by Hester Young
“I don’t believe it,” he mutters.
“I’m not lying, I really—”
“No. I mean, I don’t believe that after all this time, we could finally solve this case.”
“He didn’t give me any names,” I say, not wanting to get the detective’s hopes up. “Just a few details.”
I hear a woman’s voice in the background, presumably Dr. Pinaro. “Listen, I better go,” Detective Minot says reluctantly. “We have preparations to make for the funeral. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve just told me, okay? I’ll be in touch with you in a few days.”
There’s a lightness, an almost soaring feeling in my chest when I hang up. I tilt my face toward the newly risen sun. I don’t know what feels better: the fact that I helped Didi’s parents, or the fact that Detective Minot believes in me.
Leeann is pulling a pan of banana bread from the oven when I show up for breakfast. “Mornin’, Charlie,” she calls cheerily.
“Morning,” I reply. “How’s it going, Leeann?”
There’s no one else eating yet, just the old red dog splayed by the French doors. Leeann sets down her pan, eager to talk. “You won’t believe what ma boug is doin’.” From the pocket of her apron, she produces a napkin with letters on it. “Right here. He wrote ‘MOM,’ see that?”
I remember that sweet mama high, remember it well. I want to tell her about Keegan, how he loved writing with “grown-up pens” and once put Sharpie on the wall, but that would change everything. Leeann has assumed that I am childless, and if I mentioned him, I’d have to tell the ending. And then she’d apologize too many times and feel guilty, like she couldn’t mention her own son or coo over Paulette’s big belly in front of me. So I smile at Leeann’s napkin, its squiggly letters, and say, “He’s a smarty.”
I’m on the verge of getting sentimental and weepy when I spot Noah coming up the path outside. I didn’t run into him yesterday. Was he avoiding me or just busy? Part of me wants to apologize for not being more up front about the book, but who am I kidding? I can’t tell him about the dreams, the things I’ve been seeing. I can’t tell him that I have my suspicions about Hettie, maybe even about his father. Our relationship will always involve my holding something back. So what’s the point in pursuing it?
Still, I can’t resist greeting him as he enters the kitchen. “Hi.” I lift my fingers in a tentative wave.
He looks over in my direction. He’s wearing jeans, a close-fitting thermal, and a windbreaker. Mr. Casual. I can’t read his expression when he sees me, but I think it’s a smile. A cautious smile. “I thought I saw you over by the water earlier,” he says. “Great sunrise.” He leans down to pet the dog.
“Noah, have you met Leeann?”
Leeann seems delighted to have someone new to chat with and cuts us both slices of warm banana bread. She then proceeds to interview Noah about his life in Texas while frying up eggs and sausage. From her questions, I learn that Noah’s ex-wife is Mexican-American, that he speaks Spanish fairly fluently, and that the hardest part of their splitting up was losing the dog.
“Don’t you fret,” Leeann says sympathetically. “Life can get betta in a hurry.” She slaps down sausages one by one on a plate. “Four years ago, I was nineteen and pregnant by a lyin’, no-good boy who I come to find was engaged to somebody else. I was livin’ with ma folks, workin’ at ma daddy’s diner, not a hope in the world.”
Getting pep talks from a twenty-three-year-old doesn’t seem to annoy Noah the way it would me. He watches her, chin in hand, waiting for the happy ending.
“Now I got ma own place with the most carin’ man alive who loves ma son like his own,” she concludes. “Still haven’t got ma ring yet, but we’ll get there! Ma mama always says trust in God, and I do. Life’ll turn sweet.”
Noah smiles at her. “Well, your bread just made mine sweeter.” He turns to me, probably to avoid further talk of personal hardship. “You been workin’ on your book, Charlie?”
A sore subject, although he doesn’t sound hostile. His dark eyes hold mine for a second. Accusing? Apologetic? Probing? I can’t read them, but all that eye contact makes me blush.
“Yeah, I’ve been working,” I say. “I’m going to hit up the library today, do some research.”
He deposits his plate over by the sink. “If you see any old pictures a the garden, let me know.”
“They open at nine,” I tell him, surprising myself. “Come along.”
• • •
THE GRAY-HAIRED WOMAN at the reference desk sits cataloging film reels when we arrive. She wears a purple turtleneck with a garish studded snowflake pin that only a teacher, librarian, or grandmother would find attractive. On the ceiling above her, an amorphous brown spot hovers, presumably some type of water damage. I remember the maintenance man trying to patch it up the last time I was here; his efforts have obviously failed.
The woman recognizes me immediately. “You’re back! Still looking for materials on the Deveau family?”
“Good memory. And today I’ve brought a friend.” I gesture to Noah.
“The more the merrier,” she beams. “You know, I never did ask where you’re from.”
“Connecticut.”
“That’s quite a distance. Welcome!” She looks over at Noah. “Are you from Connecticut as well?”
“Nah, my family’s from Chicory. Just—visiting for a while.”
Her face lights up. “You doin’ genealogical research? That’s my specialty. What’s your family name?”
He glances at me, hesitating. I shrug. “My grandfather was Jack Lauchlin,” he says. “L-A-U-C—”
“Lauchlin? Don’t tell me you’re related to Sean.”
“My father.” Noah looks uncomfortable.
Given what he told me about his dad taking off on him, I can understand that. My mother has never been my favorite topic of discussion either.
Oblivious, the librarian jumps all over the family connection. “You kiddin’ me? I went to high school with Sean Lauchlin way back when. I had no idea he had children. He never seemed interested in the girls around here. What happened to him, anyway? Left town ages ago, right?”
“Yeah,” says Noah, “he didn’t stick around.”
“Nice-looking boy, your daddy. I had English with him, you know. I bet he never told you this, but when we did poetry, Mr. LaValle always asked him to read. Your father had such a lovely speaking voice.” She smiles at the memory. “What can I do for you today?”
Noah explains his quest to restore the gardens of Evangeline and his search for historic photos, which leaves the woman nearly breathless with delight. “Oh, you’ve got to see the Abe and Thomas Brennan Photo Collection. Abe Brennan just loved to photograph gardens.”
She hustles him down a lonely little hallway to the viewing room. I browse periodicals and leaf through a book called Dynasty: The Louisiana Deveaus and learn that Maurice Deveau once shot himself in the foot while drunk; that Dulcie Deveau became a suffragette, much to the horror of her family; and that Neville’s grandfather developed polio and required an iron lung. Maybe the twins are right. A little family history could jazz up my book.
I pace the stacks for a while, dip into various volumes and inhale that nice, fusty old-book smell before joining Noah in the viewing room. Inside, he pages through an album of black-and-white photos. Etched on the spine are the words Abe and Thomas Brennan Photo Collection, 1924. Beside him, I see two large carts of similar albums, each labeled with a different year. The reference librarian returns shortly, dragging a third.
“I’ll be back at my desk if you need anything,” she tells Noah. “Remember, don’t touch the photos. If you’d like to reproduce any images, we’ve got to submit a request to the Brennan family.”
She closes the door behind her and waves good-bye to us through the little glass window. I take an album from 1963, the year Nev
ille and Hettie married. Maybe I can find wedding photos. Noah and I sit quietly together for about half an hour, absorbed in these glimpses of the town and its inhabitants. I don’t find the Deveau wedding, but I’m drawn in by other stories on display: a first communion, a town fair, a family portrait with four generations of black folks smiling proudly.
Noah’s the one to eventually break the silence. “Hey, Charlie?”
I look up. “Hmm?”
“I didn’t mean to go off on you the other day about your book. I know you gotta work, like everyone else.”
“I understand why you were upset,” I say. “I wasn’t thrilled with the whole arrangement myself.”
He nods, and we leave it there. I’m pretty sure we’re okay again. I forget about him and continue looking through the photo albums, eventually locating a 1965 picture of Hettie on a parade float, baby Andre on her lap. She’s so young, about Leeann’s age. Fresh-faced and eager as she faces the crowd. Neville, sitting beside her, already looks like a bloated stick-in-the-mud.
I take a quick bathroom break, Deveau family dynamics dancing through my head. Hettie was twenty, maybe twenty-one when she got married. She and Neville had met less than two years earlier at a polo game, according to books. He was six years her senior, wealthy, from one of the eminent Southern families. She was pretty, well mannered, from a solidly upper-class family. Neville must have looked at her and seen a blank slate. Was their marriage about love or a mutually advantageous social contract?
I’m about to head back into the viewing room when something gives me pause. Through the door’s small glass window, I see Noah sliding one of the pictures out of its protective case. I can’t make out the image, but I can definitely see some people. He rolls up the photo and stuffs it into the zippered pocket of his windbreaker.
I play dumb when I enter, wondering if he’ll tell me about the photo, but he’s closed the album. Without a word, he replaces it on the cart, spine pointed outward: 1982.
Adrenaline surges through me. The year Gabriel vanished.
This is definitely not part of your garden renovation project, Noah.
I say nothing, although the curiosity is killing me. What exactly is he after? I need to see the picture he stole. Sooner or later he’ll leave his jacket unguarded, and when he does, I expect to learn something very interesting about Noah Lauchlin.
• • •
I GET MY CHANCE when we stop for gas on the ride home. Noah goes inside to buy a pack of cigarettes, leaving his windbreaker behind. The moment he’s safely inside, I reach into his pocket and remove the rolled-up photograph.
Two figures stand in front of a massive tree trunk, their smiles circumspect. The husky, middle-aged woman has her arm around a tall young man in military fatigues. He’s handsome in a sort of piercing and intense way. It takes me a second to notice the tiny boy near the bottom of the frame, his head buried in the woman’s legs. I read the label: Homecoming. Maddie and Sean Lauchlin, June 1982. I remember what Brigitte said about last seeing Sean in June.
Something moves above me, and I jump.
Noah’s watching me through the passenger window.
“My God, don’t creep up on me like that.” I drop the picture back onto the seat as he ducks back into the car.
“Sorry.” His hand closes around the photograph.
We face each other, embarrassed.
“I guess you’re wonderin’ why I took that.”
Actually, I’m feeling ridiculous for thinking he was wrapped up in the Gabriel mystery. Noah was only three back then, barely out of diapers. I point to the young man in the photo. “Is that your father?” I can see similarities in their nose, broad shoulders, and buzz cuts if I use my imagination a bit, but Sean is, objectively, far better-looking. Now I understand why Brigitte used to crush over him, why the librarian gushed at his name.
“That’s him,” Noah confirms. “I know I shouldn’a run off with it, but . . . well, I don’t have any pictures of him.”
“None?”
He shakes his head. “Nanny always said what’s past is past. We never had pictures of anything.” He reaches for his seat belt but never actually fastens it, just plays with the buckle absently. “She didn’t like to talk about sad stuff, so I never heard much about my dad. And even less about my mother.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Violet,” he says. “Violet Johnson. I only know from my birth certificate. She died in a car accident when I was a year old, and that’s pretty much all I know.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t think my Nanny liked her.”
I remember all the years I spent poring over albums at my aunt Suzie’s, learning who my mother was through pictures. I watched her evolve from a gawky grade-schooler to a too-cool, frizzy-haired adolescent to a sullen, pregnant teen, to a washed-out girl with a baby. I could see, in photos, her transformation while Aunt Suzie narrated it for me. That was right after she met your dad or That was a few weeks before she left. Look at her, I bet she was high. I haven’t forgiven my mother for who she is—I only assume she’s alive because no one’s ever told me otherwise—but at least I have some idea where I came from. If I didn’t know about her, how could I ever really feel sure of who I am?
“I don’t know why I took this thing.” Noah leans back in his seat and stares at the picture of his dad. “Stupid.”
“No, that’s your past,” I tell him. “It means more to you than anyone else who will ever look through that collection.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Is that you, hiding behind your nanny’s legs right there?”
“Nah, look at that outfit.” He gestures to the little boy, who seems to be wearing a polo shirt with the collar turned up. I squint at the kid’s footwear. Are those boat shoes? On a toddler? Ultra preppy. “They wouldn’a dressed me like that,” Noah says. “It’s probably Gabriel.” He tucks the picture back in his pocket.
Are we getting too emotionally charged for him?
June 1982, the photo read. The last time Sean Lauchlin would ever visit Evangeline. Two months later, the little boy hugging Maddie’s legs would also be gone. I don’t place too much stock in Brigitte’s opinions, but I can’t help but wonder if she was onto something when she brought up Sean. He knew Gabriel. As Maddie’s son, he would’ve had plenty of access to him, and to the house. I think of Maddie going to Gabriel’s room on the morning of August 15, how she couldn’t find her key and had to use the cook’s. Was the key missing because her son took it?
And if Sean hurt little kids, sexually or physically or otherwise—did that mean he hurt Noah? It occurs to me that maybe Sean didn’t actually skip out on his child. Maybe Maddie and Jack took their grandson from him. Maybe Sean ended up in prison. Could I blame Noah’s grandparents if they’d tried to spare him the knowledge that his father was a criminal and a pervert?
I look over at the man in the seat beside me. He’s gazing out the window, tapping his just-purchased pack of cigarettes against his thigh. He must have wondered about his father, Sean Lauchlin, so many times. What the man looked like, what they had in common. What Sean would think of him. I know how it feels to have a parent leave. I understand that beneath all the self-sufficiency and drive is a layer of Who could really want me? It’s a weird experience, seeing myself in someone else, and suddenly I want to hold Noah.
I reach across the seat and take his hand. There’s something in my chest, a feeling absent that whole night we spent together, that rises up now. He doesn’t speak, but I feel his fingers tighten around mine, warm and rough.
He doesn’t let go. I don’t want him to.
14.
For the next few nights, Noah sleeps in my bed. We talk when we feel like it, and we’re quiet when we don’t. He rubs my feet and sings half-remembered country tunes in a voice that’s intentionally off-key until I hit him with a pillow. I surrender my lon
g-held position at the center of the bed and grant him the left half. We sleep back-to-back, joined at the spine. At some point during the night he flips over on his stomach into a bizarre face-smothering posture. No, his light snores aren’t romantic or sexy, but they relax me. He’s like a magic talisman, there to guard me from the darkness.
The first couple of nights, we don’t have sex. I get used to his shape beside me, his breathing sounds, his faintly smoky scent. I watch him wake in the morning, watch his smile fade in and out as he sees me and then drifts back to sleep. Later, I watch him brush his teeth and shave, not sure why I find these simple domestic acts so titillating. One morning, as he stands around drinking coffee in his briefs, I can’t help myself.
“God, you have a nice butt.”
He grins. Strikes a GQ pose, coffee in hand. “For your viewin’ pleasure.”
“Oh no. Don’t tell me this is an eyes-only establishment.”
Noah raises an eyebrow. “Whoa. That an invitation?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think it is.”
He sets down his coffee so fast that some spills.
I’m nervous, but not too nervous this time. We smile as we kiss. Fall into bed laughing. We’re still clumsy and fumbling and figuring it all out, but it’s okay. Because I like him.
I stop trying to understand why. I can’t explain how someone who fails to meet even the most basic requirements on my usual relationship checklist is, right now, the one I need. But he is. I can’t explain how a man who I’ve known only days can calm me, shut down my mind, and let me rest. But he can. I certainly can’t explain how my body, dead for months to even the most basic needs—hunger, thirst—can feel again, can want. But it does.
Am I happy? I don’t know. My concept of happiness has changed without Keegan, but I think I’m happy now. I’m not consumed by a delirious teenage-style lust. And I’m not filled with the hopeful, heart-singing love that makes you call everyone you know to spew bliss—not that I’ve ever really been that type. Instead, I feel content, my days spent on the book, my nights spent with this man.
