Landry 05 Tarnished Gold Read online

  And something inside me kept me from shutting the door.

  11

  The Hidden Ring

  .

  "What happened?" Mama asked the moment

  she set eyes on us.

  "A little accident, Madame Landry," Pierre

  replied quickly, before, I had a chance to explain. "It's

  no one's fault, or if it is anyone's fault, it's mine. I was

  talking so much and asking so many questions,

  Gabriel was distracted while we were in her canoe." "You turned your canoe over in the canal?"

  Mama asked me with surprise. She knew how expert I

  was at poling a pirogue.

  "No, Mama. I hit a rock while we were in the

  small pirogue and I fell out."

  She was nonplussed for a moment, her eyes

  shifting from Pierre to me.

  "Go change," she ordered me. She turned back

  to Pierre. "I have some clean, dry clothes for you to

  put on, monsieur. One moment."

  "Please, don't go to any trouble," Pierre said,

  but Mama was already off to fetch the clothing. Pierre

  gazed at me and shrugged.

  "Gabriel!" Mama called from the stairway. "Coming, Mama." I hurried up behind her. "How did such a thing happen, Gabriel?" she

  demanded in a loud whisper.

  "Just the way he described, Mama. I wasn't

  paying attention and I poled us right into a rock. I lost

  balance and fell overboard."

  "How did he get soaked, too?"

  "He jumped in to help me."

  "He jumped in?"

  "Oui, Mama."

  She stared at me a moment and then shook her

  head. "Change your clothes," she said.

  By the time I came downstairs, Mama had

  Pierre dressed in Daddy's best pair of slacks and one

  of his best shirts. He was barefoot while Mama dried

  his shoes and socks, pants and shirt, on the stove. His

  underpants were hanging on the line in the sun. He

  looked up at me from the plank table in the kitchen.

  He had an impish grin and appeared to be positively

  enjoying every moment of my disaster. Before him on

  the table was a mug of steaming Cajun coffee and a

  bowl of gumbo.

  "Our unexpected swim has made me

  ravenously hungry," he explained. "And I am glad of

  that because this is absolutely the most delicious

  shrimp gumbo I've ever eaten. So you see . . . at the

  end of every storm, there is some sort of rainbow." I started to smile, but Mama raised her

  eyebrows.

  "Sit down," she directed, "and get some

  nourishment in your stomach, too. Honestly, Gabriel,

  how could you take Monsieur Dumas into the swamp

  to show him a pond filled with alligators and snapping

  turtles and snakes and then be so careless as to fall out

  of your canoe?"

  "I didn't take him to any pond filled with

  alligators, Mama."

  Pierre's smile widened. Just as I sat, we heard a

  car horn. "Customers," Mama said.

  "I'll get my own gumbo, Mama. Thank you." She gave us a once-over, her eyes filled with

  suspicion and reprimand, before hurrying out to the

  stand.

  "Your mother's wonderful," Pierre said. "The

  sort of woman who takes command. I was afraid to

  say no to anything."

  "When you leave, she will bawl me out for

  endangering a rich gentleman from New Orleans," I

  told him, and dipped into the black cast-iron pot to

  ladle out some gumbo for myself. I, too, was suddenly

  starving.

  "I eat in the finest restaurants in New Orleans,

  but I don't think I ever enjoyed a meal more," he said,

  gazing around the small kitchen. "My cook has a

  kitchen to rival the best restaurants, and your mother

  does so much with so little."

  "Where do you live in New Orleans,

  monsieur?" "Please, call me Pierre, Gabriel. I live in

  what's known as the Garden District."

  "What is it?"

  "The Garden District? Well, it began as the area

  for the rich Americans when New Orleans became

  part of the U.S.A. These people were not accepted by

  the French Quarter Creoles, so they developed their

  own lavish neighborhood. My grandfather got our

  property in a foreclosure and decided we weren't

  above living there. Elegant gardens visible from the

  street give this section of the city its name. Tourists

  visit, but there are no buses permitted. There are some

  famous houses in the Garden District, such as the

  Payne-Strachan House. Jefferson Davis, president of

  the Confederacy, died there in 1889.

  "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound like a tour

  guide," he said, laughing at his own enthusiasm. "Is your house very big?"

  He nodded.

  "Is it bigger than any house you've seen in the

  bayou?" He nodded again.

  "How big is your house?" I demanded, and he

  laughed. "It's a two-story Grecian with two galleries

  in front. think there are fourteen or fifteen rooms." "You think? You live in a house so big you're

  not sure of how many rooms?"

  "It's fifteen," he said. Then he paused. "Maybe

  sixteen. I don't know if I should count the cook's

  quarters as one room or two. And of course, there's

  the ballroom."

  "Ballroom? In a house?"

  "We have some rooms that haven't been used

  for anything yet. If I count them, too . . ."

  "Mon Dieu! Is there much land around it?" "We have some outbuildings, a stable, a pool,

  and a tennis court. I never measured it, but I bet it's

  over an acre of land."

  "You have a stable in the city?" He nodded.

  "Are you the richest family in New Orleans?" I

  wondered, wide-eyed.

  He laughed. "Hardly. In this section there are a

  number of large estates like ours."

  "How tiny and poor our shack must seem to

  you," I said, gazing down as ashamedly as someone

  caught with holes in the soles of her shoes.

  "But how large and rich it is because you live in

  it," he replied. I blushed and continued eating, feeling

  his eyes constantly on me.

  "Perhaps one day you will visit New Orleans,"

  he said. "Daddy says he will take us as soon as he

  earns enough money to take us in style."

  "Of course. New Orleans is a city to which you

  should go in style," Pierre said. "As for earning

  enough money . . . I expect he will have my father for

  a steady customer. He is impressed with your father's

  knowledge of the swamp."

  "My daddy is the best Cajun guide in the

  bayou. When I was little, he taught me about the

  animals and he showed me how to pole a pirogue." "Did you fall out then?" Pierre asked with a

  wide grin. "No, monsieur. I'm sorry. Really, I don't

  know how that happened. I . . ."

  "I'm only teasing you, Gabriel." He reached

  across the table to put his hand over mine. "I can't

  think of when my heart felt more filled with happiness

  than it is at this moment," he added. His words were

  so sincere and yet so overwhelming, they took my

  breath away.

  "I must help Mama," I said, my voic
e cracking.

  "Fine. I'll help too."

  "You, monsieur? Selling our wares to the

  tourists?" I started to laugh at the prospect.

  "I happen to be a crackerjack salesman," he

  said, feigning indignation. "Why, just last week I sold

  a building worth nearly two million."

  "Dollars?"

  "Oui, "he said, smiling at my look of

  amazement. "I wish Daphne was as impressed and as

  appreciative," he added, and then regretted it quickly. "Daphne is your wife?"

  "Oui," he said.

  I rose to put my bowl in the sink. He did the

  same and for a moment, stood right behind me, so

  close I could feel his breath on my hair. My heart

  thumped. His hands went to my waist.

  "Gabriel, I feel something truly magical with

  you. I can't deny or ignore it."

  "You must, monsieur. Please," I said, afraid to

  turn.

  "I must see you again, that's what I must do,

  even if it's only to chat. Surely you will turn my

  grayest days to blue sky. And," he said, forcing me to

  turn so I faced him, "I will fill your heart with

  happiness. I promise."

  I started to shake my head, but he brought his

  lips to mine to kiss me gently.

  I broke away. "I must help Mama," I muttered,

  and charged out the front door.

  Mama had two couples at the stand, the women

  going through our linens and towels, the men off to

  the side smoking and talking.

  "Gabriel, fetch those pillowcases we wove day

  before yesterday, please," she said the moment she

  heard me approaching.

  "Oui, Mama."

  Pierre stepped out on the gallery as I hurried

  back and into the house, passing him without a word.

  When I returned to the stand, Pierre was conversing

  with the men, getting them interested in buying jars of

  swamp insects.

  "They'll make great conversation pieces on

  your desks in your offices. Not something easily

  acquired in the city, n'est-ce pas?" he told them. They agreed and bought two jars apiece to add

  to the items their wives had taken. When they left,

  Mama thanked Pierre for making the sale.

  "It's nothing, madame, but it was more fun than

  being in the canoe hunting," he added. Mama smiled.

  He asked her about some of her herbs and listened as she described how to use them and what they would cure. I could see he was very impressed with her. He

  decided to buy a variety of herbs himself.

  "We have a cook who's very much into this sort

  of thing herself," he explained. He flashed a smile at

  me. Mama returned to the house to bring out some

  other items, happy at how well the day's sales were

  going.

  Pierre sat in the rickety old cypress chair Daddy

  had made years ago and, at my request, described his

  mansion in New Orleans in greater detail. I sat on the

  grass at his feet. Nearby, curious gray squirrels

  squinted and waited to see what we were about and if

  there would be any crumbs.

  "You have beautiful wildflowers here, but on

  our estate, our garden walls enclose huge banana trees

  and drip with purple bugle vine. In the morning I

  wake to the scent of blooming camellias and

  magnolia, and the streets of the district are under a

  canopy of oak."

  "It does sound like you live in a beautiful place,

  too."

  "It's beautiful and quiet, but minutes away by

  streetcar is the bustling city," he said with visible

  excitement in his eyes. I listened, enchanted as he described the art galleries, the museums, the grand restaurants, and the famous French Quarter where the jazz musicians played and people sat in coffee stalls

  drinking cafe au lait.

  "The French Quarter is really more Spanish

  than French, you know. All of the buildings that date

  from colonial times are Spanish in design and

  architecture. And the so-called French market is

  Spanish from foundation to chimney pots."

  He knew a great deal about the history of New

  Orleans and enjoyed having so attentive an audience

  as me and, later, Mama. In fact, he ended up talking

  more with her about Louisiana's history than he did

  with me.

  Late in the afternoon, the hunting party

  returned. Pierre's father had more than two dozen

  ducks, as did their friends. Before they reached the

  dock to disembark the pirogues, Pierre went into the

  shack and retrieved his clothing. Mama had ironed

  everything, as well as dried it, and it looked at least as

  good as it had been.

  "No reason to tell your father about our spill

  into the canal," Pierre whispered to me as the men

  shouted from the dock. I nodded. I knew Mama

  wouldn't say anything.

  Even in his hunting clothing, Pierre's father

  looked the distinguished gentleman with his full head

  of stark white hair and his matching goatee. His

  cheeks and forehead were pink from the sun,

  deepening the wrinkles around his bright, emerald

  green eyes. I guessed from the expression on Daddy's

  face that he was giving Daddy a sizable tip. He then

  gazed at me for a long moment before approaching

  Pierre.

  "How's your headache, son? Did you try some

  of Madame Landry's secret potions or," he added,

  smiling in my direction, "find another way to cure

  yourself?"

  "I'm fine, Father," Pierre replied curtly. "I see

  you did well."

  "Excellent. We've already booked another trip

  with Jack. Think you might be up to it next time,

  Pierre?" he asked, still with that demonic grin on his

  handsome face. Pierre blushed and turned away.

  Before they left, Pierre thanked Mama for hen,

  hospitality, and she thanked him for the purchases he

  had made. Daddy was busy with his gear at the dock,

  so he didn't see Pierre approach me to say good-bye. "I had a wonderful day. I mean it," he said,

  pressing my hand in his. "I will be back sooner than

  my father thinks," he added, "or you, for that matter." "Please, Monsieur Dumas. You should not. . ."

  "Watch for me," he said with a twinkle in his eyes,

  "where and when you would least expect to see me." He hurried to join his father and their friends in

  their big limousine and rolled down the window to

  wave as they pulled away. Mama, who had just sold

  something to another traveler, stepped up beside me. "He's a very nice young man," she said. "But

  he's married, Gabriel," she added in a dark voice. "I know," I said sadly. "He told you?" "No."

  "Then how did you know, Mama?"

  "When I put his pants on the stove to dry, I felt

  the wedding ring in his pocket and gave it to him to

  hold with his other things. A man who takes off his

  wedding ring so easily does not wear it so well," she

  commented.

  "Beware of him, Gabriel," she said softly. "He

  has an unhappy heart, and unhappiness is too often

  contagious," she said. She went to speak to Daddy and

  left me trembling a little as I gazed after Pierre's


  limousine, his beautiful words falling away like

  teardrops in the wind.

  Weeks passed and Pierre Dumas began to fade, his face pressed to my memory like some embossed cameo to cherish deep in my heart, but never to see or feel again. At night I would fantasize about him, think of him as I would my dream lover, the ghost who emerged from the swamp to win my heart even though I knew the price I would pay for loving him. I couldn't help but replay his words, relive his kiss, hear again his laughter, and feel my heart warmed by his

  soft, green eyes, smiling.

  Mama in her wisdom saw me moping about the

  grounds, drifting rather than walking along the banks

  of the canals, and knew what was making me pale and

  wan. Often she had to say something to me twice

  because I didn't hear her the first time; I was too lost

  in my own thoughts. I played with my food and stared

  blankly while she and Daddy talked and argued at the

  dinner table. Mama said I was losing weight, too. She tried to keep me busy, giving me more to

  do, filling my every quiet moment with another chore,

  but it took me double the time to do anything, which

  only exasperated her more.

  "You're like a lovesick duck, Gabriel," she told

  me one afternoon. "Get hold of yourself before you

  fade away or get blown off in of our famous twisters,

  hear?"

  "Yes, Mama."

  She sighed, troubled for me.

  But I couldn't just forget Pierre. Whenever

  Daddy talked about a new booking for a hunting tour,

  I would listen keenly to see if it was the Dumas

  family; but it never was. Finally one day I went down

  to the dock where he was preparing for another trip

  and asked him.

  "I thought that rich man from New Orleans was

  returning, Daddy. His son told me his father thought

  you were a wonderful swamp guide."

  "Rich family? Oh, you mean Dumas? OW, he

  was supposed to be back, but he canceled on me two

  days ago. You can't depend on them people. They lie

  to your face, smiling. My motto is, take whatever I

  can from them when I can and don't put no stock in

  any of their promises.

  "Why you asking?" he said quickly. "You ain't

  gonna start on me again, are you, Gabriel? You ain't

  gonna start complaining about the little animals they

  shoot. Because if you do . . ."

  "No, Daddy," I said abruptly. "I was just

  wondering. That's all," I replied, and hurried away

  before he went into one of his tirades against the

  animal lovers and the oil industry that was destroying the bayou. He could ramble for hours, working himself into such a frenzy, it would take as many hours for him to wind down. Mama could get just as upset at whoever started him on a rampage as she