“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.
“You don’t have to thank me. I want to be here for Remy, and—and I want to be here for you.”
Raphe stepped closer to her and held one of her hands between his. He started to speak but, seeming unable to find words, bent down and softly kissed her, lingering for only a moment before he released her. Then he got into Doc’s car and drove away, leaving Ellie to wonder if what just happened had really happened at all.
TWENTY-FOUR
ELLIE KEPT REPLAYING RAPHE’S GOODBYE, lightly touching her fingers to her lips while she climbed the stairs at Doc’s house and went to Remy’s room to keep him company. She found him sitting up in bed, frowning at a book in his hands.
“What you got there, Remy?” She stopped to stoke the fire before kicking off her shoes and climbing under the covers with him, the two of them leaning on pillows against the headboard.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I found it on the table by my bed, but I can’t read any of the names in it.”
“Let me have a look.” She reached for the book and read the cover. “Well, no wonder! This is a book of Greek mythology. Those names are hard for anybody to read.”
“What’s Greek myth . . . myth . . . ?”
“Myth-ol-o-gy.” She sounded it out for him. “That’s a pretty big word all by itself, isn’t it?”
“What’s it mean?”
“It’s a group of stories that people thousands of years ago told each other to try and explain the world around them. The ancient Greeks lived on an island between the Aegean and the Ionian Seas—far away from Louisiana. They believed in a god of the sun, a god of the wind, a god of the sea—”
“Instead of the one God of everything?”
“Exactly. Instead of the one God of everything. And the stories they told each other to try and explain things like the sun, the wind, and the sea—those got retold over and over again, from one generation to the next, and eventually somebody wrote them all down. That’s what this book is about.”
Remy looked down at the book and pointed. “What’s this name?”
“That’s Poseidon.”
“And this one?”
“Zeus.”
Remy turned a couple of pages and pointed to a picture of a mighty warrior in battle. “What about this one?”
“That’s Achilles,” Ellie said.
“What did he do?”
“According to their legends, he was a fierce warrior who had one weak spot near the heel of his foot. When wise men began studying the human body and naming its parts, they named that part of the foot the Achilles tendon. We still call it that.”
“I’ve got one?”
“Sure do. See?” Ellie pulled the covers back enough to show it to Remy on his own foot. “How about that? There’s a very important part of your foot that’s named after a make-believe warrior from a story that’s been told for thousands of years. A story’s a powerful thing, non?”
Remy grinned at her, rubbing his nose as he thought it over. “I think the Indian chiefs are more interesting.”
“Well, that’s because they were real, and they lived right where you do. It’s always interesting to hear stories about the people who came before us and lived in places we’ve been—places we’ve seen for ourselves, like the Teche or the Atchafalaya. Want me to tell you about the chief?”
Remy nodded and smiled.
Ellie checked her watch and felt his face, which was a little warm but nothing like the night before. “Tell you what. Let’s take your medicine and get you all snuggled in, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
A WRECK ON THE HIGHWAY had made the trip to Lafayette long and tedious. Raphe returned to Doc’s house late in the afternoon, road weary and ready to get home. The air was chilly, the sky gray. Inside the house, he climbed the stairs to Remy’s room, wondering if his nephew would be able to travel the short journey back to their bayou cabin—and if the weather would hold off long enough for them to get there.
In the doorway to Remy’s room, Raphe stopped and stared silently at the bed. Juliet and Remy were both asleep. His head was on her shoulder, his face pressed against her neck. Her arms were on top of the bedspread, one hand against Remy’s back, the other against his hair, as if she had fallen asleep stroking it, with no thought to whether holding him might make her sick. They both looked so peaceful.
The scene stirred long-suppressed memories of a mother’s touch, of comforting arms wrapped around him in a storm, of childhood hurts “kissed well,” of rosary beads drawn through loving hands and prayers softly spoken in French. Looking at Remy and Juliet, Raphe suddenly envisioned a child who had been wandering, lost and alone in the bayou, finally seeing the lights of home. And he had to wonder: Was Remy lost or was he?
TWENTY-FIVE
IT WAS THE END OF ELLIE’S FIRST DAY BACK with her students after she’d closed the school for two weeks on Doc’s recommendation.
“Are you comin’ to the dance hall on Saturday night, Miss Ellie?” Remy asked as he fell into step with her. As it turned out, he didn’t have meningitis, thank goodness, though he had still been very sick when Raphe took him home from Doc’s.
“Well, I’ll try to, Remy,” Ellie said. They were walking with the Toussaints and a group of students, headed for the landing.
“I’m comin’ with Aunt Kitty,” Remy said. “I have to stay with her for a while.”
“Really? Why?”
“Nonc had to go to Morgan City to work on a whole bunch o’ boats. He says I’m his business partner, ’cause he couldn’t work on boats if I wouldn’t stay with Aunt Kitty. He says I’m really helpin’ him out.”
“That’s very grown-up of you, Remy. I’m sure Nonc appreciates your help.”
Remy ran ahead to catch up with his cousins. Ellie had to admit that her heart sank. She had seen Raphe only briefly when he returned from Lafayette and took her home. There was no time to talk, with a sick little boy in the boat needing the warmth of his bed. For the past two weeks she had been expecting to see Raphe any day, any minute. But he had left without saying goodbye.
Now here she was with someone she had known only a short time occupying all of her thoughts, while back home was another, one she had dated for months and promised to marry, who never crossed her mind. How was that possible? Ellie knew the answer even as she asked the question: She loved one man, not the other, and time had nothing to do with it.
RAPHE WAS SO TIRED HE COULD BARELY MOVE. For two weeks, he had repaired one boat after another, helping a big shrimping operation get repairs done for the next season. He had worked twelve-hour days without stopping for weekends ever since he got to Morgan City, and he still had one more boat to go. All he wanted was to go home.
As much as he’d tried to fight it, all he really wanted was Juliet. It wasn’t fair. Being with him would mean a life spent in the bayou, sharing her gifts with one little community, when she had so much to offer and so many prospects. She could go anywhere, do anything—and she deserved that. He should leave her alone. But he knew he couldn’t.
TWENTY-SIX
ELLIE HAD RISEN EARLY, EATEN HER breakfast, and put on her brother’s overalls. She was sitting on the dock, sipping her second cup of coffee and watching a roseate spoonbill perched on the bank, when the bird suddenly took flight, its bright pink feathers electrified against the blue sky. Over the flapping of its wings, she heard the noise of a boat motor. Within a few minutes, the Whirlygig came chugging into the slough.
She stood up and waved as the boat approached the dock. “Captain Thornberry, I presume?”
“C’est moi!” Heywood shouted back over the engine noise. He tied up his boat, climbed the ladder onto the dock, bent down on one knee, and kissed Ellie’s hand. “Your humble servant.”
“Oh, get up and shut up,” Ellie said.
Heywood laughed and hugged her, then stepped back and looked her up and down. “You really do like men’s clothes, don’t you?”
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“What can I tell you? The cotillion got canceled.”
“It suits you,” Heywood said. “But you have to go change because we’re goin’ to New Orleans for lunch—in your car, if that’s okay.”
“I can’t go to New Orleans for lunch!”
“Why not? It’s Saturday—no school.”
“Well, because normal people don’t do that.”
“No, but we do. C’mon, Ellie. Let’s go to New Orleans and have ourselves a lunch befitting our social station.”
Ellie had to laugh. “Did you just rob a bank or something, Heywood?”
He shook his head sadly. “Why must you always attribute my activities to nefarious pursuits?”
“Alright, alright, I’ll go! Come on up while I change my clothes. How’s Claudette?”
HEYWOOD TOOK ELLIE TO LUNCH at Ollie B’s, where they visited with Miss Ollie, and Ellie again watched him slip her some money. Then they set about roaming the French Quarter, Heywood’s camera in hand. It was a new one, he said, a Kodak developed for combat photographers during the war.
Ellie was fascinated by the things that caught his eye, things she might never have noticed. On Royal Street, she would’ve taken pictures of a passing carriage or maybe a street vendor, but Heywood looked past all of that, through open double doors of an old brick building across the street, and took a picture of a woman—an artist—sitting on a stool before an easel. She was working on a painting, her long, flowing red hair lit by sunlight streaming in from tall windows. It was an absolutely perfect New Orleans moment, but without Heywood, Ellie would’ve missed it. There were so many distractions swirling around the woman and her painting. How had he found her?
Ellie watched as he captured light and shadows against the cracked stucco and centuries-old brick, then photographed the elegantly scrolled wrought-iron and courtyard gates. She saw him aim his camera at the chipped paint and brass knob of an old door, bypassing the flowers growing right beside it, and knew full well that once the film was developed and an image appeared, Heywood’s choice would prove to be the right one.
Along the way, they stopped for chicory coffee and beignets, indulging in pecan pralines from the French Market. Eventually they made their way to a park bench overlooking the Mississippi River, sipping lemonade Heywood bought on the street.
“This has been the best day,” Ellie said with a smile.
He took a sip of his lemonade. “I was afraid you’d think I brought you here on false pretenses.”
“Why? Because you needed a ride to New Orleans, so you invited me to lunch to get the keys to my car?”
“It sounds so calculated when you put it that way.”
Ellie laughed and dabbed her forehead with her cold cup. “Tell you what, Heywood, if it means I get to ramble around New Orleans with you all day, you can consider Mabel at your disposal.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They were silent—a rarity when they were together—as they watched a tugboat push a barge upriver.
“Heywood,” Ellie finally said, “how do you know? What to take pictures of, I mean?”
He held his camera up and pointed it at Ellie. “There. I just look for beauty and fire away.”
“I’m serious,” she said.
“So am I.”
“The woman sitting at that easel on Royal Street—she wasn’t a pageant-girl beauty, but . . .”
“But there was beauty in her. And that made her beautiful.”
“Yes. You’re absolutely right. But how did you see it when I would’ve walked right by?”
Heywood thought it over. “Part of it’s just light and shadow—when you see ’em come together in an interesting way. But then part of it has to do with what’s inside a person—something they sort of give off. I can sense it, and the camera can see it. You have it, by the way, Miss Fields. So does Raphe.”
“You take pictures of Raphe?”
“Don’t you dare tell him. He’d hate it. But I manage to capture a few shots of him now and then when he’s focused on something else, like his fishing line or his fiddle. He has to be really distracted, though. Never saw anybody as annoyingly alert as he is.” Heywood stood up and looked at the angle of the sun, which was casting the golden light of late afternoon on the river and on Ellie. “Hey, do me a favor, Miss Fields. Close your eyes and turn your face toward the sky.” He propped one foot on the edge of the bench and brought the camera in closer.
Ellie gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’d feel silly, Heywood.”
“C’mon—just one time? Close your eyes and tilt your head back a little.”
Ellie sighed but gave in. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the river breeze in her hair.
“Now,” Heywood instructed, “think of the single most amazing moment in your life.”
Immediately Ellie had a vision of the white alligator, of the three of them together, of Raphe’s arms around her and his face against her hair. She heard the click of the shutter button. Opening her eyes, she turned to Heywood, expecting him to be laughing at her for being persuaded to do something so foolish in broad daylight. But he wasn’t laughing. He was looking at her with—what was the word—adoration? How strange to think she could spark such a thing in someone like Heywood.
“Thank you, Ellie,” he said. “That’s one I won’t soon forget.”
“Now it’s my turn. Let me take your picture.”
He grinned at her, clearly trying to bring some levity into a weighty moment that had taken them both by surprise. “Sure you won’t break my camera?”
“I’m a professional, remember?” Directing him to sit on the end of the park bench and look out at the river, she photographed him in profile, his Panama hat shading his face.
He smiled at her when the shutter clicked. “No turning back now, Miss Fields.”
Had she captured his handsome features and tender expression? Would the viewer see, in Heywood’s gaze, the love of a time and place he feared were slipping away from him? It seemed intrusive to capture such a thing, yet tragic not to.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, watching him take off his hat and fan his face with it. “Heywood—you really are gonna be okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I feel it in my bones. It’s a terrible thing that happened to all those cousins of yours. But it doesn’t have to happen to you. Ever heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Did somebody take psychology in college?”
“Got an A. I’m practically a doctor.”
“Practically.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You are my very dear Miss Ellie Fields. And I feel a little better about the world, knowing that you’re in it, worrying about me. I give you my word I will not self-fulfill a dadgum thing.”
Ellie gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. “I appreciate that. Now I can sleep at night.”
They sat together, watching the sun sink low over the Mississippi.
“I saw him, you know.” Heywood kept his eyes on the water.
“Who?”
“My boy Raphe.”
Ellie turned to face him. “When?”
“Couple o’ nights ago.”
“In Bernadette?”
“No, in Morgan City.”
“Oh.” She felt an unexpected, unwanted stinging in her eyes and fixed them on a barge slowly gliding upriver, a tugboat pushing it along.
Heywood put his arm around her. “You can’t fool me, Miss Ellie Fields. Not one bit.”
She looked up at him and stopped fighting the tears. He held her tight and let her cry on his shoulder.
“Some people,” he said, “have a very hard time admitting how badly they want something. I know at least two of them.”
Once her tears subsided, she took the handkerchief he offered her and blotted her face. “He didn’t even say goodbye, Heywood.”
“For which he should be shot. I’ve told him as much.”
/> Ellie smiled even as she dabbed at her eyes. “Will you personally see to the execution?”
“Already on my calendar. ‘Have lunch with Ellie. Shoot Raphe. P.S. Use a really big gun. Scoundrel’s got it coming.’”
Ellie laughed in spite of herself. “I appreciate your attention to detail. You really think he’s a scoundrel?”
“Of course not. And neither do you.”
She sat up and looked out at the Mississippi. “It’s never still, is it? One boat passes out of view and a different one comes in to fill the space. It’s always changing.”
“True, but it’s also constant—strong river currents flowing in their ordained direction to the Gulf of Mexico.”
Ellie brushed her hair back from her face and tilted her head. “Are we boats or rivers, do you think?”
“Hmm. Good question.” Heywood rested his chin in his hand as he thought it over, then turned to her. “I am most assuredly a boat. Raphe is a river if ever there was one. And you, Miss Ellie Fields—you have touches of both.”
“Leave it to me to land in between,” she said with a sigh.
“I didn’t say you weren’t either. I said you were both.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Most definitely.”
They watched the muddy water swirl as one boat after another passed by.
“I guess we’d better start back?” Ellie finally said.
“I suppose.” Heywood stood up and offered her his hand. “May I escort you to your limo, which some would describe—most uncharitably, I think—as a jalopy?”
“They’re just jealous of my refined tastes in classic automobiles.” She took his hand, and they began walking along the river.
“Tell me something, Ellie. Do you ever long for New Orleans when you’re tucked away in your bayou cabin?”
She thought it over. “No. Not really. I love New Orleans, but in the way you love that eccentric aunt who comes to visit at Christmastime—the one with the big jewelry and a little too much Shalimar. She’s fascinating for a couple of days, but who could live with that much drama on a regular basis?”
Under the Bayou Moon Page 16
