"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing. I'll be fine," I said, and quickly wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. He stood there staring.
"It was this, wasn't it?" he said, bringing the newspaper around from behind his back. "I found it where you dropped it in the hallway. You don't have to answer," he followed quickly, his face red with frustration and fury. "I know how much you still love him."
"Paul. . ."
"No, I realize it's not something I can make disappear with my money. I can build you a house twice as big as this one on twice as much acreage and fill it with things ten times as expensive and you will still mope about, dreaming of Beau Andreas." He sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling. "I thought I could substitute devotion and security for romantic love, but I was a fool to think so. Mother was right after all," he moaned.
"I'm over it, Paul," I said determinedly. "He's married my sister and that's that."
His face brightened. "That's the way you should feel," he said, nodding. "He didn't come for you and the baby while you were living here in your grandmere's shack, did he?"
"No," I said sadly.
"And he never even inquired about your wellbeing afterward. He's just as self-centered as your sister. They belong together. I'm right, aren't I?"
I nodded reluctantly.
He smirked. "But that doesn't mean you don't love him, does it?" he asked in a tired and defeated tone of voice.
"Love is something . . . you can't control sometimes," I said.
"I know," he replied. "I'm glad you think so, too." We stared at each other for a moment. Then he put the newspaper on the dresser and left.
I sat by my window thinking that Paul and I had more in common now than ever before. Both of us were in love with people we couldn't love the way we wanted to, the way we should love. I sighed just as deeply as he had sighed and then I took the newspaper and threw it in the nearest garbage can.
Despite Paul's and my desperate attempts to cheer each other up, a pall fell over Cypress Woods during the days that followed. The shadows seemed darker and longer, and the rain more persistent, heavier, gloomier than ever. I retreated to my work. I wanted to leave the real world and live in the world I was creating with my paintings. I continued painting the series of pictures of the Confederate soldier and his lover, but my next painting was a very melancholy one. In it I depicted the soldier being carried out of the wooded battlefield on a stretcher. He looked like Beau, of course, and on his lips one could almost read his call for me. . . Ruby. He had that far-off, dreamy look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who had focused on the woman he loved with all his strength, knowing that in moments the light would go out and he would lose her face, her voice, the scent of her hair and the touch of her lips, in the darkness forever and ever.
I actually sobbed while I painted, the tears dripping off my cheeks, and when I was finished, I sat in the window seat and gazed out at the canals, embracing myself and crying like a baby.
My next picture depicted his lover getting the terrible news. Her face was twisted with agony, her hands wrenching a handkerchief in them while a pocket watch he had given her dangled from her fingers. The messenger looked just as sad as she did, with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.
I did both pictures in darker shades and had the Spanish-moss-laden cypress either in the background or off to the side. I decided to paint the outline of gleeful Death in the cobweblike strands.
When Paul saw the pictures the first time, he said nothing. His eyes narrowed and then he walked to the window and gazed out over our beautifully landscaped gardens and hedges toward the canals where we used to pole in a pirogue together and talk about the sort of man and woman we wanted to be when we were adults living on our own.
"I've put you in a different sort of prison," he said sadly. "I've done a terrible thing."
"No you haven't, Paul. You've only tried to do the best things for Pearl and me. Don't blame yourself for anything. I won't hear of it."
He turned around, his face darker and more despondent than I had ever seen it.
"I wanted only for you to be happy, Ruby."
"I know that," I said, smiling.
"But I feel like the man who captured the beautiful mockingbird and put it in a cage in his house, giving it the best things to eat and the most loving attention he could. Even so, he woke up one morning and found it had died of a broken heart, its eyes turned toward the window and the freedom it had known and needed. It's true, you can love too much."
"I don't mind being loved too much," I said. "Please, Paul, I don't want you to be sad because of anything I say or do. I'll throw these pictures away."
"Oh no. They are some of your best work. Don't you dare!" he exclaimed. "You're going to become famous because of this series."
"It's almost more important to you than it is to me that I become a well-known artist, isn't it?" I asked.
"Of course. 'Wild Cajun artist captures the minds and imaginations of the sophisticated art world," " he announced, and drew the headlines in the air.
I laughed.
"Let's have a nice dinner tonight, a special dinner, and then go listen to some zydeco music. We haven't done that for quite a while," he suggested.
"Fine."
"Oh," he said on the way out, "did I tell you? I bought some more property this morning."
"What property?"
"All the land south of us to the canals. We're now the biggest landowners in all Terrebone Parish. Not bad for two swamp rats, huh?" he said proudly. He laughed and went down to tell Letty to do something special for us for dinner. Just before I went down to dinner, however, I received a phone call from Gisselle.
"I've been waiting for you to call me," she began, "to congratulate me on my marriage."
"Congratulations," I said.
"Sounds like sour grapes."
"It's not. If Beau wanted to marry you and you wanted to marry him, then I wish you both health and happiness."
"We're the most exciting couple in New Orleans again, you know. Everyone's inviting us to dinner parties, and when we walk into restaurants, everyone stops eating to watch us take our seats. We're a very handsome couple and quite famous. Our names and pictures are always in the society pages. Beau says we should attend as many charity functions as we can. It looks good and he feels he's doing something important. I don't mind, although I can't remember one from the other, so don't ask me."
"What is Beau doing?" I asked as casually as I could.
"Doing? What do you mean?"
"With his life. He once wanted to be a doctor, remember?"
"Oh, he's too busy looking after my affairs now. He's a businessman and he'll make more money than he would being a doctor anyway. And don't say he's too young. Look at how well Paul has done," she added quickly.
"He used to talk about helping people, healing people, and how rewarding he thought that might be," I said sadly.
"So? Now he's helping and healing me, and that's quite rewarding for him, too," Gisselle responded. "Well, I've got to go. We have so many affairs to attend, I'm running out of clothes to wear. I have an appointment with a designer later. I think I should be wearing originals, don't you? Of course, you're lucky. The only place you have to go is some shack bar and restaurant, so you don't have to worry about looking stylish. Say hello to Paul. 'Bye," she sang, and hung up the phone.
I felt like smashing my receiver against the wall, but swallowed back the knot of frustration in my throat and hung up gently. Then I took a deep breath and went to join Paul, driving Gisselle's voice and words as far down into the basement of my thoughts as I could.
But a week later, Paul came up to my studio to tell me Beau had just phoned.
"He says your attorneys have completed all the work on the estate and he would like to meet with us to go over everything. I thought it would be convenient to have them come here."
"Here? You invited them to Cypress Woods?"
"Yes. Why? Are you u
pset about it?"
"No, I'm not upset. I . . Wait until he mentions it to Gisselle," I said. "He'll be calling back," I assured him.
But Beau didn't call back. He and Gisselle were coming and Beau would finally set eyes on his own daughter.
They drove up in Daddy's Rolls-Royce. I was pruning in the rose garden, doing everything and anything I could to keep busy and keep from thinking. Mrs. Flemming was on the other side of the house with Pearl. I had made sure that Pearl was dressed in one of her prettiest outfits and her hair was brushed and tied with a little pink bow. Of course, Mrs. Flemming didn't know who Beau really was, but she could tell from my excitement and nervousness that he was a special visitor.
Paul had gone to the cannery for what he promised was only a short visit, but he had not yet returned when I heard the car horn and turned to see the familiar luxurious automobile make its way up our long driveway. I took off my gloves and walked out to greet them.
"Where are your servants?" Gisselle demanded haughtily. "They should be right here when a guest arrives."
"Things aren't as formal in the bayou, Gisselle," I said. I turned to Beau. "Hello, Beau, how are you?"
"Fine," he said. "This is . . . magnificent. Gisselle's descriptions didn't do it justice," he added, looking around and nodding. "It's one of those places you have to see for yourself to really appreciate. I can see why you're happy here, Ruby," he added.
"Of course she's happy. She has a modern home and yet she lives in her beloved swamp," Gisselle said. James appeared in the doorway. "That's your butler, right? What's his name?"
"James," I said.
"James," she called immediately. "Will you get our bags from the trunk? I need to freshen up as soon as possible. The long ride and the swamp heat has turned my hair into steel wool."
James gazed at me and I nodded.
"Very well, madame," he said. I had already told him which guest room they would be using.
"I can't wait to be shown around," Beau said, his eyes fixed on me.
"I've seen the place," Gisselle said. "So I'll go right to our suite. We do have a suite, don't we?"
"Of course," I said. "Right this way."
"We'll be here just one night. Beau has brought all the paperwork and documents for you to sign, right, Beau?" "Yes," he said, his eyes still fixed on me.
"I want to get it over with as soon as possible so I don't have to make any more trips out to the swamps," she added, reprimanding Beau with a sharp look.
"We'll do whatever we have to do to move things along to everyone's satisfaction, I'm sure," I said.
"You sound just like Daphne. Doesn't she, Beau? Don't become a snobby rich woman, dear sister," she warned, and then threw her head back to laugh. I looked at Beau, who smiled softly and shook his head.
"All right, James. Lead the way," Gisselle commanded, and we all walked into the house.
Beau exclaimed his awe at the size of the foyer, the woodwork and the chandeliers. The more he complimented me on the house, the more irritated Gisselle grew.
"You have been in finer houses in the Garden District, Beau. I don't know why you're pretending to be so impressed."
"I'm not pretending, cherie," he said softly. "You must give Ruby and Paul credit for building a very dramatic house in the bayou."
"Don't you just love it when he uses French?" Gisselle squealed. "All right. I'll admit this is quite a shack," she said, and laughed. "James? Where is he?"
"Waiting for you with your things at the top of the stairway, Gisselle," I said, nodding toward it.
"Oh. Don't you have a maid, too?"
"All of my servants will be at your beck and call," I assured her. She smirked and started up the stairway.
"It is a beautiful house in a beautiful location," Beau said.
We stared at each other for a moment, silence thicker than fog coming between us.
"Let me bring you to . . . Pearl," I said softly. His eyes brightened with anticipation. I led him out to the patio, where Mrs. Flemming had Pearl playing in a playpen.
"Mrs. Flemming, this is my brother-in-law, Beau Andreas," I said quickly.
"How do you do?" Beau extended his hand, his eyes really riveted on Pearl.
"Pleased to meet you," Mrs. Flemming said.
"And this is Pearl," I murmured. He was already moving toward her. He knelt down by the playpen, and she stopped fiddling with her toy to look into his face. Could one so tiny and young recognize her true father? Did she see something in his eyes, something of herself instantly? Unlike her curious look at other people that usually died in a flash, she studied Beau and formed a tiny smile on her diminutive lips, and when he reached over to lift her out of the playpen, she didn't cry. He kissed her cheek and hair, and she reached out to touch his hair and his face as if she wanted to be sure he wasn't a dream.
I couldn't keep the tears from filling my eyes, but I blinked them back before they could spill over my lids. Beau turned toward me, his face radiant.
"She's beautiful," he whispered. I bit down on my lower lip and nodded. Then I gazed at Mrs. Flemming, who was staring with great interest, a faint smile in her face. Her age and her wisdom were giving her signals that confused and intrigued her, I was sure.
"She likes you a great deal, monsieur," Mrs. Flemming said.
"I have a way with young women," Beau teased, and put Pearl back into her playpen. She began to cry instantly, which brought a look of astonishment to Mrs. Flemming's face.
"Now, behave, Pearl," I chastised gently. "I want to show Uncle Beau the house."
Without another word I led him toward the pool and the cabana.
"Ruby," he said after we were sufficiently away. "You did such a wonderful thing. She's more precious than I ever could have imagined. No wonder Paul is so taken with her. She looks just like you."
"No, she has more of your features," I insisted. "Here, as you can see, is our pool. Paul wants to build a tennis court over there next month. We have a dock on the canal over there," I said, pointing. Only by talking and concentrating on other things could I keep myself from bursting out in tears. But Beau wasn't listening.
"Why didn't I battle with my parents? Why didn't I run away, too? I should have fled to the bayou with you and started a new life."
"Beau, don't talk foolishness. What would you have done? Sat on the roadside and sold handicrafts with me?"
"I would have gotten an honest man's work. Maybe I would have ended up working for Paul's family or a shrimp fisherman or. . ."
"When there is a baby, a real, live infant, you can't live in a fantasy world," I said, perhaps too harshly and cruelly. Beau swallowed back his dream words and nodded.
"Yes, you're right. Of course."
"Do you want to see my studio here?" I asked quickly. "Very much. Please."
I led him around to the stairway. As we ascended, I rattled on an on about Paul's businesses, the way some state politicians had been courting him, not only for contributions but for a possible political office someday.
"You're very proud of Paul, aren't you?" Beau said at the entrance to my studio.
"Yes, Beau. He was always a very mature young man, years ahead of others his age, and he is an astute businessman. Most importantly, he is devoted to Pearl and me and would do anything to make us happy," I said as I opened the door to my studio.
"I've been buying some of your paintings, you know. I keep them in what is now my office," he said. "I start every day gazing at something of yours."
"As you can see," I said, ignoring his words, "I have a wonderful view of the canals and the grounds from up here."
He looked out the window and nodded. "Now that I see what you look out on every day, I will be able to conjure you more vividly every morning."
"This is my newest series of work," I said, pretending I didn't hear these words either. "My Confederate soldier series."
Beau studied the pictures. "They're
magnificent," he said. "I must have them. The whole se
ries. How much?"
I laughed. "I'm not finished yet, Beau, and I have no idea what they're going to be worth. Probably a lot less than we imagine."
"Probably a lot more. When will you take them to New Orleans?"
"Within the month," I replied.
"Ruby," he said with such force and emotion, I had to turn to look into his eyes this time. He seized my hands and held them in his. "I must explain why I married Gisselle. I had to find a way to stay close to you although I had lost you. Despite the way she behaves, she has her quiet, intimate moments when she resembles you more than you can imagine. She's a very frightened and lonely girl who tries to cover it up by acting snobby and by being selfish. But she's selfish only because she's afraid she will have nothing, no one to love her.
"When she's like that, I think of you. I feel I am holding you in my arms, comforting you, kissing the tears off your cheeks and kissing your closed eyelids. I've even gotten her to wear your favorite perfumes so when I close my eyes, I see only you in my thoughts."
"Beau, thats wrong."
"I know it is. Now I know," he agreed. "She's not stupid. She senses it, too, but she has been willing to put up with it. Until recently, that is. She's . . . reverting to her old self quickly, throwing off the finer things she has learned and the better habits and behavior as if it were spare weight on a sinking ship. She's started drinking excessively again, inviting her old, degenerate friends back for late night parties. . . ." He shook his head. "It's not what I thought it would be. I can't make her into you," he confessed, and then he lifted his eyes to me, "but maybe I don't have to anymore."
"What do you mean, Beau?"
"I've taken an apartment off Dumaine Street in the French Quarter. Gisselle knows nothing about it. I want you to meet me there when you come into New Orleans."
"Beau!" I said, pulling my hands from his and stepping back in astonishment.