We ended up skipping dinner. In fact, we never left my room. We undressed recklessly, and somehow overturned my perfume. The next morning, we ordered room service. Croissants, papaya, jam, and honey. Thick island coffee. To escape the overwhelming odor of Shalimar, we ate on the private terrace, which overlooked Montego Bay and a small sandy strip of land where a uniformed guard patrolled with a German shepherd and a double-barreled shotgun.
“You’re a Libra to my Scorpio,” he said. “And a graduate of Harvard?”
“Ha’vard School of Interior Design,” I mumbled biting into a croissant. It made me feel guilty to mislead this man. I felt even worse indulging in pastries when the locals seemed malnourished. The beggars were waiting at the edges of everything, chasing after the tour vans, holding Coca-Colas and cigarettes up to the windows. Louie seemed to feel no such qualms. He snapped up his croissant, then licked the flakes from his fingers.
After we finished eating, he carried me to the bed and kissed the concave space between my breasts, then moved down to my stomach. “The Shalimar has to go, baby,” he said.
“Shalimar?” I said dreamily. “Why?”
“It’s unworthy of you.” He moved his kisses up to my shoulder, then higher and higher until he reached my neck. “You need to wear Bandit. It’s rumored that Garbo loved that scent. She was a goddess, and so are you. A goddamn goddess.”
May 6, 1978
Princess Hotel
Montego Bay, Jamaica
Dear Violet:
Two days ago I met Louie DeChavannes. I can’t begin to pronounce it right, so don’t even ask. He’s been married at least twice, but now he’s divorced. He does open-heart surgery at Oschner Hospital in New Orleans.
I’d first caught his attention on a tour bus. But we got better acquainted in the hotel swimming pool. More later.
Your cousin,
Bitsy
We stopped by the concierge’s desk and booked a day trip to Negril Beach, the supposed heart of hedonism—a mere ninety minutes away from the hotel on bad roads. When the tour van arrived, we found a seat in the back. The other passengers filed in: a blond couple, dressed in matching blue plaid shorts, who spoke in British accents; newlyweds from Missouri who sat in front of us and French kissed; two talkative women in straw hats and ceramic fruit jewelry. They passed a roll of peppermint Certs, urging all passengers to take one. There was also a stocky girl with a shaved head and lovely blue eyes who kept firing questions at the driver. He responded by turning up the radio. Nilsson was singing “Coconut.”
Negril was the sort of place where no one dressed for dinner, although the nicer restaurants and bars had signs posted: NO GANJA—NO COCAINE. We went to the most popular place, Rick’s, where locals and tourists gather to watch the sunset. I was wearing a white fishnet shift over my black bikini, but no one even glanced in my direction. It was such a relief to fit into a place, to not have anyone point at me and whisper.
The waitress seated us on the terrace. I ordered a lobster salad and Chardonnay; Louie ordered a lobster tail and champagne. I wasn’t sure what he was celebrating—the end of his vacation or the end of our fling. In a few days we’d be leaving this island. He’d go back to New Orleans and I’d go back to Crystal Falls. But I wasn’t sad. I’d learned a few things on this trip—that I could travel alone and take a lover and not freak out. Over his shoulder, I could see the sun dropping down into the water with alarming speed.
When it disappeared, turning the water a ruddy pink, the diners stood up and applauded
Louie was looking just beyond the cove, to the cliffs, the rocks backlit by a tangerine sky. There was still enough light to see swimmers moving like ants across the cove’s white sandy bottom.
“I’m going,” Louie said, pulling off his shirt. Then he reached into his trunks’ pocket and pulled out his wallet and room key. He dropped everything on the table.
“Where?”
“To dive in. Why don’t you join me? Put our stuff in your beach bag.”
“But if I go, who’ll watch the bag?” I looked up at him.
“I guess you’re stuck with it, Beauty.”
“Beauty?”
“Just an endearment. Hey, do you mind if I go by myself?”
Yes, I do mind, I wanted to say. Absolutely. Sit your handsome self down and drink your drink. But Louie had already kicked off his shoes and was heading along a red-sand path to the cliff. “Don’t hit your head on the bottom,” I called. “I bet there’s not a single neurosurgeon in Negril.”
From the depths of the terrace, a voice yelled, “There’s not!”
Two tables over, a man grinned at me. “He’s pulling a Zelda,” he called in a Yankee accent. He was balding, with a paunch. I gave the man a blank look.
“Zelda Fitzgerald?” the man continued. “The mad wife of F. Scott? One night on the Riviera she jumped into the ocean, a thirty-foot dive at low tide. Later she leaped into the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel, but that must have been anticlimactic.”
At the next table, the British woman said, “Your husband must be a risk-taker.”
“He’s not my husband,” I told her.
“Too bad,” said the Zelda man. “Leapers make life exciting.”
I watched Louie climb to the top. A blond man jumped first, curling into the fetal position just before he struck the water. When he surfaced, he let out a war whoop, then swam over to the metal steps. High above the lagoon, standing on the ledge, Louie appeared to contemplate the blue water. From below, one of the scuba divers—a woman with long red hair—spit out her regulator. “Come on, beautiful,” called another, a long-limbed blonde, her breasts squeezing out of her wet suit.
I got up and moved over to the rail. I expected Louie to give a thumbs up, or at least a wave, but he kept his eyes on the water. He swung his arms over his head and inhaled. Then he bent his knees and sprang upward. He fell straight down, knifing into the water with hardly a splash.
When he didn’t immediately surface, I gripped the rail and peered over the edge. He was swimming underwater, but he wasn’t alone. The women divers circled him. Two minutes went by, then five. I realized that he wasn’t coming up, that he was down there having a party, sipping from their air tanks. Behind me, a champagne cork exploded; I turned, and the waitress held out the spewing bottle. I could hear the tinny sound of exploding bubbles. I thought my heart might burst.
“Cheers,” said the waitress.
May 10, 1978
Montego Bay, Jamaica
Dear Dorothy STOP:
I’ve tried to call but nobody is ever home STOP I have decided to stay an extra week STOP Having fun STOP Don’t worry STOP Love Bitsy STOP
May 20, 1978
MGM Grand Hotel
Las Vegas, Nevada
Dear Violet,
Louie and I got married this morning, and I am officially Mrs. DeChavannes. Isn’t that the greatest news? I haven’t met his mother yet, and I’m scared to death. She has two big houses, a summer place in Pass Christian, Mississippi, and a regular one in Alabama. I know you probably think I got married on impulse, and in a way I did, but I’ve never met a man like Louie. He’s a world traveler and knows about wine and music, but he’s not snooty about it. We’re going to buy a house in New Orleans and fill it up with babies. I’m thinking this is my chance to do things right this time. I hope Claude will let Jennifer visit. I bought her the cutest pocketbook, which I’m sending to Dorothy. I am so happy! Louie is taking me on a real honeymoon—to Paris, France. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard of? I know how Grace Kelly must have felt when she met Prince Rainier. Not that I am like her at all—I don’t even have a passport. But I’m getting one.
Love,
Bitsy DeChavannes
P.S. Excuse the letter. I’ve tried to call both our mothers umpteen times but can’t get through. They’re probably worried sick. I know how you hate to talk on the phone, but will you please give them a buzz?
P.S.S. I ju
st remembered, Aunt Clancy and Byron also got married in Las Vegas, so maybe this will be a family tradition.
P.S.S.S. Please tell your mother to mail my old rosewood letter box. She will know where to find it. I will send the address later.
May 25, 1978
Dear Jennifer,
I hope you like the little pocketbook. I bought it at the cutest boutique here in Las Vegas. The bracelets are from Jamaica. I have married the most wonderful man. His name is Dr. Louie DeChavannes, and he can’t wait to meet you. I will be moving to New Orleans, Louisiana, but don’t worry, I will explain everything later on the phone. I hope you will be able to visit. I love you very much and say a prayer for you every night.
Love,
Mother
Dr. and Mrs.
DeChavannes
We were invited to Louie’s mother’s house on Mobile Bay. A few miles past the Grand Hotel, he turned off the road and stopped in front of an imposing iron gate set in a high stucco wall, the old brick showing through in places. The black wrought iron was decorated with what looked like a donkey, with words spelled out under it in curlicues. It appeared to be a coat of arms, but I wasn’t sure. Louie’s window zipped down and he reached toward a metal box, punching in numbers. The smell of pine needles and salt water blew into the car. I was worried about meeting my new mother-in-law, Honora DeChavannes. If she was anything like this elaborate gate, then I was in trouble.
“I can’t make out those words.” I squinted at the gate. It made a whirring sound then creaked open. I thought ane might mean ass, but I couldn’t remember. Since the incident with Walter’s family, my French had deteriorated.
“It’s a long story.” Louie sighed and drove on through. A paved road twisted off into the pines. “First, you have to understand that Mother isn’t ostentatious. But she married into a family that was. You should’ve seen the old gate. It was encrusted with gilded fleur-de-lis and big DeCs.”
As Louie drove, he explained that his grandmother, old Mrs. DeChavannes, had named the house Chateaux DeChavannes. After her death, the house had passed into Honora’s hands. “My mother never bought into the pretension of my father and his family. So, when the gate needed replacing, she devised a new escutcheon,” Louie explained. “She came up with chauve, which means bald and hairless. Ane means ass, as in donkey, but it also has the same association as in English with fool. One of her artistic friends designed a symbol—a bald, dumb-looking donkey—to be used like the lion and unicorn of England. That’s what’s on the gate.”
“What does it mean?”
“As far as Mother could tell, my daddy’s family must have been the French equivalent of tenant farmers, with just a bald mule to their names, and they added the ‘de’ to try and class themselves up.”
I nodded, trying to appear nonchalant, but my heart was pounding. Louie’s mother sounded brilliant and whimsical, but what if she turned out to be like Claude’s mother? I looked out my window and saw five peacocks strolling under the live oaks, dragging their plumage.
“Not much farther,” said Louie. The road curved, and the house came into view. It was three stories high, beige stucco with red roses growing up the walls. Louie parked his Mercedes in a circle drive, under the shade of a live oak.
“Baby,” he said, reaching across the seat and patting my hand. “I’ve got to tell you a little about Mother. She collects people. All kinds of people. Some of them are down on their luck, and some are quite gifted. Musicians, artists, burned-out movie stars, ex-junkies. They all end up at Mother’s.”
“She sounds kind.”
“Yes, she’s kind,” Louie said. “But she takes it to extremes. She’s also direct. You’ll know in two seconds if she likes you.”
As we walked toward the house, I brushed my hands over my pink floral skirt—which suddenly seemed too short and garish. We stepped under a rose trellis and walked past a fountain. “See that statue?” Louie asked. “It’s Circe, pouring poison into the water.”
“Circe?”
“An enchantress from the Odyssey, with a penchant for turning men into animals,” he explained. He pulled me around a curved path, where we passed a marble chessboard, scaled for human-size pieces, the black-and-white squares denting the St. Augustine grass. I squeezed his hand. He was eight years older, but a thousand years wiser. I prayed that my good luck would continue, that he would love me forever.
The path swept up into a series of rounded steps, which led to another wrought-iron gate, festooned with more donkeys. In the sagging branches of a live oak, a brilliant blue peacock called out, Eee-yah!
“Honora’s guard dogs,” Louie said, laughing. He nudged the gate with his knee, and it swung open. I had never seen a yard like this before, except in magazines. I looked up. The trees blotted out the sky, and moss hung from the trees. “Is this the front of the house?” I asked.
“Yes, but we’re going around back.”
I tucked my polka-dot handbag under my arm, hoping it wouldn’t show. If Louie had really grown up in this mansion, then he must have been spoiled rotten. The last thing I needed was another Wentworth.
“I’ve got to give Mama credit,” Louie was saying. “She’s done her level best to turn the old mansion into a gigantic country house. She added striped canvas awnings one year, and a screened-in porch the next. If she didn’t love sunbathing so much she would have filled the swimming pool with dirt and plant trees and made another garden.”
Straight ahead, the walkway opened up into an enormous brick patio, where an L-shaped pool sat in deep shade. Dotted here and there were Grecian urns, each one spilling ivy and pale pink flowers. The iron furniture looked regal, burnished green chairs and chaise lounges with brass claw feet. At the far end, sheathed in trees, stood a cabana, its front door invitingly ajar. Baskets of fuchsia, the petals dripping red and purple, swayed back and forth in a breeze that smelled of chlorine and honeysuckle. Through the Spanish moss, I saw a pier jutting out into the choppy waters of the bay.
“Home sweet home,” Louie said in an ironic voice. He waved one hand. “Come on inside, I’ll fix us something cool to drink.”
We stepped through French doors into a sunny kitchen, with peach and white tiles, creamy marble counters, copper pans hanging from the ceiling. A cast-iron pot bubbled on the stove, filling the room with the smell of stock and the seasonings. Tea towels hung on a rack, each one embellished with Honora’s donkey. The kitchen had four ovens, two gas stove-tops, with a total of twelve burners, two side-by-side refrigerators and two dishwashers. The Green Parrot didn’t have this much equipment, and the café fed hundreds every day. I wondered if my new mother-in-law was a gourmet cook, or else entertained on a grand scale.
“Mama?” Louie shouted. He looked at me and shrugged. “I can’t imagine where she’s gone.”
“In here,” a woman called. I followed Louie into a glassed-in room off the kitchen, filled with plants and oil paintings. An attractive brunette set down a brass watering can and stepped over to Louie. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, and her hair was pulled back into a sleek bun. She wore beige slacks and a black turtleneck, the style favored by Jackie O. Across the room, two women and a bald-headed man sat around a glass table, smoking cigarettes. The table was littered with ashtrays and empty margarita glasses, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
“Darling,” said the brunette, kissing Louie’s cheek. “I see that you’ve brought Bitsy. My, she is lovely. You didn’t exaggerate.”
“The last girl he dragged here had green hair,” said a middle-aged blonde, lighting a cigarette.
Dragged? I thought, wondering if the word had been directed at me.
“A hideous shade of green,” said the bald-headed man.
“But hadn’t she fallen into Honora’s pool?” asked a woman with sharp green eyes and a chin-length bob.
“I’d forgotten all about that,” said the blonde. “She smelled poignantly of chlorine.”
“She positively reeked of it,” agreed the
bald-headed man.
Louie turned in my direction. His smile was blinding, almost too happy. “Hey, baby, come meet my mother and her pet vultures.”
“First, let me give her a hug.” The thin brunette smiled and embraced me, giving off gusts of a delicious perfume. Then she pulled back, her eyes wide and unblinking. “Darling, I’m so sorry I wasn’t out front to greet you. By the way, I’m Honora.”
I felt tongue-tied. But I saw exactly where Louie had gotten his good looks, the dark, slanted eyes and high cheekbones. Honora pulled me over to the glass table and began making introductions. “Y’all, this is Bitsy, Louie’s bride. That cute little blonde number over there is Desirée, and the green-eyed vixen is Gladys. The bald creature is Merrill.”
“Creature?” Merrill gave Honora a withering stare. “Have I been demoted?”
“Never.” Honora took the cigarette from Merrill’s hand and touched her red lips to the filter. Exhaling smoke, she said, “Guess who’s living in my guest room?”
“There’s no telling, Mother.”
“Isabella. She’s camped out upstairs with her Yorkies.” Honora sighed, then she turned to me. “Isabella D’Agostino, the actress? Have you seen her movies?”
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