The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  “Do you want me to change it?”

  He exhales. “Not yet. Give me a few more chapters. I like the sociological aspect, the class differences between the staff and the family. But, Charlotte?” He’s quick to temper his praise with reality. “Not a lot of writers can pull off the whole Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil thing. Be prepared for a rewrite.”

  After our talk, I sit down and map out where I’m going with the book in more detail. Around two o’clock, I’m distracted by voices outside. Peering from behind the curtains again, I see Noah hauling two obscenely large purple suitcases. Cristina follows in a pair of poured-on jeans and heels. I don’t see which cottage they came out of, so I can’t tell if she was staying with Noah or had her own place. But she’s leaving.

  It’s embarrassing how fast my heart beats when there is a knock on the cottage door about fifteen minutes later. I’m tempted to leap to my feet and fling open the door. Instead, I catch myself, count to ten, make him wait. If I could survive Eric cheating on me after four years, surely I can muster up some cool when my one-week fling doesn’t work out.

  But it’s hard, seeing the way Noah’s face lights up at the sight of me. His grin seems like the worst kind of lie.

  “Hey! Been too long.”

  “I take it you’ve been tied up.” I speak in a voice that’s neither nasty nor friendly, just to see how he’ll play it.

  “Work stuff.” He shrugs. “I missed you, though.” He leans in the doorway toward me, waiting for me to step aside and let him in.

  I don’t budge, don’t smile.

  Uncertainty sets in. “Is it a bad time? You busy?”

  “No,” I tell him, “I’m just . . . not sure why you’re here.”

  “To see you . . . ?” He trails off as he puts it together. “You’re upset.” He studies me. “Because of my job? Because I haven’t been around? I told you ’bout that . . .” He gets a wounded look, like a dog who’s been unfairly scolded.

  “It’s not because you haven’t been around. It’s because you have.”

  His eyes widen. The “uh-oh, I’m in trouble” look.

  “Let’s be real, Noah. You chose not to see me.” I look directly into his mournful-dog eyes and lay it on the line as clearly as I can. “I’m not gonna pretend I have any claim on you, okay? I don’t. But it’s a little ballsy of you to show up like this after avoiding me for a week.”

  “It was work,” he says. “I told you.”

  “Work,” I repeat. “Do you even know how sketchy you were acting? You practically broke out in hives whenever I came near you and Cristina.” His mouth opens and then closes again. “I guess I’m curious.” I cross my arms, still blocking the doorway. “How exactly were you expecting me to react? Just give you a big hug, ask no questions, and jump into bed with you?”

  I wait for a string of excuses or indignant replies, but Noah just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground.

  “All right,” he says, nodding. “I’m man enough to admit I made a bad call with this—this whole Cristina visit.” He exhales. “I wanted to keep things from gettin’ weird, but they’re probably even worse now. I’m sorry, Charlie. I am.”

  It’s a great performance, oozing with remorse, but totally lacking an explanation. I stare at him.

  “I get why you’d think . . . there was somethin’ goin’ on,” he says slowly. “I guess there was, kinda.”

  “Is Cristina your girlfriend? Are you sleeping with her or—”

  “No, no.” He looks alarmed at the prospect. “God, no. She really is my designer. I put her through school and all. But I shoulda told you, she’s Carmen’s sister.”

  “Who’s Carmen?”

  “My ex-wife.”

  This is the best news I could have expected to hear. “Wait, Cristina is your sister-in-law? And you work with her?” It’s a huge and amazing relief, if it’s true. Although that would mean that his ex-wife shares genetic material with that woman, which is intimidating.

  “She was my sister-in-law, yeah. Couple of Carmen’s cousins work for me, too. You can see how messy my divorce got.”

  As much as I’d like to believe this story, there are some holes. “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why’d you have to ignore me? What were you afraid I’d see?”

  “It’s not what you’d see. It’s what she’d see.” Having figured out he’s not getting into my cottage, he sits down on the edge of the front step. “I’ve known Cristina since she was in the ninth grade. She was maid of honor in our wedding. I just thought it would be weird for her, seein’ me with somebody else. Seein’ how happy I was.” He leans his head back and sighs. “And then she’d have to decide whether or not to tell Carmen, and . . . well, it all seemed real complicated.”

  I’m getting the sense that their divorce was not quite as amicable as I first thought, which is kind of comforting. I’m not alone in my dysfunction. But his dating someone else should not be that big a deal unless . . .

  “Noah, when exactly did you get divorced?”

  “December first.”

  Not even two months ago.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  He holds up his hands. “Hey, I wasn’t lookin’ to start somethin’ right off. I took this job with Hettie ’cause I wanted to get my head on straight. I didn’t expect some good-lookin’ Yankee to haul me off to bed first thing.”

  I smile, because this isn’t a wholly inaccurate version of events. I think I believe him now. He could’ve handled this far better, and I’m not thrilled to know his ex-wife’s family is still in the picture, but at least he’s not a cheating bastard. He’s just a gun-toting, deer-hunting son of a potential criminal. Somehow I can live with that.

  I sit down beside him on the porch. “I need a smoke.”

  He laces his fingers through mine and kisses my hand before breaking out the pack of Marlboros. “Baby,” he tells me, “I got what you need.”

  • • •

  THAT NIGHT, as he snores lightly beside me, I find myself facing a whole new set of worries. Getting attached to someone right now is the last thing I need, and my reaction to Cristina has already proven I care more than I want to about someone I don’t really know. I’m supposed to be gathering material for my book and helping Gabriel. Nowhere on this list does it say “falling for Texan with potentially awkward family connections to the case.” Come April, I’ll be back in Stamford, and Noah may be leaving even sooner. Haven’t I lost enough? Why give myself someone else to miss?

  Noah rolls over into his pillow, mumbling incoherently in his sleep. His broad shoulders are bare and tempting, but I resist the urge to touch him. There must be some way to enjoy his company without risking anything, some way to maintain a safe emotional distance. Men do it all the time, don’t they? Noah is probably not overly invested in me. I’m the one with the problem.

  Perhaps it’s a sign of weakness, but I can’t take another night of brooding. I take an Ambien and hope that this isn’t the night Gabriel intends to reveal all.

  By morning, the pill has left me feeling hungover and apathetic. I’m not enthusiastic when Noah suggests we get out and see the area, but I go, and as the Ambien fog lifts, I’m glad I did. We spend the weekend exploring the local scene: strolling City Park, eating bad Chinese takeout, catching a movie at the second-string theater. We get chicory-flavored coffee at a bakery near the center of town and I almost gag. It tastes like dirt, but Noah pronounces the flavor “nice and sort of woody” and drinks both his cup and mine.

  On Sunday we hike a four-mile nature trail and devour fried catfish and dirty rice at a little hole-in-the-wall. Back at the estate, Noah flips on a basketball game and flops onto my bed, totally content.

  “Been a good weekend,” he says.

  I don’t tell him this is the best weekend I’ve had in months. I don’t thank him for this brush with happin
ess, however brief it ends up being. He doesn’t know the dark place I’m coming from, and I want to keep it that way.

  I watch him shout at the muscled giants on the television, mystified that a sloppy turnover should inspire such passion. My dad was a sports fan, but I’ve never dated one before. Eric was the kind of guy who, even as an adult, became bitter if you mentioned high school gym.

  “You gettin’ sick of me yet?” Noah asks during a commercial. “I don’t wanna overstay.”

  I shrug. “Do you want a night to yourself?”

  “Nope.” He strokes my knee absently. “I don’t like sleeping alone.”

  I could be offended. The fact is, though, I don’t like to sleep alone either. For the rest of the night, he talks more to the TV than he does to me. I don’t mind. I call Rae back and arrange to spend a few days with her while she’s in town, then settle in with a pint of ice cream and a few sudokus. This arrangement feels like the nice part about being married. The day-to-day togetherness.

  Not that Noah is anything like Eric. I rushed into things with Eric because he was the means to an end I desperately wanted, part of a plan. Live together, get married, buy a house, get pregnant, have a baby. His involvement ended there. I can’t blame Eric for finding someone else. From the moment our son was born, my husband was no longer part of the equation.

  You wanted him to leave.

  It’s a strange realization that comes right as Noah throws a pillow and starts screaming, “That’s bullshit! That call was bullshit! He was out-of-bounds! Are you blind?”

  I smile. Somehow I don’t want this guy to leave, and that is even stranger.

  • • •

  A COUPLE OF NIGHTS LATER I’m getting a pretty hot foot massage when my cell rings. Noah pauses, his thumbs still deep in the arches of my left foot. I hate to interrupt, but it could be Grandma. He sighs as I snatch my phone from the bedside table.

  I don’t recognize the number, but it’s a local area code, so probably work-related. I scramble to answer. “Charlotte Cates.”

  “Hey there,” says a familiar female voice. “Got your number from that detective fella. This is Danelle. Danelle Martin.” She sounds like she has misgivings about making this call.

  I shake my head in admiration. Remy, you son of a bitch, you nailed it. I have never been so happy to lose fifty dollars.

  18.

  I was kind of hoping that Danelle would drop an earth-shattering nugget of information over the phone and we’d be done with it, but instead she wants to come speak with me at Evangeline.

  “Hettie there?” she asks.

  “She’s here,” I say. “You want to see her?”

  Beside me, Noah wrinkles his brow, trying to figure who I’m talking to and what about.

  “You said she’s sick,” Danelle says. “Figured I might pay my respects. I never did get to thank Mr. Deveau before he passed. Be nice to see the place again. They still got the cameras and guards?”

  “I can get you in.” This, of course, is what she’s counting on. I’ve no doubt it’s why she wanted to speak to me and not Detective Minot. I just hope she has something worthwhile to say.

  “Tomorrow morning, then.” Danelle doesn’t bother asking if that’s convenient for me. “I’ll speak my piece and that’s that. I don’t want my name in any book, and I don’t want any more policemen knockin’ on my door, understand?”

  It’s not a promise I can make, not if she tells me something of real value. “I’ll do my best.”

  When I get off the phone, Noah wants to know who it was. I hesitate. I’m sure he’d love to meet Danelle, a woman who knew his grandparents and his mystery dad—probably even him, when he was little. But I can’t let them know about each other just yet. If Danelle has anything interesting to say about Maddie, Jack, or Sean Lauchlin, I don’t want concern for the surviving Lauchlin holding her back.

  “It’s for my book,” I tell Noah. “I’m just following up on something.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” My answer has only made him more curious.

  “Nothing important.” I place my feet in his lap. “I believe you were working on these before we were so rudely interrupted.”

  He rolls his eyes. Takes my left foot and gives it a halfhearted rub. “You can talk to me about your work, ya know. I’m not too dumb to understand.”

  “It has nothing to do with your intelligence,” I protest. “You just have this weird family connection to everything I’m writing about.”

  His face grows deadly serious and I can tell my arches are getting no more love tonight. “What’s it matter who my family is? Unless you think they did somethin’ wrong.”

  “I’m not worried about your grandparents,” I say, although it isn’t exactly true, “but even you have to admit that your father is a big question mark.”

  “You’re lookin’ at him?”

  The moment Sean enters the equation I can feel a wall go up in him, although I don’t know if it’s for me or the man he feels rejected by. Either way, I’m sure Noah would like some insight into the bum who fathered him. Unfortunately, I made a promise to Detective Minot—a promise I intend to keep.

  “I’m not looking at anyone,” I say. “I’m not the police. Just trying to tell this story, and your dad’s a piece of it.” Something occurs to me. “If he did turn up, would you want to know? I mean . . . would you get in touch with him?”

  “No,” he says quickly. But he’s brooding now, working it over in his mind. “He’s probably dead anyhow.”

  A charitable explanation, I think, for Sean’s failure to contact his son or parents at any point in the last thirty years. Actually, death is probably the only acceptable excuse. Even a stupid death, like driving your car off the road and into a tree because you’re too damn drunk to operate a vehicle, is still better than outright abandonment.

  “You’re probably right,” I agree. “I bet he died a long time ago. What about your mom? Violet Johnson. Would you like to know more about her?”

  He’s dismissive. “She’s dead.”

  I don’t point out his grandparents could’ve lied about that. “Someone named Violet Johnson worked at Evangeline in the midseventies,” I tell him. “She was a housekeeper. I’m guessing that’s how she met your father.”

  “A housekeeper, huh?” Noah’s face is unreadable.

  I wish I knew what was going on in that head of his. “It’s a common last name, but I bet you could find her records if you tried.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Prob’ly could.”

  Maybe he’s afraid of what he’d find. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just a guy, disinclined to share his feelings with me.

  “You got somethin’ to eat?” he asks. “I’m starvin’.”

  • • •

  ALL OF DANELLE MARTIN’S ATTITUDE and self-assurance seems to shrink when she enters her former place of employment. I meet her on the steps around nine o’clock the next morning. She has spruced herself up with a long black dress, earrings, a string of rectangular glass beads, and a colorful scarf. “Good to see you, Ms. Martin,” I greet her.

  Her gaze sweeps past me, over the great oak trees and along the bayou, traveling up to the shining white house. I wish I knew what memories the place evokes for her. “Always was such a purty home,” she says. “Hard to think of somethin’ ugly happenin’ inside.”

  “Do you want to look around? I bet a lot has changed.” I’m hoping a tour might prompt some stories, but as I lead her through the house and outdoors, she offers only terse remarks about changes to the property.

  “New cabinets,” she says of the kitchen. “They took down the gazebo,” she tells me in the garden. She has a quick walk and her sharp eyes remind me of a predatory bird scanning the horizon for food, trained to any flash of movement. When Danelle sees the remodeled cottages, she is scornful. “No charact
er,” she pronounces.

  Eventually I’m done with all the small talk. We’ve seen enough. Either she trusts me or she doesn’t.

  “Well?” I sit back on a garden bench in front of the old fountain and take in the crisp sunshine, no longer caring about good manners. “You came here to talk to me, didn’t you?”

  She places her hands on her hips. “You think I know what happened.”

  “Do you?”

  She scowls. “Got no damn clue.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Her mouth pinches into a pink knot. “I came ’cause there’s things I oughta set straight. I been carryin’ around that family’s business long enough. Got my own life to get on with.” She puts a hand to what remains of her breast and stares at the blank-eyed cherub on the fountain. “Sometimes doin’ the right thing means tellin’ a lie, and thirty years ago when the FBI and them was askin’ all those questions . . . well, I guess I told a few.”

  I’m not sure she realizes the seriousness of what she’s admitting here. I let her go on.

  “That family was goin’ through a hard enough time havin’ lost their baby boy.” She doesn’t sit beside me on the bench but stands, stolid, drawing up her small frame as tall as it will go. Her eyes are fixed on some point directly ahead of us. “Alla sudden they got every cop on the planet breathin’ down their necks tryin’ to say they done it. I’ll tell you certain as I’m standin’ here that Neville and Hettie Deveau didn’t hurt Gabriel. They had their faults—don’t get me started—but they wouldn’a harmed a hair on that boy’s head, and that’s God’s honest truth. If I’d a said all I knew to the police, I’d a made it worse for them.”

  “You wanted to help,” I say, trying to coax it out of her. “The truth can be complicated.”

  She gives me an exasperated look that indicates my conciliatory tone is transparent and unnecessary. “Neville had a lady. I told ’em I didn’t know about it, but he did. More’n one, over the years.”