil anyone else's," I said. She pulled her head back and nodded softly.

"Okay then, go to bed. If you get any sicker . . ."

"I'll be all right," I said quickly.

"Very good." She started to turn away.

"Why are all those candles lit in there?" I risked asking. Slowly, she turned back to me.

"Actually," she said, suddenly changing her tone of voice to a more reasonable and friendlier one, "I'm glad you saw all that, Ruby. Now you have some idea what I have to put up with from time to time. Your father has turned that room into a . . . into a. . . shrine. What's done is done," she said coldly. "Burning candles, mumbling apologies and prayers won't change things. But he's beyond reason. The whole thing is rather embarrassing, so don't discuss it with anyone and especially don't discuss it in front of the servants. I don't want Nina sprinkling voodoo powders and chanting all over the house.

"Is he in there now?"

She looked at the door.

"Yes," she said.

"I want to talk to him."

"He's not in the talking mood. The fact is, he's not himself. You don't want to talk to him or even see him like this. It would upset him afterward more than it would upset you now. Just go to sleep. You can talk to him in the morning," she said, and narrowed her eyes as a new thought crossed her suspicious mind. "Why is it so important for you to talk to him now anyway? What is it you want to tell him that you can't tell me? Have you done something else that's terrible?"

"No," I replied quickly.

"Then what did you want to say to him?" she pursued.

"I just wanted . . . to comfort him."

"He has his priests and his doctors for that," she said. I was surprised she didn't say he had her, too. "Besides, if your stomach's bothering you so much you had to come home, how can you sit around talking to someone?" she followed quickly like a trial lawyer.

"It feels a little better," I said. She looked skeptical again. "But you're right. I'd better go to sleep," I added. She nodded and I walked to my room. She remained in the hallway watching me until I went inside.

I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to describe not only what had happened tonight, but the truth about the night with the rum and all the nasty things Gisselle had said and done at school, but I thought once I had drawn so sharp and clear a battle line between us, Gisselle and I would never be the sisters we were meant to be. She would hate me too much. Despite all that had already happened between us, I still clung to the hope that we would bridge the gap that all these years and different ways of living had created. I knew that right now I wanted that to happen more than Gisselle did, but I still thought she would eventually want it as much. In this hard and cruel world, having a sister or a brother, someone to care for you and love you was not something to throw away nonchalantly. I felt confident that someday, Gisselle would understand that.

I went to bed and lay there listening for my father's footsteps. Some time after midnight, I heard them: slow, ponderous steps outside my door. I heard him pause and then I heard him go on to his own room, exhausted, I was sure, from all the sorrow he had expressed in the room he had turned into a memorial to his brother. Why was his sorrow so long and so deep? I wondered. Did he blame himself?

The questions lingered in the darkness waiting for a chance to leap at the answers, like the old marsh hawk, patiently waiting for its prey.

I closed my eyes and rushed headlong into the darkness within me, the darkness that promised some relief.

The next morning it was my father who woke me, knocking on my bedroom door and poking his head in, his face so bright with smiles I wondered if I had dreamt the events of the night before. How could he move from such deep mental anguish to such a jolly mood? I wondered.

"Good morning;" he said when I sat up and ground the sleep out of my eyes with my small fists.

"Hi."

"Daphne told me you came home last night because you didn't feel well. How are you this morning?"

"Much better," I said.

"Good. have Nina prepare something soothing and easy to digest for you to have for breakfast. Just take it easy today. You've made quite a beginning with your art instructor, your schoolteachers . . . you deserve a day off, a day to do nothing but indulge yourself. Take a lesson from Gisselle," he added with a laugh.

"Daddy," I began. I wanted to tell him everything, to confide in him and develop the sort of relationship in which he wouldn't be afraid to confide in me.

"Yes, Ruby?" He took another step into my bedroom. "We never talked any more about Uncle Jean. I mean, I would like to go see him with you some day," I added. What I really meant to say was I wanted to share the burden of his sorrow and pain. He gave me a tight smile.

"Well, that's very kind of you, Ruby. It would be a blessed thing to do. Of course," he said, widening his smile, "he would think you were Gisselle. It will take some lengthy explanation to get him to even fathom that he has two different nieces."

"Then he can understand things?" I asked.

"I think so. I hope so," he said, his smile fading. "The doctors aren't as convinced of his improvements as I am, but they don't know him as I know him."

"I'll help you, Daddy," I said eagerly. "I'll go there and read to him and talk to him and spend hours and hours with him, if you like," I blurted.

"That's a very nice thought. The next time I go, I will take you along," he said.

"Promise?"

"Of course, I promise. Now let me go downstairs and order your breakfast," he said. "Oh," he said, turning at the doorway, "Gisselle has phoned already to tell us she will be spending the day with the girls, too. She wanted to know how you were doing. I said I would tell you to call them later, and if you were up to it, I'd bring you back."

"I think I'll just do what you suggested, Daddy, and relax here."

"Fine," he said. "About fifteen minutes?"

"Yes. I'm getting up," I said. He smiled and left.

Maybe what I had suggested I would do would be a wonderful thing. Maybe that was the way to get Daddy out of the melancholia Daphne had described and I had witnessed last night. To Daphne, it was all simply too embarrassing. She had no tolerance for it, and Gisselle certainly couldn't care less. Maybe this was one of the reasons Grandmère Catherine sensed I belonged here. If I could help lift the burden of Daddy's sadness, I could give him something a real daughter should.

Buoyed by these thoughts, I rose quickly and dressed to go down to breakfast. As was proving to be more the rule than the exception, Daddy and I had breakfast together while Daphne remained in bed. I asked Daddy why she rarely joined us.

"Daphne likes to wake up slowly. She watches a little television, reads, and then goes through her detailed morning ministrations, preparing to face each day as if she were making a debut in society," he replied, smiling. "It's the price I pay to have such a beautiful and accomplished wife," he added.

And then he did something rare: he talked about my mother, his eyes dreamy, his gaze far-off.

"Now Gabrielle, Gabrielle was different. She woke like a flower opening itself to the morning sunlight. The brightness in her eyes and the rush of warm blood to her cheeks were all the cosmetics she required to face a day in the bayou. Watching her wake up was like watching the sun rise."

He sighed, quickly realized what he was doing and saying, and snapped the newspaper in front of his face.

I wanted him to tell me so much more. I wanted to ask him a million questions about the mother I had never known. I wanted him to describe her voice, her laugh, even her cry. For now it was only through him that I could know her. But every reference he made to her and every thought he had of her was quickly followed by guilt and fear. The memory of my mother was locked away with so many other forbidden things in the closets of the Dumas past.

After breakfast, I did what my father suggested—I curled up on a bench in the gazebo and read a book. Off, over the Gulf, I could see rain clouds, but they were moving in a different direction. Here, sunlight rained down, occasionally interrupted by the slow journey of a thin cloud nudged by the sea breeze. Two mockingbirds found me a curiosity and landed on the gazebo railing, inching their way closer and closer to me, flying off and then returning. My soft greetings made them tilt their heads and flick their wings, but kept them feeling secure, while a gray squirrel paused near the gazebo steps to sniff the air between us.

Every once in a while, I closed my eyes and lay back and imagined I was floating in my pirogue through the canals, the water lapping softly around me. If there was only some way to marry the best of that world with this one, I thought, my life would be perfect. Maybe that was what Daddy had dreamt would happen when he began his love affair with my mother.

"So there you are," I heard a voice cry out, and I opened my eyes to see Beau approaching. "Edgar said he thought he saw you go out here."

"Hi, Beau. I completely forgot that I suggested you come by today," I said, sitting up.

He paused at the gazebo steps. "I've just come from Claudine's," he said. The look on his face told me he already knew more than I anticipated.

"You know what they did to me, don't you?"

"Yes. Billy told me. The girls were all still asleep, but I had a few words with Gisselle," he replied.

"I suppose everyone's laughing about it," I said. His eyes answered before he did. They were full of pity for me.

"A bunch of sharks, that's all they are," he snapped, the blue in his eyes turning steel cold. "They're jealous of you, jealous of the way everyone has taken to you at school, jealous of your accomplishments," he said, and drew closer. I looked away, the tears welling up.

"I'm so embarrassed, I don't know how I'll go to school," I said.

"You'll go with your head high and ignore their sneers and their laughs," he proclaimed.

"I'd like to be able to say I could do that, Beau, but—"

"But nothing. I'll pick you up in the morning and we'll walk in together. But before that . . ."

"What?"

"I came over here to ask you to dinner," he stated with a polite formality, pulling his shoulders back to assume his young Creole gentleman image.

"Dinner?"

"Yes, a formal dinner date," he said. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I had never been on a dinner date before, formal or informal, but I kept silent. "I have already taken the liberty of making reservations at Arnaud's," he added with some pride. I assumed from the way he spoke, this was to be a very special evening.

"I'll have to ask my parents," I said.

"Of course." He looked at his watch. "I have a few errands to run, but I'll call you about noon to confirm the time."

"All right," I said breathlessly. A dinner date, a formal date with Beau . . . everyone would hear about this, too. He wasn't just being nice to me in school or just giving me a ride home.

"Good," he said, smiling. "I'll call you." He started away. "Beau."

"Yes?"

"You're not doing this just to make me feel better after what they did, are you?" I asked.

"What?" He started to laugh and then turned serious. "Ruby, I just want to be with you and would have asked you for a date whether they pulled that stupid joke on you or not," he declared. "Stop underestimating yourself," he added, turned and walked off leaving me in a whirlpool of mixed emotions that ranged from happiness to terror that I would make an absolute fool of myself and simply add to what had already been done to make me look like I didn't belong.

"What?" Daphne said, looking up sharply from her cup of coffee. "Beau asked you to dinner?"

"Yes. He's calling at noon to see if it's all right for me to go," I said. She looked at my father, who had been sitting with her on the patio, having another cup of coffee. He shrugged.

"Why is that so surprising?" he asked.

"Why? Beau has been seeing Gisselle," she replied.

"Daphne, darling, they weren't engaged. They're just teenagers. Besides," he added, beaming a smile at me, "you hoped the time would come when people would accept Ruby as one of us. Apparently, the way you've dressed her, the advice and instruction you have given her on how to carry herself and speak to people, and the good example you set has had remarkable results. You should be proud, not surprised," he added.

Daphne's eyes narrowed as she thought.

"Where is he taking you?" she asked.

"Arnaud's," I said.

"Arnaud's!" She put her coffee cup down sharply. "That's not just any restaurant. You have to wear the proper things. Many of our friends go to that restaurant and we are friendly with the owners."

"So," my father said. "You'll advise her how to dress." Daphne wiped her lip with the napkin and considered. "It's time you went to a beautician and had something done with your hair and your nails," she decided.

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"You need your bangs trimmed and I'd like to see it conditioned. I'll make an appointment for this afternoon. They always find time for me at a moment's notice," she said confidently.

"That's very nice," my father said.

"Then you've made a full recovery from your stomach problem?" Daphne asked me pointedly.

"Yes."

"She looks fine," my father said. "I'm very proud of the way you're adjusting now, Ruby, very proud."

Daphne glared at him.

"You and I haven't been to Arnaud's in months," she remarked.

"Well, I'll make a note of that and we'll go soon. We don't want to go the same night Ruby does. It might make her uncomfortable," he added. She continued to glare.

"I'm glad you're worried about her discomfort, Pierre. Maybe you'll start thinking about mine now," she said, and he reddened.

"Go on upstairs, Ruby," she commanded. "I'll be right up to choose your clothes."

"Thank you," I said. I glanced quickly at my father who looked like a little boy who had just been reprimanded, and then I hurriedly left and went up to my room. Why was it that every nice thing that happened to me here always brought along some unpleasantness? I wondered.

Shortly afterward, Daphne came marching into my room.

"You have a two o'clock at the beauty parlor," she said, going to my closet. She threw open the sliding doors and stood back, considering. "I'm glad I thought to buy this," she said, plucking a dress from its hanger, "and the matching shoes." She turned and looked at me. "You're going to need a pair of earrings. I'll let you borrow one of mine and a necklace, too, just so you don't look underdressed."

"Thank you," I said.

"Take special care with them," she warned. She put the dress aside and focused her gaze on me with suspicion again. "Why is Beau taking you to dinner?"

"Why? I don't know. He said he wanted to take me. I didn't ask him to take me, if that's what you mean," I replied.

"No, that's not what I mean. He and Gisselle have been seeing each other for some time now. You come onto the scene and suddenly, he leaves her. What's been going on between you and Beau?" she demanded.

"Going on? I don't know what you mean, Mother."

"Young men, especially young men of Beau's age, are rather sexually driven," she explained. "Their hormones are raging so they look for girls who are more promiscuous, more obliging."

"I'm not one of those girls," I snapped.

"Whether it's true or not," she continued, "Cajun girls have reputations."

"It's not true. The truth is," I fumed, "so-called Creole girls of good breeding are more promiscuous."

"That's ridiculous and I don't want to hear you say such a thing," she replied firmly. I looked down. "I warn you," she continued, "if you did or if you do anything to embarrass me, embarrass the Dumas . . ."

I wrapped my arms around myself and turned away so she couldn't see the tears that clouded my eyes.

"Be ready at one-thirty to go to the beauty parlor," she finally said, and left me trembling with frustration and anger. Was it always going to be this way? Every time I accomplished something or something nice happened to me, she would decide it was because of some indecent reason?

It wasn't until Beau called at noon that I felt better about myself and the promise of the evening. He repeated how much he wanted to take me and was very happy to hear I could go.

"I'll pick you up at seven," he said. "What color is your dress?"

"It's red, like the red dress Gisselle wore to the Mardi Gras Ball."

"Great. See you at seven."

Why he wanted to know the color of my dress didn't occur to me until he came to the door at seven with the corsage of baby white roses. He looked dashing and handsome in his tuxedo. Daphne made a point to appear when Edgar in-formed me Beau had arrived.

"Good evening, Daphne," he said.

"Beau. You look very handsome," she said.

"Thank you." He turned to me and presented the corsage. "You look great," he said. I saw how nervous he was under Daphne's scrutinizing gaze. His fingers trembled as he opened the box and took out the corsage. "Maybe you'd better put this on her, Daphne. I don't want to stick her."

"You never have trouble doing it for Gisselle," Daphne remarked, but she moved forward and attached the corsage.

"Thank you," I said. She nodded. "Give my regards to the maitre d'," she told Beau.

"I will."

I took Beau's arm and eagerly let him lead me out the front door and to his car.

"You look great," he said after we got in.

"So do you."

"Thanks." We pulled away.

"Gisselle didn't come back from Claudine's yet," I told him.

"They're having a party," he said.

"Oh. They called to invite you?"

"Yes." He smiled. "But I told them I had more important things to do," he added, and I laughed, finally feeling as if the heavy cloud of anxiety had begun to move off. It felt good to relax a little and enjoy something for a change.

I couldn't help but be nervous again when we entered the restaurant. It was filled with many fine and distinguished looking men and women, all of whom gazed up from their plates or turned from their conversations to look us over when we entered and were shown our table. I went through the litany of things Daphne had recited to me on the way to and from the beauty parlor—how to sit up straight and hold my silverware, which fork was for what, putting the napkin on my lap, eating slowly with my mouth closed, letting Beau order our dinners.

"And if you should drop something, a knife, a spoon, don't you pick it up. That's what the waiters and busboys are there to do," she said. She kept adding new thoughts. "Don't slurp your soup the way they eat gumbo in the bayou."

She made me feel so self-conscious, I was sure I would do something disgraceful and embarrass Beau and myself. I trembled walking through the restaurant, trembled after we were seated, and trembled when it was time to chose my silverware and begin to eat.

Beau did all he could to make me feel relaxed. He continually complimented me and tried telling jokes about other students we both knew. Whenever something was served, he explained what it was and how it had been prepared.

"The only reason I know all this," he said, "is because my mother is amusing herself by learning how to be a gourmet chef. It's driving everyone in the family crazy."

I laughed and ate, remembering Daphne's final warning: "Don't finish everything and wipe the plate clean. It's more feminine to be full faster and not look like some farmhand feeding her face."

Even though the dinner was sumptuous and it was very elegantly served, I was too nervous to really enjoy it and actually felt relieved when the check came and we rose to leave. I had gotten through this elegant dinner date without doing anything Daphne could criticize, I thought. No matter what happened, I would be a success in her eyes, and for some reason, even though she was often unpleasant to me, her admiration and approval remained important. It was as if I wanted to win the respect of royalty.

"It's early," Beau said when we left the restaurant. "Can we take a little ride?"

"Okay."

I had no idea where we were going, but before I knew it, we had left the busier part of the city behind us. Beau talked about places he had been and places he wanted very much to see. When I asked him what he wanted to do with his life, he said he was thinking very seriously of becoming a doctor.

"That would be wonderful, Beau."

"Of course," he added, smiling, "I'm just blowing air right now. Once I find out what's involved, I'll probably back out. I usually do."

"Don't talk about yourself that way, Beau. If you really want to do something, you will."

"You make it sound easy, Ruby. In fact, you have a way of making the most difficult and troubling things look like nothing. Why just look at the way you've already memorized your part in the play and made some of the other students gain confidence in themselves . . . including me, I might add . . ." He shook his head. "Gisselle is always putting things down, belittling things I like. She's so . . . negative sometimes."

"Maybe she's not as happy as she pretends to be," I wondered aloud.

"Yeah, maybe that's it. But you've got every reason to be unhappy and yet, you don't let other people feel you're unhappy."

"My Grandmère Catherine taught me that," I said, smiling. "She taught me to be hopeful, to believe in tomorrow." He grimaced with confusion.

"You make her sound so good and yet she was part of the Cajun family that bought you as a stolen baby, right?" he asked.

"Yes, but . . . she didn't learn about it until years later," I said, quickly covering up. "And by that time, it was too late."

"Oh."

"Where are we?" I asked, looking out the window and seeing we were on a highway now that was surrounded by marshlands.

"Just a nice place we go sometimes. There's a good view up ahead," he said, and turned down a side road that brought us to an open field, looking back at the lights of New Orleans. "Nice, huh?"

"Yes. It's beautiful." I wondered if I would ever get used to the tall buildings and sea of lights. I still felt very much like a stranger.

He turned off his engine, but left the radio playing a soft, romantic song. Although it was mostly cloudy now, stars peeked down through any break in the overcast, twinkling brightly. Beau turned to me and took my hand.

"What sort of dates did you have in the bayou?" he asked.

"I never really went on what you would call a date, I suppose. I went to town for a soda. Once, I went to a fais dodo with a boy. A dance," I added.

"Oh. Oh, yeah."

I couldn't see his face in the darkness and it reminded me of our time in the cabana. Just like then, my heart began to pitter-patter for seemingly no reason. I saw his head and shoulders move toward me until I felt his lips find mine. It was a short kiss, but he followed it with a deep moan and his hands clutched my shoulders and held me tightly.

"Ruby," he whispered. "You look like Gisselle, but you're so much softer, so much lovelier that it's very easy for me to tell the difference between you even with a quick glance." He kissed me again and then kissed the tip of my nose. I had my eyes closed and felt his lips slide softly over my cheeks. He kissed my closed eyes and my forehead and then pulled me closer to him to seal my lips with his in a long, demanding kiss that sent invisible fingers over my breasts and down the small of my stomach, making me tingle to my toes.

"Oh, Ruby, Ruby," he chanted. His lips were on my neck and before I knew it, he brought them to the tops of my breasts, moving quickly to the small valley between them. Whatever resistance was naturally in me, softened. I moaned and let myself sink deeper into the seat as he moved over me, his hands now finding their way over my bosom, his fingers expertly sliding the zipper down until my dress loosened enough for him to bring it lower.

"Oh, Beau, I . . ."

"You're so lovely, lovelier than Gisselle. Your skin is like silk to her sandpaper."

His fingers found the clasp of my bra and almost before I knew it, undid it. Instantly, his mouth moved over my breast, nudging my bra away to expose more and more until he found my nipple, erect, firm, waiting despite the voice within me that tried to keep my body from being so willing. It was truly as though there were two of me: the sensible, quiet, and logical Ruby, and the wild, hungry-for-love-and-affection emotional Ruby.

"I have a blanket in the back," he whispered. "We can spread it out and lie out here under the stars and . . ."

And what? I thought finally. Grope and pet each other until there was no turning back? Suddenly, Daphne's furious face flashed before me and her words resounded: ". . . They look for girls who are more promiscuous, more obliging . . . Whether it is true or not, Cajun girls have reputations."

"No, Beau. We're going too fast and too far, I can't . . ." I cried.

"We'll just sprawl out and be more comfortable," he proposed, keeping his lips close to my ear.

"It would be more than that and you know it, Beau Andreas."

"Come on, Ruby. You've done this before, haven't you?" he said with a sharpness that cut into my heart.

"Never, Beau. Not like you think," I replied with indignation. My tone made him regret his accusation, but he wasn't easily dissuaded.

"Then let me be the first, Ruby. I want to be your first. Please," he pleaded.

"Beau . . ."

He continued moving his lips over my breasts, urging and encouraging me with his fingers, his touch, his tongue, and hot breath, but I firmed up my resistance, a resistance fueled by the memory of Daphne's accusations and expectations. I would not fit the image of the Cajun girl they wanted me to be. I would not give any of them the satisfaction.

"What's wrong, Ruby? Don't you like me?" Beau moaned when I pulled myself back and held my dress against my bosom.

"I do, Beau. I like you a lot, but I don't want to do this now. I don't want to do what everyone expects I would do. . . even you," I added.

Beau sat back abruptly, his frustration quickly turning into anger.

"You led me to believe you really liked me," he said.

"I do, Beau, but why can't we stop when I ask you to stop? Why can't we just—"

"Just torment each other?" he asked caustically. "Is that what you did with your boyfriends in the bayou?"

"I didn't have boyfriends. Not like you think," I said. He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you had dozens of boyfriends."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Can't we get to know each other a little more, Beau?"

"Yes, of course. That's what I want. But there's no better way than making love," he offered, turning back to me. He sounded so convincing. A part of me wanted to be convinced, but I kept that part under tight wraps, locked behind a door. "You're not going to tell me now you just want to be good friends, are you?" he added with obvious sarcasm when I continued to resist.

"No, Beau. I am attracted to you. I would be a liar to say otherwise," I confessed.

"So?"

"So let's not rush into anything and make me regret it," I added. Those words seemed to stop him cold. He froze in the space between us for a moment and then sat back. I began to fasten my bra.

Suddenly, he laughed.

"What?" I asked.

"The first time I took Gisselle out here, she jumped me and not vice versa," he said, starting the engine. "I guess you two really are very, very different."

"I guess we are," I said.

"As my grandfather would say, viva la difference," he replied, and laughed again, but I wasn't sure if he meant he liked Gisselle's behavior better or he liked mine.

"All right, Ruby," he said, driving us out of the marsh-lands, "I'll take your advice and believe what you predicted about me."

"Which is?"

"If I really want to do something," he said, "I will. Eventually." In the glow from the light of oncoming cars, I saw him smiling.

He was so handsome; I did like him; I did want him, but I was glad I had resisted and remained true to myself and not to the image others had of me.

When we arrived at the house, he escorted me to the door and then turned me to him to kiss me good night.

"I'll come by tomorrow afternoon and we can rehearse some of our lines, okay?" he said.

"I'd like that. I had a wonderful time, Beau. Thank you." He laughed.

"Why do you laugh at everything I say?" I demanded.

"I can't help it. I keep thinking of Gisselle. She would expect me to thank her for permitting me to spend a small fortune on dinner. I'm not laughing at you," he added. "I'm just . . . so surprised by everything you do and say."

"Do you like that, Beau?" I met his blue eyes and felt the heat that sprang up from my heart, hoping for the right answer.

"I think I do. I think I really do," he said, as if first realizing it himself, and then he kissed me again before leaving. I watched him for a moment, my heart now full and happy, and then rang the doorbell for Edgar. He opened it so quickly, I thought he had been standing there on the other side, waiting.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said.

"Good evening, Edgar," I sang, and started toward the stairway.

"Mademoiselle."

I turned back, still smiling at my last memories of Beau on the steps.

"Yes, Edgar?"

"I was told to tell you to go straight to the study, mademoiselle," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Your father and mother and Mademoiselle Gisselle are waiting for you," he explained.

"Gisselle's home already?" Surprised, but filled with trepidation, I went to the study. Gisselle was sitting on one of the leather sofas and Daphne was in a leather chair. My father was gazing out the window, his back to me. He turned when Daphne said, "Come in and sit down."

Gisselle was glaring at me, hatefully. Did she think I had told on her? Had my father and Daphne somehow heard about what had occurred at the slumber party?

"Did you have a nice time?" Daphne asked. "Behave properly and do everything as I told you to do it in the restaurant?"

"Yes."

My father looked relieved about that, but he still seemed distant, troubled. My eyes went from him; to Gisselle, who looked away quickly, and then back to Daphne, who folded her hands in her lap.

"Apparently, since your arrival, you haven't told us everything about your sordid past," she said. I gazed at Gisselle again. She was sitting back now, her arms folded, her face full of self-satisfaction.

"I don't understand. What haven't I told you?" Daphne smirked.

"You haven't told us about the woman you know in Storyville," she said, and for a moment my heart stopped and then started again, this time driven by a combination of fear and anger and utter frustration. I spun on Gisselle.

"What lies did you tell now?" I demanded. She shrugged.

"I just told how you brought us down to Storyville to meet your friend," she explained, throwing a look of pure innocence at Daddy.

"I? Took you? But—" I sputtered.

"How do you know this . . . this prostitute?" Daphne demanded.

"I don't know her," I cried. "Not like she's telling you."

"She knew your name, didn't she? Didn't she?"

"Yes."

"And she knew you were looking for Pierre and me?" Daphne cross-examined.

"That's true, but—"

"How do you know her?" she demanded firmly. A hot rush of blood heated my face.

"I met her on the bus when I came to New Orleans and I didn't know she was a prostitute," I cried. "She told me her name was Annie Gray, and when we arrived in New Orleans, she helped me find this address."

"She knows this address," Daphne said, nodding at Daddy. He closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.

"She told me she was coming here to be a singer," I explained. "She's still trying to find a job. Her aunt promised her and—"

"You want us to believe you thought she was only a nightclub singer?"

"It's the truth!" I turned to Daddy. "It is!"

"All right," he said. "Maybe it is."

"What's the difference?" Daphne remarked. "By now the Andreas family and the Montaignes surely know your . . . our daughter has made the acquaintance of such a person."

"We'll explain it," my father insisted.

"You'll explain it," Daphne retorted. Then she turned back to me. "Did she promise to contact you here and give you an address of where she would be in the future?"

I gazed at Gisselle again. She hadn't left out a detail. Wickedly, she grinned.

"Yes, but—"

"Don't you ever so much as nod at this woman if you should see her someplace, much less accept any letters from her or phone calls, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." I looked down, the tears so cold they made me shiver on their journey down my cheeks.

"You should have told us about this so we could be prepared should it come up. Are there any other sordid secrets?"

I shook my head quickly.

"Very well." She looked at Gisselle. "Both of you go to bed," she commanded.

I rose slowly and without waiting for Gisselle, started toward the stairway. I walked ponderously up the steps, my head down, my heart feeling so heavy in my chest, it was like I was carrying a chunk of lead up with me.

Gisselle came prancing by, her face molded in a smile of self-satisfaction.

"I hope you and Beau had a good time," she quipped as she passed me.

What possible part of my mother and what possible part of my father combined to create someone so hateful and mean? I wondered.