These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  “I wouldn’t bet on seeing a whole lotta him.”

  “Why not?”

  He squinted at the ceiling for a moment. “When I was just a little guy, there was an old lady name of Miss Aggy, living along the river, way back under the trees in a little shack. She’d been there years and years. One day, the ladies in the church decided she shouldn’t be livin’ down there all by herself so’s they came and dragged her into town. They bathed her and dressed her up real nice. Everybody was right pleased with themselves,” he said. “And you know what happened?”

  Henry shook her head.

  “The next day, she slipped away from all of ‘em and went right back to her place in the trees, back to that dark little hut. My mama said that some people like Miss Aggy spent too much time in the quiet of the woods to be comfortable living on a sunny porch in the middle of town.”

  “You’re talking about his time in jail? You think he doesn’t like being around a lot of people?”

  “I’m sayin’ he don’t like people, period.”

  Henry let that sink in for a moment. Maybe she and Gideon Becket had more in common than she’d thought.

  He jerked one shoulder up. “Anyways, he’s not real social. Sticks to his own business. I would probably avoid the man myself, but if Father Tom says he’s okay, I’m gonna take his word for it.”

  “Wait, Father Tom Clerc? From St. Augustine’s?” Usually her grandparents went to the Minor Basilica downtown but she’d visited the beautiful little historic church called Isle Brevelle a few times over the years. It was officially part of the Cane River Creole National Historic Park but she hadn’t made her way over there to formally introduce herself. Father Tom was young, and gregarious, and seemed to be a cheerful extrovert. Her mind couldn’t put Gideon, unsmiling and soft-spoken, into a friendship with Father Tom.

  Clark tucked the hanky back into his pocket. “They were raised up together. Best friends, those two. Father Tom said he wouldn’t be a priest without Gideon.”

  How very odd. Gideon was more and more of conundrum every passing moment. As soon as she got a chance, Henry would have to do some research. She didn’t mind being out of the loop, but this was getting ridiculous. “I didn’t think he was from around here.”

  “Father Tom is, I think. At least, he’s got people here. Miss Jenny LaRoche is his aunt, if I recall. She mentioned it at the St. Augustine Gumbo Feed last year while she was dishing me up a bowl of her secret recipe, which will remain secret because nobody’s interested in it, for sure. It was so thin, the more I ate, the hungrier I got. Anyway, in a town like Natchitoches, seems most everybody is related to somebody, Miss Byrne.”

  She had to smile, knowing exactly what he meant. “Why won’t you call me Henry? I first met you when my grandmamma brought me here. I wasn’t more than six or seven. ‘Miss Byrne’ just sounds so formal.”

  “Well, I might never have told you this, but my brother’s name is Henry and I just can’t see you as a Henry.” He cocked his head, dark eyes narrowed. “You sure you don’t have any other name? You sayin’ Miss Birdie couldn’t talk your momma into a better choice? A girl with a smile that pretty should have a pretty name to go with it.”

  She stepped toward him and lowered her voice a little. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mr. Thompson, just because you and my family are so close.”

  “I’m listenin’,” he said.

  “Henry is my middle name. But my first isn’t really much better,” she said softly. Then she put a finger to her lips.

  “What?” He leaned back, disbelief on his face. “How could it be worse?” Then he seemed to take note of her expression and hurried on. “I mean, Henry is a fine name but really, I can’t imagine not preferring somethin’ else. Is it another man’s name? You know, I’ve never been fond of Horton. There was a boy in my school named Horton and he was a real bully. I don’t like Alfred, either. Sounds sniffy.”

  “Alfred, like Batman’s butler?” She considered that for a moment. “I don’t think I’d mind that one, actually.”

  “So, what is it? Now I’m downright curious.”

  “No, sir. I’m not telling. You’ll have to trust me that Henry is better.”

  “Huh.” He shot her a look. “You think you the only one who can dig around for some old papers?”

  Henry felt her insides go cold. “I’m just teasing you. I’ll tell you. Just not today.” She forced herself to smile. “Now, I’m headed out to the overseer’s house to check the limewashing, and then to the slave quarters to see how those archeology students are coming with the excavation.”

  “Awright. I’m gonna fiddle with this flume a bit longer. I’ve looked for a replacement for this model but if it don’t work, we’ll have to quit using the stove.” He rubbed his chin. “It was real nice havin’ that going during the chilly days. Felt just like old times.”

  Henry knew he meant before electricity, before all the updates that had come to the house. She knew the changes were needed, especially when they transferred ownership to the national park system and the house became a visitor’s center. But she also longed to have seen the home, as it was, before it the desks and phones and visitor displays.

  She stepped into her office and set her purse on the antique desk. She flipped through the pile of new mail without really seeing the addresses. Even though she’d intended to walk straight out to the check on the lime washing she found herself sitting down in her chair, swiveling toward the window and staring out at the tree-lined driveway. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back here. She’d spent so long researching the area, uncovering the long-hidden drama of the past, she’d almost forgotten that she had a few secrets of her own.

  There was a light tap on her door and a young woman’s head appeared in the crack. Her round cheeks were flushed and the scarf around her curly brown hair was askew. “Henry, I hate to bother you but you’ve got a visitor.”

  “Oh, you’re not bothering me, Vonda.” Henry hated being caught staring out the window. Vonda Mason and Jeremy Marlowe were the two newest archeology students and she didn’t want them to think they did all the work while she watched the grass grow. “And you don’t have to be the secretary. How’s the excavation coming along?”

  Vonda wiped a hand over her brow. “Jeremy and I just came in to get some more ice for our water bottles. We’re just not used to this humidity yet.”

  Henry checked her hair in the mirror next to her desk and straightened her skirt. “Minneapolis is a different climate, for sure. It’ll be better by September.” She glanced up. “I know that sounds like a long time, but it will fly by.”

  “Right. I bet it will,” Vonda said, forcing a smile.

  Lie.

  She took a breath and stepped through the door. The first few weeks were bound to be filled with meeting new people and then it would settle down. It wouldn’t always be this hard to talk to her coworkers.

  A man stood by the old wood stove, toeing a spot near one of the cast iron legs. His cream linen suit was wrinkled at the knees as if he’d been sitting for most of the day. He turned as she crossed the foyer and she saw his gaze flick from her head to her toes, and back.

  She pushed up her glasses with one finger and held out a hand. “How can I help you?”

  He dropped her hand after a second and reached for a business card. “I’m Barney Sandoz. I’ve been workin’ with local leaders and community officials for decades to preserve Cane River Creole culture.”

  Lie.

  Henry’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t sure what part of his statement was wrong, but glancing at his business card, it wasn’t his name.

  “I was real excited to hear you’re tearing up a few sites on the grounds. I’m interested in bein’ part the project. Now, I know my Creole and freed slave history. I can identify a ten dollar Confederate treasury note at twenty paces.”

  “Doubtful we’ll be finding any cash in the slave quarters. The last artifact we uncovered was a small brass cross about an inch h
igh.” She saw his eyes narrow and could practically see him calculating the worth of such an item. “And I wouldn’t way we’re tearing up the outbuildings. We’re excavating, removing the floorboards and looking behind the walls. If we find any rot or problems, we’ll fix them. That’s very kind of you to offer your expertise, Mr. Sandoz. Of course, anyone who works here needs to go through an application process with the National Park Service.”

  “Oh, I was just hoping to volunteer my services. I’ve dedicated my life to this area. There’s no price you could put on making sure our children and grandchildren know the sacrifices that our forefathers went through to build a life here. And it’s real personal to me. My great-great-great granddaddy Milton LeFleur was part owner of Oakland Plantation at one point in time.”

  Lie.

  Even if she hadn’t known the plantations history by heart, she would have known that was a lie. She felt sweat beading near her hairline and on the back of her neck. She stared down at his card, struggling to form a sentence. When someone lied to her, it was like watching a movie with the wrong soundtrack. Nothing made sense.

  “What year was this? I don’t know I’ve seen that name anywhere on the records.”

  “Oh, it was probably written out and covered up.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Those Prud’hommes weren’t all sunshine and happiness. Big powerful family like that.”

  The Prud’homme family was still in the area. As far as Henry could tell, they were as protective of the history, good or bad, of the plantation as anyone else. She decided she’d had enough of Barney Sandoz.

  “The archeology students have just started this week. I’ll let you know if we find anything that we’re unsure of or if we need another opinion.” There was no way she would let a man like Barney Sandoz near the excavation site. Or any other spot on the national park, for that matter.

  “My daddy used to say the time to peel your crawfish is before you eat him. If you wait too long to give me a call, I could be all tied up and then you’d be in a pickle.”

  Henry felt her blood pressure rising. She didn’t like the hard sell approach, especially from someone she’d never met. “Did you say you’ve been working with other places in Cane River? I was just at the parish archives today.”

  He straightened up as if she’d waved her fist. “I’ve been there. Don’t care much for the director. He’s not our kind of people.”

  “You mean, he’s not from around here? I thought he was a native.”

  “Huh. He may be from around here, but my mama would be rolling in her grave if I worked with a man like Gideon Becket. You know what he did, dontcha?”

  “He told me he was in prison for murder, yes.”

  “Not just murder. He strangled a man when he was just a boy and it was all over some cocaine.”

  Truth.

  “Look at the man,” he went on. “Looks like he did just fine up at Angola and that’s one of the worst prisons in the country. No boy could survive in place like that unless he’s scarier than all the other criminals. I bet he was part of one of those big cartels up there. Maybe he still is. I bet he’s all tattooed under those nice clothes. He’s got ice in his veins. You can’t look him in the eye and tell me that’s not true.”

  She thought of the way Gideon didn’t lie, the way he didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him. He acted like a man with nothing to lose. Or one who didn’t care who he hurt to get what he wanted.

  “I don’t know him that well.” She held up his business card. “Thank you for stopping by and I’ll let you know if we need your help.”

  His eyes narrowed for a moment as if he wanted to get some kind of guarantee that he could be involved, but then he smiled. “Thanks for your time, Miss Byrne. And say hello to your aunt Kimberley. Tell her I’m a big fan.”

  Lie.

  She nodded, walking him to the door. As he left, she stood at the screen and watched him walk back down to his car. As he pulled away from Oakland Plantation, the sunlight flashed on the chrome hubcaps. Long after the dust had had settled back into the long drive way, Henry was there still, thinking.

  ****

  “Hey, how’s my favorite introvert?” Tom stood up from his desk and gave Gideon a hug, clapping him on the back. His dark curly hair stood out straight as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

  Gideon set down his leather satchel on the floor and slumped into the chair across from Tom’s desk. “Thinking he should get back to his office where it’s safe. I was just near run off the road ‘cause I was going the speed limit. Whatever happened to slow country life? It’s Thursday afternoon in Natchitoches and everyone’s driving like it’s Saturday night in New York City.”

  “You sound like old Sal Panettiere. Every Sunday he traps me at the door on the way out and gives me a lecture about how things were in his day, when the men caught dinner and the women cooked it.”

  “I’m not that far gone. I’ve had possum stew and I’ll stick with tater tot casserole, as much as I hate it, thank you very much.” He didn’t know how Tom could stand the cramped little office. Being the parish priest of the oldest church in Cane River should have some perks, like a window with a view. But Isle Brevelle was on the National Historic Registry and there weren’t many renovations they could do on such an old building. He rolled up his sleeves, his movements sharp with nervous energy and free-floating irritation.

  “Are you working out more?” Tom asked.

  “Me?” Gideon lifted an arm and flexed, letting his biceps strain against his shirt. “Maybe. It’s relaxing.”

  “Maybe too much of a good thing. You’re getting muscles on top of your muscles.”

  “I don’t see the problem with that.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Tom said. “I know you had to work hard to not look weak in prison. But here, it just may be the opposite.”

  Gideon frowned at him. “Are you saying I’m scary looking? Did somebody complain?” He smoothed his tie. “It’s not like I’m covered in tattoos and shave my head.”

  “No, nobody complained, but you’re always going to be working against preconceived ideas. If you look like you spend all your time preparing for a fistfight, it sort of fits their idea of who a felon is.”

  “Got it.” Gideon could always count on Tom to tell him the truth.

  Tom shuffled papers on his desk and Gideon knew what he was going to say before he said it. It was like clock-work, this conversation. Every spring, summer, winter, fall.

  “Harris and Sally called. They hope you’re well,” Tom said.

  Gideon nodded. Just hearing their names was like a physical pain, like a punch in the gut.

  “They say Austin’s doing really well at University of Louisiana. It’s his last year.”

  There it was, the kick that felt like a chaser to the emotional torture routine. “Good,” he managed.

  “They’d always be glad to see you. Maybe we can drive up together sometime,” Tom said, his voice carefully neutral.

  “You’ll never stop trying, will you?”

  He sighed. “Nope. They were the closest thing to real parents we had. For me, they are my parents, and you were there first, years before I was placed there. I know none of us are really related but I feel like my family won’t be complete until y’all on the same page again.”

  “I can’t un-burn that bridge. There’s no going back.”

  “Only because you say so. They’ve never rejected you. They even wrote you in prison, even―”

  “Listen, I’m glad they say they can forgive me, forgive the way I lied to them and stole money from them and ran away to get on a bus going half way across the country so I could murder a man.” He could hear the anger in his voice. “But I have a hard time believing that. I’ve apologized to them. But I don’t think that relationship can be repaired. Not really.”

  “Of course it can. They loved you like a son.”

  Like a son. And without his willing it, a memory rushed through him. A
ustin tucked under his arm, head against his chest, listening to his favorite train book, again. Somehow he’d fallen into bedtime reading duty. Maybe Sally and Vince knew that being a big brother to Austin would help heal the loss of Katie Rose. Maybe they understood how much comfort it would give him to care for someone who was around his sister’s age when she was murdered.

  Gideon closed his eyes. What those men had done to Katie Rose, he had done to Austin. Not physically, but after being there Austin’s whole life, he’d walked away. He knew what it felt like to be betrayed as a kid and he knew what it was like when someone hurt a child that you loved. There was no way to forgive that. He couldn’t face Austin, and he couldn’t face his parents.

  “I just… can’t,” he whispered, opening his eyes.

  Tom nodded. “So, besides saving me from writing up the announcement of the jambalaya feed for the church bulletin, what are you doing here? You don’t usually drop by in the middle of the day.”

  “Just running errands. And I was thinking about going out on the river sometime. Maybe call up Bix and see if he wants to show us that spot he found with all the bluegill. You interested?”

  “Sure, name the day. But the last time we went out on the boat, you said Bix’s running commentary gave you a headache and you’d rather listen to banjo music for five hours straight.”

  “Even a whole day of his stories can’t be as bad as one more day sitting in my office. Nothing ever changes there. Day in, day out. Same old, same old.”

  “I thought that’s what you liked about the place. It’s not like you to get cabin fever.”

  “It’s been known to happen,” he said. “Actually, I’ve been thinking of going to the Southern History conference in Atlanta in November.”

  Tom was quiet for a moment. “A conference.”

  “Right.” Gideon tapped his fingers against one knee. “Or maybe the one in Miami in December. People probably think I’m some old recluse. ”