“Me, in my present state?” she asked, putting her hands on her belly. “Only if I would inspire you, which is unlikely. There are so many others, far more attractive.”
“Estelle, it would give me the greatest pleasure to paint you,” he said. Gently he added, “You embody new life; what could be more affecting?”
She glowed inside. Smiling up at him, she said, “All right, I agree, but only after you have finished at least one painting of the children. You see, I drive a hard bargain. But I’ve been meaning to ask, why didn’t you bring your paints from France?”
“Ah. That’s difficult to answer.” Edgar hesitated before continuing, “I admit, I’ve not had the success I hoped for in Paris. Other friends have done better and have sold their work. I’ve been wondering if I should continue in this so-called profession. It is competitive, you see. And then, there was the problem with Manet.”
“Manet? Who is that?”
“Edouard Manet, my friend, a fellow artist. I offered to paint his wife, and did so, a portrait of her playing the piano—he appeared in the picture, as well. It turned out to be a disaster.”
“What do you mean? Wasn’t the portrait a good likeness?”
Edgar sighed. “He didn’t like it, said I had not portrayed his wife as an attractive woman. He was so displeased, he cut the canvas where her face was, cut her right out of the painting. Ruined it.”
“Mon Dieu! Terrible. Then what happened?”
“We have not spoken since. I was angry. The thing is, I cannot paint what is not realistic. I paint what I see, the truth without adornment. Not all artists do that. They often want to flatter their subjects, particularly women. Not me. That is one reason for my lack of success, I think. There are other reasons, of course, including my resistance to painting scenes out of doors, as my colleagues do in France.”
Estelle gazed at him and asked slowly, “Let me be sure I understand. Are you saying that you plan to give up painting?”
“I’ve considered it. Anyway, I had no thoughts of painting here. I intended to visit New Orleans and the family, nothing more.”
Estelle took a deep breath.
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to do a few domestic scenes while you’re here, and it would please all of us,” she said.
Edgar stood up to leave, took her hand, and kissed it tenderly.
She sat thinking for a while after Edgar left. Now she understood why he hadn’t brought his paints along: his uncertainty of his future as an artist. Sympathetic, but sure of his talent, she hoped he would not give up. What would he do with his life, if he didn’t paint? She had always enjoyed her close connection with Edgar and wanted only the best for him. Perhaps he could find a similar connection with Désirée. She had been so lively and pretty ten years ago, and Degas had painted her often. She had been one of his favorite models, in fact. What has changed? she asked herself. Didi herself seems as fond of him as before . . . but then she is older now and has lost the freshness that youth offered in such abundance. If he paints her again, maybe he will rediscover her virtues. Désirée should meet someone to marry: if the family’s business should continue to struggle financially, she would then have some security. But at thirty-four, she will not have many opportunities for marriage. These two people, both so dear to her, had their problems, she knew all too well, and try as she might, Estelle could not stop herself from worrying.
The clock chimed eleven. She roused herself and went into the kitchen to talk to Beulah about the leftover food from the dinner party. The maid approached her as she entered the room.
“Madame, I found this among Monsieur René’s clothes in the laundry basket yesterday. It looks new. I expect he planned to give it to you.”
Beulah held it out, and Estelle took it. Edged in fine lace, it was a woman’s handkerchief. Perhaps he had bought it in Paris.
“Thank you, Beulah. I expect you’re right. What a fine gift.”
She would thank her husband later.
Chapter 9
November 1970
The phone rang. It was Isabelle, Anne’s best friend, now pregnant.
“We need to get together. How are you doing?”
“Fine. More to the point, how are you?”
“Some morning sickness. As you’re aware, this baby is a surprise, but it’s exciting. Since Paul’s in school, I’m not sure how we’ll manage, but Mama’s thrilled to be a young grandmother, and she may help us out. And you? How are things with Sam?”
“Fine. I’m seeing him tonight. He’s been away all week.”
“Oh. Where?”
“He didn’t say. I wanted to ask but didn’t have a chance before he left. He’s often away on business. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him. It would be nice to get to know him. Where’s he taking you?”
“No idea. He’s picking me up at seven, so we’ll go to dinner, I guess.”
“Well, how about coming over here? I’ll be glad to cook.”
“Thank you, I’ll ask him. If not today, let’s get together next week.”
Anne opened the closet to choose an outfit for her date. She needed to do laundry. She hated going to the Laundromat, something she wouldn’t have to do once she moved into her own house. After throwing a pile of dirty clothes into a bag, she set off down the street.
She sat in the stuffy shop listening to the dryer whirling her clothes around. Her heart skipped a beat as she anticipated her date. She wanted to tell Sam about her visit to the HANO office and hear his thoughts. It would be pleasant to drink wine with him and forget all about her upsetting encounter with the activist. She understood that Sam liked her to dress well and always felt deeply pleased when he admired her. He had such mysterious eyes, watery and mesmerizing. She had no idea where he planned to take her, and surmised he wouldn’t want to spend the evening at Isabelle and Paul’s, but she could ask him. When she arrived home with her folded laundry, she picked up the phone to call him.
“Hi Sam, just wondering, do you have a plan for our date tonight?”
“No,” he said; then, after a pause, added, “dinner, but I haven’t made a reservation. Anywhere special you want to go?”
She told him about Isabelle’s invitation.
“Who’s Isabelle?”
“My college roommate. She’s married to Paul, who I grew up with in Mississippi.”
“Well, not today. I’ve not seen you for over a week, and I’d like to have you to myself.”
She smiled. “I feel the same way.”
“See you at seven,” he said.
Anne showered, brushed her long hair, parting it in the middle, and chose the green, form-fitting dress to wear. Since she had lost weight, she could now wear flattering clothes. Green, her favorite color, suited her. She looked all right, fitting for a date with a man who cared perhaps too much about her appearance. Would Sam be interested in her if she was fat? She doubted it. She dabbed perfume on her neck and wrists. As she dressed, she recalled her young relative Marguerite’s desire for a new dress, one that would make her look older, more alluring, and perhaps marriageable. She, Anne, living in 1970, had more choices about her life, both about whether to marry and about whether to pursue a career. All the same, she enjoyed the experience of dressing up to please a good-looking man. She and Marguerite had that in common, despite all the years separating them.
Anne heard the bell ring and ran down to meet Sam. He held a bouquet of red roses. She smiled, took the flowers, and held her face up to his as she murmured her thanks. He kissed her.
“You look great.” he said, “Let’s go. There are no parking spots on the street, and I don’t want to leave my Mercedes on the curb.”
“Wait a minute, while I put the flowers in water,” she said.
Ignoring his impatient frown, she stepped inside while he waited on the porch. He took her hand on their way to the car.
“It’s not the best neighborhood,” Sam said. “I
still worry about you living here, more than ever after the intruder’s sabotage.”
“It’s not your concern,” she said, her face tightening. “If it was good enough for Degas, it’s good enough for me. He stayed a few hundred yards down the street from here.”
“So what? He lived here almost a hundred years ago! You’re such a romantic!”
“Don’t kill my dream. The house is the most important thing in my life right now—other than you, of course.”
“Glad to find I’m in the running, at least. I’d hate to lose out to old ghosts.”
“Right now, there aren’t any, unless you count termites,” she said. “Where are we going for dinner? If you don’t have anywhere in mind, how about going to your place? We could pick something up. I’ve never seen your house.”
“Uh, I don’t think so. I’d need to clean up first. Some other time.”
“All right, but let’s go somewhere quiet. I want to talk to you.”
“How about Napoleon House?”
Sam parked the car in a public garage in the French Quarter, and they strolled along Chartres Street to the bar in an old house, rumored to be one where Napoleon would have lived if he had escaped from prison. Inside, peeling paint held the disheveled walls together, and strains of classical music resonated from the ceiling. Liquor bottles gleamed on narrow shelves, adding sparkle to the otherwise dark room. Anne considered the place quirky but romantic. Sam guided her to a corner table, and they squinted like bats as they read the menu by candlelight and ordered the house specialties: Pimm’s Cups and muffulettas.
“So what is it you want to tell me?” he asked, covering her hand with his.
She met his eyes. “I stopped by the HANO office to find out more about the urban renewal projects they’re running. The guy there was a jerk. Doesn’t care about displacing people from their homes. Then I ran into a demonstrator who knows my sister Stella. He cursed me, said I’m a rich bitch for not giving her a place to live when her housing is being torn down.”
“Poor baby! Not fun. You got a shot of reality, my dear. So what are you going to do about this? Are you getting rid of this ridiculous notion that you have to offer a home to your half-sister?”
Anne scowled. “I don’t know that Stella has anything to do with this man. Anyway, I’m sympathetic to the cause. If anything, I’m more inclined now to let her move in, perhaps even to share ownership.”
He took his hand away. “Okay, it’s your decision. Aren’t you afraid of more vandalism? Those guys are vindictive.”
“I refuse to be driven away from a good cause. If I let her move in, they’ll have no reason to complain. Anyway, there’s a burglar alarm now, thanks to you.”
Sam regarded her, his eyebrows raised.
“Maybe I should give you a gun for self-defense,” he said. “If I were you, I’d wait until I knew a lot more about her before asking her to move in. Let’s change the subject. The evening’s young, and you like jazz. Let’s get out of here and go listen to some.”
She assented, straightened her shoulders, and said nothing. She didn’t want a gun in her house, but she understood that he was trying to be protective, and she liked him for that. He paid the bill, and they ambled along Bourbon Street, passing bars with flashing neon lights. Not a charming street like others in the French Quarter, it was the home of several venues offering good music. A couple slurping pink Hurricane drinks from Pat O’Brien’s, swaying dangerously, almost bumped into them.
“Tourists,” Anne said, and Sam laughed.
They entered Pete Fountain’s. Anne sat back, sipped her drink, and enjoyed the sultry sounds of the jazz. She became drowsy. She had wanted to ask him about his business trip, but the music was too loud for talking. Sam shouted in her ear that he had missed her and put his arm round her shoulders.
“Love your perfume,” he said.
A shiver crept up her back. “Want to stay overnight?” she asked.
“I do. Let’s leave the car where it is and take a taxi.”
Next morning, Anne woke up and stretched luxuriously as she recalled Sam’s ardent lovemaking. He lay face down in her bed, his arms flung around the pillow. She noticed a scar on his left shoulder. He really was a most attractive man. She brushed her hair and threw on a robe as she went into the bathroom down the hall. Suddenly she remembered: she had wanted to ask him about his trip and had still not talked to him about her discovery of Marguerite’s journal. Perhaps they could eat breakfast together. She jumped into the shower and came back to her room wrapped in a towel.
The bed lay rumpled and empty. On the pillow rested a scribbled note:
Had to go. Forgot about an early meeting. Thanks for last night. Call you later. Sam.
Anne sat down on the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t be so inconsiderate, she thought. He must have a good reason for not waiting to say good-bye in person: he has deadlines, he had told her his concerns about his job. After all, it was Monday, a workday. For that matter, she had to get to work herself. Downhearted, she dressed and drove to the museum, feeling loved, left, and used.
With good reason.
Chapter 10
November 1872
By the end of Edgar’s first week in New Orleans, he had established a daily pattern: he rose early, had black coffee and sourdough bread spread with butter and jam for breakfast, then headed to the cotton office for his mail. Some days he traipsed the several blocks through the Vieux Carré; on other days, he took the horse-drawn streetcar.
Estelle sat in her usual comfortable chair in the front room as Edgar prepared to leave the house one morning.
“What’s your opinion of our city, Edgar, now that you’ve seen more of it?” she asked.
“C’est très intéressant,” he said, “everything here attracts me. I enjoy seeing the Vieux Carré buildings, their courtyards and fountains surrounded by orange and banana trees, and the red and magenta flowers. There’s an air of mystery, and it’s almost like spying, looking into those private spaces. The trees have delicious scents! I find it all to my liking—particularly the women in white muslin dresses sitting on porches, and white children in the arms of black women.”
Estelle smiled as she listened to his complimentary remarks.
“What about the sunlight, and the heat? Are you adjusting to our climate yet?”
“Not really. I don’t believe I will ever think that the ghastly weather and white light here suit me.”
She swallowed her disappointment and tried to keep her face calm.
“You must see other sights,” she said. “We will arrange a visit to a plantation soon. You will enjoy seeing the cotton growing in the fields, I’m sure.”
“I will,” he said.
“Désirée wants to show you the steamboats on the river, too, and William would like to take you to the race course.”
“Wonderful! I like race horses. I painted them often in Paris.”
“So they might be subject matter for you here. That reminds me: today the children are dressing up for a birthday party. Carrie looks very nice in her white dress and blue sash. Perhaps this would be a good time to do her portrait.”
“Certainly. I’ll come back from the office early. I have paints now.” He smiled. “Philippe Fontenot kindly took me to the merchant so I could buy them. He lent me some of his canvases, too. What are you doing today, yourself?”
“Only my usual things, planning the day’s meals, and seeing to the children. Will you be home for lunch?”
“Yes, and afterward, I’ll paint. I have you to thank for that. I’ve said this before, but I realize I enjoy being in New Orleans among the family. Somehow seeing you all here brings me closer to my dear maman. But now I must go. À bientȏt, ma chère cousine,” he said, bending to hug her before putting on his hat and going out.
Estelle would need to talk to the nurse that day to arrange time in the afternoon for Carrie to pose. She could keep her party dress on all day; that would please her. Estelle still hoped that
Edgar would discover other subjects worthy of painting, but at least he could do some family portraits now that he had the materials. He had a reason as well: to bring back memories of his mother. Though he suffered from the heat and strong sunlight, she believed his mood would improve once he began painting. She got up and felt her way into the parlor to find the nurse.
Edgar walked along Esplanade Avenue to Canal Street, then turned onto Carondelet, to the building where his family had established their cotton business. He opened the door.
“Bonjour, Edgar. Est-ce que tu veux parler anglais aujourd’hui?” René asked.
“Mais oui; aujourd’hui I will say turkey buzzard,” Edgar replied.
It was a joke, of course. Edgar had not yet learned English, and while in New Orleans had no need to.
“The cotton sales are magnificent,” René said, “and we have new customers and shipments of the highest quality materials.”
“Very good, I’m sure. Are there any letters for me today?” Edgar asked. “I’m always eager for news from home. I worry sometimes that my friends forget me, now that I’m here.”
Achille handed him an envelope. Edgar grasped it and removed his hat, then broke the seal and took out a sheet of paper.
“A letter from my friend Dihau, at last!” he said, and settled down to read it.
René and Achille resumed showing customers samples of new cotton. Michel held a long conversation with an accountant. When Edgar finished reading his letter, he called to René.
“May I have some paper and a pen? I need to write a reply.”
“You may, but first come here and learn about the quality of the cotton. This shipment is top of the line! We’ll be able to command the highest prices for it, I’m sure.”
Edgar stood up next to his brother, who placed a strand of cotton in his hands.
“Pull it like this, to test the threads and texture,” René said.
Edgar took the wad, but soon threw it down. “The color pleases me more than anything else,” he said. “It’s pure and white like the magnolia trees outside.”
Estelle Page 7
