Tarnished Gold

10

Failing

Mama wouldn't speak to Daddy for days after the fais dodo. He didn't come home that night anyway, and when he appeared the next afternoon, looking as if he had slept in a ditch, she refused to give him anything to eat. She even avoided looking at him. He moaned and complained and acted as if he were the one who had been violated and betrayed. He fell asleep on the floor in the living room and snored so loud the shack rumbled. He woke with a jerk, his long body shuddering as if electricity had been sent through him. His eyes snapped open to see Mama hovering over him like a turkey buzzard, her small fists pressed against her ribs.

"How could you go and do that, Jack? How could you run down your own daughter for an Atkins, huh?"

He sat up and combed his fingers through his hair, gazing around as if he didn't know where he was and couldn't hear Mama screaming at him.

"We put Gabrielle through all that horror living in that dreadful woman's house secretly just so no one would know what a terrible thing had happened to her, and you go and spill your guts out to the likes of Jed Atkins? Why? Tell me that, huh?"

Daddy licked his dry lips, closed his eyes, and swayed. He lay back against the settee for a moment, making no attempt to respond or defend himself.

"And then you go and promise your daughter to a no-account slob, no better than the vermin living in the rotted shrimp boats. Where's your conscience, Jack Landry?"

"Aaaa," he finally cried, putting his hands over his ears. Mama paused, put she continued to stand over him, her little frame intimidating as she glared down at him. He took his hands from his ears slowly.

"I just done what I thought would be good for everyone, woman. I ain't no traiteur with spiritual powers like you. I don't read the future like you, no."

"Oh? You don't read the future like me? Well, it ain't hard to read your future, Jack Landry. Just go follow a snake. How it lives and how it ends up is about the same as you will," she said.

Daddy waved his hand in the air between them the way he would swat at flies. "Never mind all this. Where's that stuff you made for headaches and bad stomach trouble?"

"I'm all out of it. You get drunk so much and so often, I can't keep tip with the demand anyway," she scolded. "Besides, there's no traiteur alive who can concoct a remedy for what ails you, Jack Landry."

Whatever blood was left drained from Daddy's face. His bloodshot eyes shifted my way and then back to glance at Mama.

"I ain't staying here and be abused," he threatened.

"That's 'cause you're the one who's been doing the abusing, not us."

"That did it," he said, struggling to stand. "I'm going to go move in with Jed until you apologize."

"When it snows in July," Mama retorted, her eyes turned crystal-hard.

Daddy kicked a chair and then marched out of the house, slamming the screen door behind him. He wobbled down the steps and tripped on his own feet before making it to the pickup. Mama watched him struggle to get into his truck, gun the engine, grind the gears, and then spit up dirt as he spun the vehicle around and shot off.

"Every time I get to feeling too good for my shoes, I'm reminded how stupid I've been," she muttered. Despair washed the color from her face as she sighed deeply.

"Oh, Mama, this is all my fault," I moaned.

"Your fault? How can any of this be your fault, honey? You didn't go and pick who'd be your daddy, did you?"

"If I cared more about being married, Daddy wouldn't do these things," I wailed. I flopped into a chair, my stomach feeling like a hollowed-out cave.

"Believe me, child. He would do these things anyway, your being married or no. Ain't no rock around that Jack Landry can't crawl out from under," she said. "Pay him no mind. He'll come to his senses and come crawling back, just like he always does." She gazed after him one more time and then went back to work.

But days passed and Daddy didn't return. Mama and I worked and sold our linens, our towels and baskets. In the evenings after dinner, we sat on the galerie and Mama talked about her youth and her mama and papa, whom I had never seen. Sad times always made her nostalgic. We listened to the owls' mournful cries and spotted an occasional night heron. Sometimes there was an automobile going by, and that would make us both anticipate Daddy's return, but it was always someone else, the car's engine drifting into the night, leaving the melancholy thick as corn syrup around us.

I had a lot of time to pole in my canoe in the late afternoons, to sit alone and drift through a canal and think. Through my mind flitted all kinds of dreary thoughts. Virgil Atkins was probably right with his predictions, I concluded. I would die a spinster for sure now, working beside Mama, watching the rest of the world pass by. All the eligible young men would find out about me and no one decent would ever want me. I would never fall in love. Any man who showed any interest in me would show it for only one reason, and once he had his way with me, he would cast me aside as nonchalantly as he cast aside banana peels. Real affection, romance, and love were things to dream about, to read about, but never to know.

Every one of Mama's friends and even people who just stopped by to get Mama's help or buy something we made usually commented about my good looks. It became more and more painful to face them and hear the compliments. Most were surprised I wasn't married or pledged, yet whenever I went to town or to church, it seemed to me that all the respected, decent young men looked through me. I felt invisible and alone. The only place I experienced any contentment was here in the swamp with the wildflowers, with the animals and the birds; but how could I ever share this pleasure with anyone? He would have to have been brought up in the swamps, too, and love it with as much passion as I did. Such a person surely did not exist. I was as lost as a cypress branch, broken, floating, drifting toward nowhere.

Sometimes I lay in the bottom of my canoe and just let the current take me wherever it wanted. I always knew where I ended up and how to get back, but it felt good just floating without purpose or direction, gazing up at the powdery blue sky and the egrets and marsh hawks that glided through the air between me and the clouds. I'd hear the bullfrogs or the bream breaking the surface of the water to feed on insects. Sometimes a curious gator would swim alongside and nudge the canoe; and often I would fall asleep and awaken with the sun down below the tree line, the shadows long and deep over the brackish lake.

This is how I thought my life would be now: a life of drifting, going along with the breeze, uncaring, like a leaf tossing and turning in the wind, indifferent, resigned. I did not understand my destiny or my purpose, but I was tired of the questions and the struggle to find the answers. I didn't take any real interest in how I looked and I avoided talking to people, saying as little as possible to the tourists who came by to make purchases.

My behavior upset Mama. She said the look of age in my eyes pained her heart. Unfairly, my youth had been stolen from me. She blamed herself, telling me that somehow, she, a woman with great spiritual powers, had left her own home and family unprotected. She said she had been too arrogant, thinking the evil eye could never focus on her and her own. Of course, I told her she was wrong, but in my secret, put-away heart, I wondered about these dark mysteries that had a way of weaving themselves into our lives.

Late one day Daddy finally came home, acting as if he had been gone only a few hours. He drove up, hopped out of his truck, and came through the front door whistling. Mama didn't say much to him, but she didn't turn him out, and without any fanfare, she put a plate of food on the table for him. He sat and ate and spoke with animation about some of the tours he had guided, describing the long alligators or the rich flock of geese they hunted. Before he finished eating, he sat back and dug into his pocket to produce a roll of dollars and some change.

"All tips from my rich customers," he boasted. "Get whatever you need," he told Mama, and went on eating. She eyed the money, but didn't touch it until he had left the table. After dinner he sat on the galerie and smoked his pipe. I sat outside, too, and listened as he described some of the wealthy Creoles he had been guiding through the swamp. He talked about them as if they were gods because of the way they threw around their money, and because of the fine clothing, boots, and guns they had.

"One of these days and soon, I mean to take me a trip into New Orleans myself," he told me. "How'dja like to go along, Gabrielle?"

I widened my eyes. I had never actually been to New Orleans proper, never to the Vieux Carré, but I had heard so much about it, I couldn't help but be curious.

"That would be nice, Daddy. We would all go, I suppose."

"Of course we would all go, and in style, too. That's why I don't want to go until I have enough money to do it right, get nice clothes for you and your mama to wear and enough to stay in a fine hotel and eat in the finest, expensive restaurants. And we'll go shopping and buy you and your ma clothes and—"

"And just how do you expect to do that, Jack Landry?" Mama said from behind the screen door. She had been listening to us talk for a few minutes without revealing herself.

Daddy spun around and smiled. "You don't think I can do that, do you, Catherine? It ain't in your crystal ball, no?"

"I just like to be sure you're not filling the girl up with more hot air, Jack. We got enough in the swamp as it is."

Daddy laughed. "Step out and hear, woman," he said. "Feast your ears on the delicious meal of words I'm gonna deliver."

Mama raised her eyebrows, hesitated, and then came out, her arms folded under her bosom.

"I'm out. Deliver."

"I ain't working for Jed Atkins no more," he said, nodding, his face full of excitement.

Mama gazed at me and then back at him. "Oh, is that so? So who are you working for now?"

"Jack Landry," he replied. "I'm working for myself. And why shouldn't I?" he followed quickly. "Why should I be gettin' only a quarter of what Jed gets, huh? I'm the one who does all the work. He just sits on his fat rump and schedules the trips. I got my own pirogue and there's Gabrielle's, and soon we'll get a third. I got my own dock and I got it all up here," he said, pointing to his temple.

"I see," Mama said. "So what are you going to do, put up a sign and hope they come riding by and stop to buy your services?"

"That I'll do, but I've already done more," he said, smiling from ear to ear.

"What more? What do you mean?"

"I been telling some of Jed's customers about myself this past week or so and I give them directions how to get here and I got two trips already scheduled, the first tomorrow morning. There's a party of wealthy Creoles from New Orleans going to be here early. So," he said, putting his thumbs in his vest and pumping out his chest, "meet Jack Landry, businessman."

"What's Jed Atkins say about this?"

"He don't know it all yet. I just told him I ain't coming to work no more." He leaned toward Mama. "I'm givin' them a better deal than he gives them, but I'm making it all. Smart, huh?"

"If you make appointments with people and promise them service, you're going to have to provide it, Jack," Mama warned.

"I will."

"You'll have to stay off the rotgut whiskey, stay away from the zydeco bars and gambling and be home at a decent hour."

"I will. I swear," he said, raising up his right hand. "I'm tired of bein' everyone else's po'boy."

Mama looked hopeful. "Well, if this is true ... Gabrielle and I could cook up some food for the customers. Maybe we could make this into something."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Daddy said, slapping his knee. I couldn't recall seeing him so excited. "With what you can do in that kitchen and with what I can do in the swamp, we could have us a pretty successful little business, no?"

"Maybe," Mama said. "But if I go in there and cook and no one shows tomorrow morning, Jack . . ."

"They'll show, all right." He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "Father and son and two of their friends. Name's Dumas. These rich people tell other rich people and then they come here, too. We're going to be well off," Daddy concluded, "or my name ain't Jack Landry."

"I don't have to go out in the canoe, too, do I, Daddy?" I asked.

"Not if you don't want to, but it would sure be nice to have you along, Gabrielle. You know these swamps better than me."

"I can't stomach seeing men go out there and shoot the animals, Daddy."

He grimaced. "Then don't come along, but don't you go preaching or sayin' anything stupid to them, hear? I don't want them feelin' bad about comin' here, no."

"Can't you just run swamp tours and show people the plants and animals, Daddy? Maybe you can get one of those glass-bottom boats and—"

"No, there ain't as much money in it, and besides, if we don't kill off some of them animals, they'll overrun us. Tell her I'm right, Catherine."

"You let her believe and think what she wants, Jack. Besides, Gabrielle doesn't need me telling her what's right and what's wrong. She knows more in her heart than you think."

"Oh, don't start that mumbo-jumbo on me," Daddy wailed. "I'm trying to make something for this family. No preachin'!" he warned. "I mean it."

He stumped off to check on his canoe and the dock.

"Come on, honey," Mama said, looking after him. "I don't have the power to turn a frog into a prince, but if he's doing honest labor and it keeps him from drinking, we got something better than we had. Sometimes that's all you can hope for," she concluded, and went into the house to start a fresh roux.

Mama was up early the next morning, but Daddy surprised both of us by rising before her and putting up a pot of rich Cajun coffee. The aroma drew both of us downstairs where we found Daddy dressed and ready, wearing his best hunting clothes and clean boots.

"They'll be here in an hour," he predicted. "I patched up the dock and cleaned up my canoe and Gabrielle's. I see you made some beignets. That's good. They're used to that, only yours will be better than anything they get in the city."

"Don't go saying that, Jack. New Orleans is just full of great cooks."

"Yeah, but you're the best in the bayou. Ain't she, Gabrielle?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"I don't need your flattery, Jack."

"Ain't flattery. It's just the truth," Daddy said, winking at me. His excitement was contagious, and despite what work he was doing, I couldn't help but be flooded with delight.

"I'll go get us some wildflowers for the tables outside, Mama," I said, and went off right after having a beignet and coffee myself.

I knew where there was some lush flowering honeysuckle and wild violets as well as hibiscus and blue and pink hydrangeas. This early in the morning billows of fog rolled in over the swamp. As I drew closer to the water, I could hear a bass flapping and a bullfrog falling off a log into the water. Ahead of me a white-tailed doe sprinted through the bushes. It saddened me to think that rich grown men could possibly get pleasure from killing such beautiful creatures. It seemed such a great betrayal, but I knew there was little I could do to stop it, and if I did speak up, Daddy would be enraged. Things would return to being dreadful in our home.

I spent longer than I had intended to spend in the swamp gathering flowers. By the time I started back, Daddy's party of hunters had arrived and were unloading their vehicle near the dock. I paused to watch for a moment. A slim young man, only about an inch or two shorter than Daddy, with thick chestnut hair stepped out from behind the car. Just as he did so, a rice bird landed on my shoulder. It was something they often did. Most birds had no fear of me because I often fed them and spoke softly to them. The young man stared at me with a gentle smile on his lips. I shifted some flowers to my left arm and extended my right for the rice bird to trot down to my wrist before flying away. As usual, his tiny feet tickled and I laughed.

And so did the young man. I could see him asking Daddy about me, and then he looked at me more intently, shaking his head. I glanced shyly at him and continued toward the house. He gazed back at the work going on at the dock before crossing over the grass to meet me halfway.

"Hello," he said. As he drew closer, I saw he had soft green eyes and a slim but firm torso. "When you came walking out of the fog like that, I thought you were some sort of swamp goddess."

"I'm far from being a goddess," I said.

"Not really too far," he replied, his smile spreading from his eyes to his lips. "I've never seen a wild bird land on someone and strut around as if it were on a tree. Does that happen often?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Why aren't they afraid of you?"

"They know I mean them no harm, monsieur."

"Astounding." He shook his head and then he smiled. "My name's Pierre Dumas. Your father told me your name's Gabrielle."

"Oui. I'm just bringing some flowers to our tables," I said, continuing on my way.

"Let me help," he said, following.

"Oh no, I . . . I . . ."

"Please," he insisted, taking a bunch of the violets from my arms.

The sun had already begun to burn through the morning mist, and the grass around the shack glistened with the dew. There was a gentle breeze up from the Gulf and soft puffs of milk white clouds moved lazily across the brightening blue sky. Pierre accompanied me to the tables.

"People stop by for lunch?" he asked. "Is that what these tables are for?"

"Oui, monsieur. We sell bowls of gumbo and we sell cakes and coffee."

"I had some of your beignets already. Delicious."

"Merci, monsieur," I said, moving from one table to the other. He trailed along and I wondered when he would return to the loading of the canoes. Suddenly he just sat himself on a bench to watch me, that small smile on his lips, those green eyes radiant.

"Pardon, monsieur," I said, feeling very self-conscious, "but surely you should get back to the dock."

"I'll tell you a big secret," he said, gazing toward the dock and then at me. "I'm not really much of a hunter. I come along only to please my father."

"Oh?"

"I'm a terrible shot. I always close my eyes before pulling the trigger. I just hate the thought that I might hit something and kill it," he admitted. I smiled.

Mama came out the front door and paused on the galerie when she saw me speaking with Pierre. She was carrying some of our woven blankets in her arms to bring to the stand.

"I must help my mother," I said. "I hope you have a very poor day of hunting," I added, and he laughed.

"Those are very pretty flowers, Gabrielle," Mama said, keeping her gaze fixed on Pierre Dumas. He rose, nodded to her, and walked toward the dock.

"I'll bring out the towels, Mama," I said, and hurried inside, my heart feeling light. It fluttered when I thought about Pierre Dumas's soft green eyes, and it felt as if the tiny rice bird had gotten into my chest.

"So," Mama said when I brought a pile of our goods to the stand, "you were speaking to that nice young man, I see."

"Yes, Mama. He says he doesn't really like to hunt but goes along for his father's sake."

Mama nodded. "I think we have a lot to learn from your animals and birds, Gabrielle. After the babies are nurtured, their parents let them go off and be their own selves."

"Oui, Mama," I said. When I looked up at her, her eyes were wider and bright with curiosity, but she wasn't looking at me. She was gazing over my shoulder toward the dock. I turned and saw Pierre strolling back while Papa and the other men were casting off in the canoes.

"I'll go check on my roux," Mama said, and headed for the house.

"Monsieur," I said, "aren't you going on your swamp hunt?"

"Don't know why," he said, "but I have a little headache and decided to rest instead. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh no, monsieur. I'll speak to my mother about your headache. She's a traiteur, you know."

"Traiteur?"

I explained what she was and what she did.

"Remarkable," he said. "Perhaps I should bring her back to New Orleans with me and set her up in business. I know a great many wealthy people who would seek her assistance."

"My mother would never leave the bayou, monsieur," I said with a deadly serious expression. He laughed. "Nor would I," I added, and his smile faded.

"I don't mean to make fun of you. I'm just amused by your self-assurance. Most young women I know are quite insecure about their beliefs. First they want to check to see what's in style or what their husbands believe before they offer an opinion, if they ever do. So," he said, "you've been to New Orleans?"

"No, monsieur."

"Then how do you know you wouldn't want to live there?"

"I know I could never leave the swamp, monsieur. I could never trade cypress and Spanish moss, the willow trees and my canals, for streets of concrete and buildings of brick and stone."

"You think the swamp is beautiful?" he asked with a smile of incredulity.

"Oui, monsieur. You do not?"

"Well, I must confess I haven't seen much of it, nor have I enjoyed the hunting trips. Perhaps," he added, "if you have the time, you would give me a little tour. Show me why you think it's so nice here."

"But your headache, monsieur," I reminded him.

"It seems to have eased quite a bit. I think I was just nervous about going hunting. I would pay you for your tour, of course," he added.

"I wouldn't charge you, monsieur. What is it you would like me to show you?"

"Show me what you think is beautiful, what gives you this rich look of happiness and fills your face with a glow I know most of the fancy women in New Orleans would die to have."

I felt my cheeks turn crimson. "Please, monsieur, don't tease me."

"I assure you," he said, standing firm, his shoulders back, "I mean every word I say. How about the tour?"

I hesitated.

"It doesn't have to be long. I don't mean to take you away from your work."

"Let me tell my mother," I said, "and then we'll go for a walk along the bank of the canal."

"Merci."

I hurried to the shack to tell Mama what the young man wanted. She thought for a moment.

"Young men from the city often have low opinions of the girls from the bayou, Gabrielle. You understand?"

"Oui, Mama, but I don't think this is true about this young man."

"Be careful and don't be long," she warned. "I haven't looked at him long enough to get a reading."

"I'll be safe, Mama," I assured her.

Pierre was standing with his hands behind his back, gazing over the water.

"I just saw a rather large bird disappear just behind those treetops," he said, pointing.

"It's a marsh hawk, monsieur. If you look more closely, you will see she has a nest there."

"Oh?" He stared. "Oui. I do see it now," he added excitedly.

"The swamp is like a book of philosophy, monsieur. You have to read it, think about it, stare at it, and let it sink in before you realize all that's there."

His eyebrows rose. "You read philosophy?"

"A little, but not as much as I did when I was in school."

"How long ago was that?"

"Three years."

"You're an intriguing woman, Gabrielle Landry," he said.

Once again I felt the heat rise up my neck and into my face. "This way, monsieur," I said, pointing to the path through the tall grass. He followed beside me. "What do you do, monsieur?"

"I work for my father in our real estate development business. Nothing terribly exciting. We buy and sell property, lease buildings, develop projects. Soon there will be a need for low-income housing, and we want to be ready for it," he added.

"There's some very low-income housing," I said, pointing to the grass dome at the edge of the shore. A nutria poked out its head, spotted us, and recoiled. Pierre laughed. I reached out and touched his hand to indicate we should stop.

"What?"

"Be very still a moment, monsieur," I said, "and keep your eyes focused on that log floating against the rock there. Do you see?"

"Yes, but what's so extraordinary about a log that . . . Mon Dieu," he remarked when the log became the baby alligator, its head rising out of the water. It gazed at us and then pushed off to follow the current. "I would have stepped on it."

I laughed just as a flock of geese came around the bend and swooped over the water before turning gracefully to glide over the tops of the cypress trees.

"My father would have blasted them," Pierre commented. We walked a bit farther.

"The swamp has something for every mood," I explained. "Here in the open with the sun reflecting off the water, the lily pads and cattails are thick and rich, but there, just behind the bend, you see the Spanish moss and the dark shadows. I like to pretend they are mysterious places. The crooked and gnarled trees become my fantasy creatures."

"I can see why you enjoyed growing up here," Pierre said. "But these canals are like a maze."

"They are a maze. There are places deep inside where the moss hangs so low, you would miss the entrance to a lake or to another canal. In there you rarely find anything to remind you of the world out here."

"But the mosquitoes and the bugs and the snakes . . ."

"Mama has a lotion that keeps the bugs away, and yes, there are dangers,but, monsieur, surely there are dangers in your world, too."

"And how."

He laughed.

"I have a small pirogue down here, monsieur, just big enough for two people. Do you want to see a little more?"

"Very much, merci."

I pulled my canoe out from the bushes and Pierre got in. "You want me to do the poling?"

"No, monsieur," I said. "You are the tourist."

He laughed and watched me push off and then pole into the current.

"I can see you know what you're doing."

"I've done it so long, monsieur, I don't think about it. But surely you go sailing, n'est-ce pas? You have Lake Pontchartrain. I saw it when I was just a little girl and it looked as big as the ocean."

He turned away and gazed into the water without replying for a moment. I saw his happy, contented expression evaporate and quickly be replaced with a look of deep melancholy.

"I did do some sailing," he finally said, "but my brother was recently in a terrible sailing accident."

"Oh, I'm sorry, monsieur."

"The mast struck him in the temple during a storm and he went into a coma for a long time. He was quite an athletic man and now he's . . . like a vegetable."

"How sad, monsieur."

"Yes. I haven't gone sailing since. My father was devastated by it all, of course. That's why I do whatever I can to please him. But my brother was more of the hunter and the fisherman. Now that my brother is incapacitated, my father is trying to get me to become more like him, but I'm failing miserably, I'm afraid." He smiled. "Sorry to lay the heavy weight of my personal troubles on your graceful, small shoulders."

"It's all right, monsieur. Quick," I said, pointing to the right to help break him from his deeply melancholy mood, "look at the giant turtle."

"Where?" He stared and stared and then finally smiled. "How do you see these animals like that?"

"You learn to spot the changes in the water, the shades of color, every movement."

"I admire you. Despite this backwoods world in which you live, you do appear to be very content."

I poled alongside a sandbar with its sun-dried top and turned toward a canopy of cypress that was so thick over the water, it blocked out the sun. I showed Pierre a bed of honeysuckle and pointed out two white-tailed deer grazing near the water. We saw flocks of rice birds, and a pair of herons, more alligators and turtles. In my secret places, ducks floated alongside geese, the moss was thicker, the flowers plush.

"Does your father take hunters here?" Pierre asked. "No, monsieur." I smiled. "My father does not know these places, and I won't be telling him about them either." Pierre's laughter rolled over the water and a pair of scarlet cardinals shot out of the bushes and over our heads. On the far shore, a grosbeaked heron strutted proudly, taking only a second to look our way.

"It is very beautiful here, mademoiselle. I can understand your reluctance to live anywhere else. Actually, I envy you for the peace and contentment. I am a rich man; I live in a big house filled with beautiful, expensive things, but somehow, I think you are happier living in your swamp, in what you call your toothpick-legged shack."

"Mama often says it's not what you have, it's what has you," I told him, and he smiled, those green eyes brightening.

"She does sound like a woman who can draw from a pool of great wisdom."

"And what of your mother, monsieur?"

"She passed away a little over a year ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"She developed heart trouble soon after my brother Jean's accident, and eventually . . ." He leaned over the pirogue, his hand trailing in the water. Suddenly he pulled it up and sat back. A green snake slithered past. "A moment ago that was a stick. This place is full of all sorts of magic."

I laughed.

"Just Nature's magic. Swamp creatures blend in with their surroundings to survive. Mama says that's true for people, too. If we don't like where we live, if we hate where we are, we will fade away there."

He nodded. "I'm afraid that might be happening to me," he said sadly, and sighed.

I was gazing at him so intently, I didn't pay attention to the direction in which my pirogue was going. We struck a large rock protruding out of the water and the impact caught me off balance. I fell over the side of the canoe and into the water, more surprised than frightened. When I bobbed to the surface, I was again surprised, this time to find Pierre Dumas in the water beside me. He put his arm around my waist to keep me afloat.

"Are you all right?"

I spit out the water, coughed, and nodded. He and I took hold of the side of the pirogue. He got up first and then helped me into the canoe. I caught my breath quickly, but I was still a bit dazed. Of course, we were both soaked to the skin.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, monsieur," I wailed. "Your fine clothes are ruined."

"Hardly, and it wouldn't matter if they were. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but quite embarrassed. This has never before happened to me."

He smiled. "How lucky I am to be here for a first."

I looked down at myself. My blouse was stuck to my bosom, the thin material nearly transparent. His eyes drank me in, too, but for some reason, even though I folded my arms across my exposed bosom, I didn't mind as much as I thought I would.

"I'm soaked to the bone," I moaned, and he laughed. "Mama will be furious, especially when she sees what I have done to you, and my daddy . . ."

"Stop worrying. It's nothing. I'll tell you what," he said, gazing to our right and nodding, "let's land over there by that clearing and sprawl out in the sun to dry for a while. We won't look so bad when we go back," he suggested.

I nodded and started to get up to pole, but he stopped me and took over. When we struck shore, he hopped out and pulled the canoe up before helping me get out. For a moment we stood so close to each other, we could feel each other's breath on our faces. His eyes held mine magnetically.

"My hair's a mess," I said softly.

"You look even more beautiful."

I started to disagree, but he put his finger on my lips and held it there a moment. Then he lifted it away and slowly, but surely, replaced his finger with his lips. It was so gentle a kiss, I could have imagined it, but when I opened my eyes, I saw his eyes were still closed. He looked like he was devouring the sensation with great intensity so as to get every bit of pleasure from it. His eyes opened and he smiled.

"I feel unreal, like I've entered your magical kingdom."

"It's not magical, monsieur, it's . . ."

"Oh yes, it is, and your kiss is the key," he said before kissing me again, this time harder, longer. I let myself sink into his arms, our wet clothing rubbing, the heat of his body caressing my skin, my breasts.

We sank to our knees and he sat back, bracing himself with his hands, his face to the sun.

"I'm not sure which kiss is warmer, the sun's or yours," he muttered with his eyes still closed.

"I don't know how this could have happened. I can pole a canoe better than my daddy can," I said, still ashamed.

"I'm glad it happened," Pierre replied. "Here," he said, lying back and extending his arm. "Just lie back on me and it will be comfortable."

I did as he suggested, my head against his chest, his arm around my shoulder. We lay there silently, our wet clothing steaming in the hot Louisiana midday sun.

"I feel like a Cajun peanut," I muttered after a few moments.

"What's that?"

"Shrimp dried in the hot sun."

He laughed. "You're so full of surprises, every expression, every word, is something unexpected. What a delight. Tell me how it can be that you have not been stolen away and married. Are all the young men blind here?"

I said nothing. The silence was heavy.

"No boyfriend?" Pierre pursued.

"No, monsieur." I sat up.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry," he said quickly.

"I should take you back," I said. "Mama will be angry no matter what."

I started to stand, but he reached out and seized my left wrist.

"I haven't known you long, but somehow, I feel I can be honest with you, and I hope you feel you can be honest with me. There's a pain in your heart. I wish I could remove that pain. I wish I had some of the magic that's in this place."

I sat again. He released my wrist, but took hold of my hand.

"Gabrielle. Your name is like music to me." He took my other hand and gently, but firmly, pulled me closer to him. "You're too beautiful to be unhappy. I won't permit it," he said, and kissed me again. When we parted, he wiped away the fugitive tear that had escaped from under my burning eyelid. "Someone hurt you? Some young man?"

"Not some young man," I said.

"An older man?" I nodded. "He took advantage of you? This happened recently?" he asked, firing one question after another.

"Yes. Often I go into the swamp alone. He came upon me one day and . . ."

"I hope he was made to suffer for it."

"No, monsieur. He is a wealthy man, and wealthy people often escape pain and suffering," I said bitterly.

"That's not true everywhere," Pierre said, and looked down. "At least, it's not true for me."

"Your brother," I said, recalling what he had told me. He nodded.

"There's more. I don't wear the ring all the time," he said, "but . . ."

My heart stopped and then started. "You're married, monsieur?"

With great reluctance, he nodded.

"Oh," I said, as if my heart had turned to lead. For a moment I couldn't breathe. The air seemed even more humid, more tepid.

"But it's not a happy marriage," he said quickly. "We are childless and the doctors say that is the way it will always be. My wife has some difficulties."

Despite the weakness in my legs, I stood up quickly. "We must return to the shack, monsieur. I must help my mother prepare for the day's selling."

"Of course."

"I am sorry I caused this to happen to you. Mama will get your clothing dried quickly. It will be better if we just walk along the bank," I added.

He stood. "Gabrielle. My wife is even more bitter about our marriage than I am. She thinks I think less of her. It's as if a wall has fallen between us these days. A house, a home, a marriage, should be filled with love. Two people should do everything they can to make each other's lives more meaningful, happier; but we are like two strangers sharing coffee these days.

"My heart hasn't felt as light and happy for some time as it did when I first saw you emerge from the fog in the swamp. You are truly like a breath of fresh air. I assure you, I mean it when I say I would do anything in my power to keep sadness from your door."

"Merci, monsieur," I said, but I started to walk away. He followed.

"Gabrielle." He took my hand into his again and I turned. "You felt something special when we kissed, too, didn't you?"

"I do not trust my own feelings anymore, monsieur. Besides," I added, gazing down, "you are married, monsieur. I don't want to go looking for any more trouble; it has a way of finding me itself."

"I understand." He nodded and then smiled. "Can we be friends?"

I shook my head.

"Why not? I'm really a nice guy," he said, smiling. "I'll bring you references."

"I'm sure you are nice, monsieur."

"Then?"

I lifted my gaze to look into his mesmerizing green eyes. "Being friends with you . . . it's like being a starving person in Mama's kitchen and promising only to take a small taste of the shrimp etouffée, monsieur. Why fool yourself into believing the impossible? Once you taste it, you can't help yourself."

He laughed. "Not only beautiful and magical, but wise, too. I'm tormented by the possibility we will never see each other again. You won't turn me away, will you?"

"I'm sure you have fine, well-to-do friends in New Orleans, monsieur. You don't need a poor Cajun girl in the bayou."

"That's exactly what I need," he said as we continued to walk along. He still held on to my hand. "Someone who will tell me the truth and listen with sincerity to what I say. I'll pay you for your time. I know. I'll hire you as my personal swamp guide," he added. "I'm sure there is a great deal more you can show me."

"But, monsieur . . ."

"As long as you don't dunk me in the water every time we go poling," he added.

I couldn't help but laugh.

"That's better. Look at me, soaked but happy. I'm like a little boy again," he said.

His exuberance swept me along. I thought of dozens of reasons to protest and refuse him, but he was too cheerful and too determined.

And something inside me kept me from shutting the door.