"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.
"Gabrielle, fetch those pillowcases we wove day before yesterday, please," she said the moment she heard me approaching.
"Oui, Mama."
Pierre stepped out on the galerie 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 café 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, Gabrielle," 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, Gabrielle," 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, Gabrielle," 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? Oui, 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, Gabrielle? 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 himse
lf 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 could get at him.
The days passed and I began to try to do what Mama wanted—fill my mind with other thoughts. I did work harder, but I always had time to go into my swamp, and whenever I poled in my small canoe, I couldn't help but think of Pierre. After another week went by, I concluded Daddy was right—rich people tell grander lies. Their wealth gives them more credibility and makes us more vulnerable to their fabrications. Maybe Daddy was right about all of it; maybe we were victims and should take advantage of them every chance we could get.
I hated thinking like Daddy, but it was my way of overcoming the deep feeling of sadness that filled my stomach like sand. I began to wonder if this wasn't why Daddy was so negative and down on everything. Perhaps it was his way of battling his own sadness, his own defeat, his own disappointments. Ironically, I became more tolerant of him than Mama. I stopped complaining about his hunting trips and was even there at the end of the day to bring him a steaming cup of Cajun coffee or help him put away his gear.
Between the money he was making and the good season Mama and I were having selling our wares at the roadside, we were doing better than ever. Daddy repeated his promise to take us all on a holiday to New Orleans real soon. The prospect excited me, especially when I thought about the possibility of walking through the Garden District and perhaps seeing the Dumas estate. I even imagined seeing Pierre without permitting him to see me.
Mama said I shouldn't count on any of Daddy's promises.
"One day he'll dig into his pocket, see how much money he's got buried under his cigarette paper, and go off on a bender to gamble and drink away his hard-earned profits. I try to take as much from him as I can, claiming we need more for this and more for that, and I hide it because I know that rainy day is coming, Gabrielle. Storm clouds are looming just on the other side of those trees," she predicted.
Maybe she was right, I thought, and tried not to dwell on New Orleans. And then, one afternoon, I took my usual walk along the bank of the canal. It was a beautiful day with the clouds small and puffy instead of long and wispy. The breeze from the Gulf gently lifted the palmetto leaves and made little ripples in the water, now the color of dark tea. There seemed to be more egrets than ever. I saw two great snapping turtles sunning themselves on a rock, not far from a coiled-up water moccasin. White-tailed deer grazed without fear in the brush, and my heron glided from tree to tree, following me as I ambled along, really not thinking of anything in particular, but just pleased by how well everything in Nature seemed to coexist and enjoying this relatively untouched world of mine.
Suddenly I heard my name. At first I thought I had imagined it; I thought it was just the low whistle of the breeze through the cypress and Spanish moss, but then it came again, louder, clearer, and I turned. At first I thought I was really looking at an apparition. When he had left, Pierre told me to watch for him where I would least expect to see him. Well, there he was poling a pirogue my way, something I would never have anticipated.
Shocked, I stood with my mouth agape. He wore dark pants and a dark shirt with a palmetto hat. He poled very well in my direction and then let the canoe glide to the bank.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said, scooping off his hat to make a sweeping bow with laughter around his eyes. "Isn't it a fine day we're having in the swamp?"
"Pierre! Where did you come from? How did you . . . Where did you get this pirogue?"
"I bought it and put it in just a little ways up the canal," he said. "As you can see, I've been practicing, too."
"But what are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here? Poling a canoe in the canal," he said as casually as he would if he had been doing it all his life. "I just happened to see you strolling along the bank."
I could only laugh. His face turned serious, those green eyes locking tightly on mine.
"Gabrielle," he said. "I've been saying your name repeatedly to myself since the day I left. It's like music, a chant. I heard it everywhere I went in the city; in the traffic, the tires of cars were singing it; from the streetcar, in the rattle of its wheels; in the clatter of voices in our fine restaurants; and of course, at night in my dreams.
"I've seen your face a hundred times on every pretty girl who's crossed my path. You haunt me," he said.
His words took me on wings. I saw myself gliding alongside my heron, and when he stepped up to me and took me in his arms, I could offer no resistance. Our kiss was long, our bodies turned gracefully in to each other. When we parted lips, his lips continued over my eyes and cheeks. It was as if he wanted to feast on my face.
"Pierre," I pleaded weakly.
"No, Gabrielle. You feel toward me exactly how I feel toward you. I know it; I've known it all these weeks during which I suffered being away from you. I thought I would try to stay away, but that was a foolish lie to tell myself. There was no hope of that. I could no more stop the sun from rising and falling than I could stop myself from seeing you, Gabrielle,"
"But, Pierre, how can we . . ."
"I've thought of everything," he said proudly. "And I've gotten it all accomplished before I came poling down this canal searching, hoping to see you along this bank. I must confess," he added, "I've been here before, waiting for you."
"You have?"
"Oui."
"But what have you thought of, planned? I don't understand," I said.
"Do you trust yourself, or me, for that matter, enough to get into my canoe?"
I looked at it suspiciously. "And then?"
"Let it be a surprise," he said. "Come along." He took my hand and helped me step into his canoe. Then he pushed off from the bank and turned the pirogue to begin poling away. Someone had taught him well. His strokes were long and efficient. In moments we were gliding through the water. "How am I doing? Will I make a Cajun fisherman yet?"
"You might," I said.
As we continued he described some of the work he had been doing since he had left the bayou, but how his mind always drifted back to me and to this natural paradise.
"And my cook loved your mother's herbs. She says your mother must be a great traiteur."
"She is," I said. "Pierre, where are we going? I don't . . ." I paused when he turned the pirogue toward shore. There was a small dock nearly completely hidden in the overgrown water lilies and tall grass, and beyond it, what I knew to be the old Daisy shack, deserted ever since John Daisy had died of heart failure. He had been a fisherman and trapper. After he had died, his wife had moved into Houma to work and married a postman.
Pierre docked the canoe. "We're here," he said. "Here? This is the old Daisy place," I said.
"Not anymore. I bought it a couple of weeks ago."
"What? Are you serious? You bought it?"
"Oui, " he said. "Come see. I had it fixed up a bit. It's no New Orleans apartment, but it's cozy."
"But how did you do this without anyone knowing?"
"There are ways when you spend enough," he replied with a wink.
"But why?"
"Why? Just to be close to you whenever I want to be and when, I hope, you want me to be," he said. He took my hand. Feeling swept along, I could only follow him up the path to the shack. It was never anything when the Daisys lived in it, but it had fallen into some ruin after John Daisy's death. Pierre had had the floorboards repaired, the holes mended, the windows recovered, the tin roof restored, and the furniture replaced. He had a new rug in the sitting room.
"I brought that in from New Orleans myself," he said, nodding at the rug. "The shack has none of the modern conveniences, but I think that's what gives it all it's charm, don't you?" he said as I wandered through it. "The lamps have oil; there's something to eat and drink and the bed has new linens. What else could we ask for?" he said, and opened a cabinet in the kitchen to take out some glasses and then some wine from a cool chest he had filled with ice.
"I can't bel
ieve you did this," I said.
"I'm a man of action," he replied, laughing. He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. "Let's make a toast," he said, handing me my glass. "To our dream house in our dream world. I hope I never wake up." He tapped my glass and brought his to his lips. After a moment I sipped my wine, too. "So? What do you think?"
"I think you're a madman," I said.
"Good. I'm tired of being Pierre Dumas, the sensible, brilliant, respected businessman. I want to feel young and alive again, and you make me feel that way, Gabrielle. You wipe the cobwebs out of my brain and drive the shadows from my heart. You are all sunshine and cool, clear water.
"Didn't you think constantly of me these past weeks? Didn't you want me to return? Please, tell me the truth. I need to hear it."
I hesitated.
In the back of my mind I heard Mama's voice, I heard all the warnings. I saw myself heading toward a precipice, in danger of a great fall. All that was sensible and logical in me told me to leave, and as quickly as possible; but my feet were nailed to the floor by a love that rippled through my body as firmly as he claimed his did.
"I thought of nothing else," I admitted. "I, too, saw your face everywhere, heard your voice in every sound. Every day you didn't return was an empty day, no matter how much work I filled it with," I said. His face brightened.
"Gabrielle . . . I love you," he said, and took me into his arms. Then he scooped me up and carried me to the bedroom that would be our love nest.
After what Octavious Tate had done to me and what Virgil Atkins had said to me, I thought I would never taste love on my lips nor ever know what a soft, gentle caress of affection was like. I thought I would die resembling a wild rose, never seen, never smelled, never touched, a flower that would be kissed by the sun and the rain until it bloomed radiantly, but then would eventually wither and decompose, its petals floating sadly to the earth, its stem bending until the next rain pounded it into dust to be forgotten, to be treated as if it had never existed.
But in Pierre's arms, I felt myself blossoming, exploding with color and vibrancy. His kind and tender touch filled my heart with a warmth I never dreamed I'd feel. Nothing was rushed; nothing was grotesque. When we were naked beside each other, we were silent, speaking only with our eyes and our lips. His fingers made secret places on my body tingle, places I never imagined would ever feel as alive. I closed my eyes and clung to him when he moved over my breasts with his lips and touched me with the tip of his tongue. I felt as if I were falling, but as long as I held on to him tightly, I would be safe, forever.
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