Landry 02 Pearl in the Mist Read online

  stairway and be a love sentry."

  I was about to protest, when Beau thanked her.

  He closed the door softly and came to sit beside me on

  the bed and put his arm around my shoulders. "My poor Ruby. You don't deserve this." He

  kissed my cheek. Then he looked around my room

  and smiled. "I remember being in here once before . .

  when you tried some of Gisselle's pot, remember?" "Don't remind me," I said, smiling for the first

  time in a long time. "Except I do remember you were

  a gentleman and you did worry about me."

  "I'll always worry about you," he said. He

  kissed my neck and then the tip of my chin before

  bringing his lips to mine.

  "Oh Beau, don't. I feel so confused and troubled

  right now. I want you to kiss me, to touch me, but I

  keep thinking about why I am here, the tragedy that

  has brought me back."

  He nodded. "I understand. It's just that I can't

  keep my lips off you when I'm this close," he said. "We'll be together again and soon. If you don't

  get up to Greenwood during the next two weeks, I'll

  see you when we return for the holidays."

  "Yes, that's true;" he said, still holding me close

  to him. "Wait until you see what I'm getting you for

  Christmas. We'll have great fun, and we'll celebrate

  New Year's together and--"

  Suddenly the door was thrust open and Daphne

  stood there, glaring in at us.

  "I thought so," she said. "Get out," she told

  Beau, holding up her arm and pointing.

  "Daphne, I. . ."

  "Don't give me any stories or any excuses. You

  don't belong up here and you know it.

  "And as for you," she said, spinning her gaze at

  me, "this is how you mourn the death of your father?

  By entertaining your boyfriend in your room? Have

  you no sense of decency, no self-control? Or does that

  wild Cajun blood run so hot and heavy in your veins,

  you can't resist temptation, even with your father

  lying in his coffin right below you?"

  "We weren't doing anything!" I cried. "We--" "Please, spare me," she said, holding up her

  hand and closing her eyes. "Beau, get out. I used to

  think a great deal more of you, but obviously you're

  just like any other young man.. . . You can't pass up

  the promise of a good time, no matter what the

  circumstances."

  "That's not so. We were just talking, making

  plans."

  She smiled icily. "I wouldn't make any plans

  that included my daughter," she said. "You know how

  your parents feel about your being with her anyway,

  and when they hear about this . . ."

  "But we didn't do anything," he insisted. "You're lucky I didn't wait a few more

  moments. She might have had you with your clothes

  off, pretending to be drawing you again," she said.

  Beau flushed so crimson I thought he would have a

  nosebleed.

  "Just go, Beau. Please," I begged him. He

  looked at me and then started for the door. Daphne

  stepped aside to let him pass. He turned to look back

  once more and then shook his head and hurried away

  and down the stairs. Then Daphne turned back to me. "And you almost broke my heart down there

  before, pleading to have me let you attend the wake . .

  . like you really cared," she added, and closed the

  door between us, the click sounding like a gunshot

  and making my heart stop. Then it started to pound

  and was still pounding when Gisselle opened the door

  a few moments later.

  "Sorry," she said. "I just turned my back for a

  moment to get something, and the next thing I knew,

  she was charging up the stairs and past me." I stared at her. It was on the tip of my tongue to

  ask if the truth wasn't that she really had made herself

  quite visible so Daphne would know she and Beau

  had come up, but it didn't matter. The damage was

  done, and if Gisselle was responsible or not, the result

  was the same. The distance between Beau and me had

  been stretched a little farther by my stepmother, who

  seemed to exist for one thing: to make my life

  miserable.

  Daddy's funeral was as big as any funeral I had

  ever seen, and the day seemed divinely designed for

  it: low gray clouds hovering above, the breeze warm

  but strong enough to make the limbs of the sycamores

  and oaks, willows and magnolias wave and bow along

  the route. It was as if the whole world wanted to pay

  its last respects to a fallen prince. Expensive cars lined

  the streets in front of the church for blocks, and there

  were droves of people, many forced to stand in the

  doorway and on the church portico. Despite my anger

  at Daphne, I couldn't help but be a little in awe of her,

  of the elegant way she looked, of the manner in which

  she carried herself and guided Gisselle and me through the ceremony, from the house to the church to

  the cemetery.

  I wanted so much to feel something intimate at

  the funeral, to sense Daddy's presence, but with

  Daphne's eyes on me constantly and with the

  mourners staring at us as if we were some royal

  family obligated to maintain the proper dignity and

  perform according to their expectations, I found it

  hard to think of Daddy in that shiny, expensive coffin.

  At times, even I felt as if I were attending some sort of

  elaborate state show, a public ceremony devoid of any

  feeling.

  When I did cry, I think I cried as much for

  myself and for what my world and life would now be

  without the father Grandmere Catherine had brought

  back to me with her final revelations. This precious

  gift of happiness and promise had been snatched away

  by jealous Death, who always lingered about us,

  watching and waiting for an opportunity to wrench us

  away from all that made him realize how miserable

  his own destiny was eternally to be. That was what

  Grandmere Catherine had taught me about Death, and

  that was what I now so firmly believed.

  Daphne shed no tears in public. She seemed to

  falter only twice: once in the church, when Father McDermott mentioned that he had been the one to marry her and Daddy; and then at the cemetery, just before Daddy's body was interred in what people from New Orleans called an oven. Because of the high water table, graves weren't dug into the ground, as they were in other places. People were buried above ground in cement vaults, many with their family crests

  embossed on the door.

  Instead of sobbing, Daphne brought her silk

  handkerchief to her face and held it against her mouth.

  Her eyes remained focused on her own thoughts, her

  gaze downward. She took Gisselle's and my hand

  when it was time to leave the church, and once again

  when it was time to leave the cemetery. She held our

  hands for only a moment or two, a gesture I felt was

  committed more for the benefit of the mourners than

  for us.

  Throughout the ceremony, Beau remained back

  with his parents. We barely exchanged glances.

  Relatives from Daphne's side of the
family stayed

  closely clumped together, barely raising their voices

  above a whisper, their eyes glued to our every move.

  Whenever anyone approached Daphne to offer his or

  her final condolences, she took his hands and softly

  said "Merci beaucoup." These people would then turn to us. Gisselle imitated Daphne perfectly, even to the point of intoning the same French accent and holding their hands not a split second longer or shorter than

  Daphne had. I simply said "Thank you," in English. As if she expected either Gisselle or me to say

  or do something that would embarrass her, Daphne

  observed us through the corner of her eye and listened

  with half an ear, especially when Beau and his parents

  approached us. I did hold onto Beau's hand longer

  than I held onto anyone else's, despite feeling as if

  Daphne's eyes were burning holes in my neck and

  head. I was sure Gisselle's behavior pleased her more

  than mine did, but I wasn't there to please Daphne; I

  was there to say my last goodbye to Daddy and thank

  the people who really cared, just as Daddy would

  have wanted me to thank them: warmly, without

  pretension.

  Bruce Bristow remained very close by,

  occasionally whispering to Daphne and getting some

  order from her. When we had arrived at the church, he

  offered to take my place and wheel Gisselle down the

  church aisle. He was there to wheel her out and help

  get her into the limousine and out of it at the

  cemetery. Of course, Gisselle enjoyed the extra

  attention and the tender loving care, glancing up at me

  occasionally with that self-satisfied grin on her lips. The highlight of the funeral came at the very

  end, just as we were approaching the limousine for

  our ride home. I turned to my right and saw my half

  brother, Paul, hurrying across the cemetery. He broke

  into a trot to reach us before we got into the car. "Paul!" I cried. I couldn't contain my surprise

  and delight at the sight of him. Daphne pulled herself

  back from the doorway of the limousine and glared

  angrily at me. Others nearby turned as well. Bruce

  Bristow, who was preparing to transfer Gisselle from

  her chair into the car, paused to look up when Gisselle

  spoke.

  "Well, look who's come at the last moment,"

  she said.

  Even though it had only been months, it seemed

  ages since Paul and I had seen each other. He looked

  so much more mature, his face firmer. In his dark blue

  suit and tie, he appeared taller and wider in the

  shoulders. The resemblances in Paul's, Gisselle's, and

  my face could be seen in his nose and cerulean eyes,

  but his hair, a mixture of blond and brown--what the

  Cajuns called chatin--was thinner and very long. He

  brushed back the strands that had fallen over his

  forehead when he broke into a trot to reach me before

  I got into the limousine.

  Without saying a word, he seized me and

  embraced me.

  "Who is this?" Daphne demanded. The final

  mourners who were leaving the cemetery turned to

  watch and listen, too.

  "It's Paul," I said quickly. "Paul Tate." Daphne knew about our half brother, but she

  refused to acknowledge him or ever make any

  reference to him. She had no interest in hearing about

  him the one time he had come to see us in New

  Orleans. Now she twisted her mouth into an ugly

  grimace.

  "I am sorry for your sorrow, madame," he said.

  "I came as quickly as I could," he added, turning back

  to me when she didn't respond. "I didn't find out until

  I called the school to speak with you and one of the

  girls in your dorm told me. I got into my car right

  away and drove straight to the house. The butler gave

  me directions to the cemetery."

  "I'm glad you've come, Paul," I said.

  "Can we all get into the car and go home,"

  Daphne complained, "or do you intend to stand in a

  cemetery and talk all day?"

  "Follow us to the house," I told him, joining Gisselle. "He looks very handsome," she whispered after we were seated. Daphne just glared at the two of

  us.

  "I don't want any more visitors in the house

  today," Daphne declared when we turned into the

  Garden District. "Visit with your half brother outside

  and make it short. I want the two of you to start

  packing your things to return to school tomorrow." "Tomorrow?" Gisselle cried.

  "Of course, tomorrow."

  "But that's too soon. We should stay home at

  least another week out of respect for Daddy." Daphne smiled wryly. "And what would you do

  with this week? Would you sit and meditate, pray and

  read? Or would you be on the telephone with your

  friends, having them come over daily?"

  "Well, we don't have to turn into nuns because

  Daddy died," Gisselle retorted.

  "Precisely. You'll go back to Greenwood

  tomorrow and resume your studies. I've already made

  the arrangements," Daphne said.

  Gisselle folded her arms under her breasts and

  sat back in a sulk. "We should run away," she

  muttered. "That's what we should do."

  Daphne overheard and smiled. "And where would you run to, Princess Gisselle? To your halfwitted uncle Jean in the institution?" she asked, glancing at me. "Or would you join your sister and return to the paradise in the swamps, to live with

  people who have crawfish shells stuck in their teeth?" Gisselle turned away and gazed out the

  window. For the first time all day, tears flowed from

  her eyes. I wished I could think it was because she

  really missed Daddy now, but I knew she was crying

  simply because she was frustrated with the prospect of

  returning to Greenwood and having her visit with her

  old friends cut short.

  When we arrived at the house, she was too

  depressed even to visit with Paul. She let Bruce put

  her into the chair and take her in without saying

  another word to me or to Daphne. Daphne gazed back

  at me from the doorway when Paul drove in behind

  us.

  "Make this short," she ordered. "I'm not fond of

  all sorts of Cajuns coming to the house." She turned

  her back on me and went inside before I could

  respond.

  I went to Paul as soon as he emerged from his

  vehicle and threw myself into his comforting arms.

  Suddenly, all the sorrow and misery I had been containing within the confines of my battered heart broke free. I sobbed freely, my shoulders shaking, my face buried in his shoulder. He stroked my hair and kissed my forehead and whispered words of consolation. Finally I caught my breath and pulled back. He had a handkerchief ready and waiting to

  wipe my cheeks, and he let me blow my nose. "I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't help it, but I

  haven't really been able to cry for Daddy since I came

  home from school. Daphne's made things so hard for

  all of us. Poor Paul," I said, smiling through my tearsoaked eyes. "You have to be the one to endure my

  flood of tears."

  "No. I'm glad I was here to bring you any

  comfort. It must have been horrible. I remember your

  father well. He
was so young and vibrant when I last

  saw him, and he was very kind to me, a real Creole

  gentleman. He was a man with class. I understood

  why our mother would have fallen in love with him so

  deeply."

  "Yes. So did I." I took his hand and smiled. "Oh

  Paul, it's so good to see you." I looked at the front

  door and then turned back to him. "My stepmother

  won't let me have visitors in the house," I said,

  leading him to a bench over which was an arch of roses. "She's sending us back to Greenwood

  tomorrow," I told him after we had sat down. "So soon?"

  "Not soon enough for her," I said bitterly. I took

  a deep breath. "But don't let me focus only on myself.

  Tell me about home, about your sisters, everyone." I sat back and listened as he spoke, permitting

  myself to fall back through time. When I lived in the

  bayou, life was harder and far poorer, but because of

  Grandmere Catherine, it was much happier. Also, I

  couldn't help but miss the swamp, the flowers and the

  birds, even the snakes and alligators. There were

  scents and sounds, places and events I recalled with

  pleasure, not the least of which was the memory of

  drifting in a pirogue toward twilight, with nothing in

  my heart but mellow contentment. How I wished I

  was back there now.

  "Mrs. Livaudais and Mrs. Thirbodeaux are still

  going strong," he said. "I know they miss your

  grandmere." He laughed. It sounded so good to my

  ears. "They know I've kept in contact with you,

  although they don't come right out and say so. Usually

  they wonder aloud in my presence about Catherine

  Landry's Ruby."

  "I miss them. I miss everyone."

  "Your grandpere Jack is still living in the house

  and still, whenever he gets drunk, which is often,

  digging holes and looking for the treasure he thinks

  your grandmere buried to keep from him. I swear, I

  don't know how he stays alive. My father says he's

  part snake. His skin does look like he's been through a

  tannery, and he comes slithering out of shadows and

  bushes when you least expect him."

  "I almost ran away and returned to the bayou," I

  confessed.

  "If you ever do . . . I'll be there to help you,"

  Paul said. "I'm working as a manager in our canning

  factory now," he added proudly. "I make a good

  salary, and I'm thinking of building my own house." "Oh Paul, really?" He nodded. "Have you met