Little Gale Gumbo (25 page)

“Don't say I have to go back to my room,” she whispered, sliding in behind him before he could refuse. “We don't have to talk if you're tired. We can just sleep. I don't mind.”

Matthew lay down on his back, slowly, not sure whether he should even look at her. They'd lain side by side a hundred times in the grass, on the beach, their toes and elbows touching without their thinking anything about it, but this . . . this was different.

Or maybe Josie didn't think so.

When she slipped her arm over his stomach and lifted it carefully up to his chest, Matthew froze. “JoJo . . .”

“Just for a little while,” she said, her voice quavering as if she might cry at any second. “In case there's another storm. I can't bear the thunder. And Dahlia's still not back.”

He lay there, unmoving, saying nothing, and eventually he felt her body soften against his, her breathing quieting to the easy rhythm of sleep. When her hair brushed his cheek and he took a whiff of her apple shampoo, he clasped his hand over hers, and even though he wasn't sure he would be able to fall asleep with her there, he did.

He slept deeply, waking a short time later. It was a long moment before he realized that Josie had already returned to her own bed, the thick scent of licorice left on his pillow.

 

“Jack Thurlow likes you.”

Dahlia turned at the sound of her sister's small voice in the darkness. She'd been sure everyone was asleep when she'd crept back into the apartment.

“Shh,” Dahlia whispered. “It's almost midnight.”

Josie sat up. “He kept looking at you all through dinner. I mean really looking at you. Didn't you about die when he pulled your chair out for you? Matty's never done that. I can't believe they're the same age. Can you? Jack seems so much older.”

“Go to sleep, will you?”

“Momma's worried you're gonna mess it up with him.”

“When did she say that?”

“She didn't,” Josie admitted. “But I saw her dressing a love candle for you just before I came to bed.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Dahlia unsnapped her necklace and dropped it on the dresser. “It was one date, y'all.”

“Did he ask you out again?”

When Dahlia didn't answer, Josie frowned.

“Well, did he?”

Dahlia smiled helplessly, glad for the darkness to hide her delight. “Yeah. He did.”

Josie said nothing, just lay down and sighed, relief and joy traveling all the way to her toes.

 

When Camille was certain that the house slept deeply, she slipped out from under her blanket, pulled on her scarlet kimono, and stepped carefully out of the apartment. For several weeks now she had been learning the home's bones, discovering which floorboards squeaked, and which stair treads groaned. But all of her careful study was for naught: The moment she reached the door to Ben's room and pressed it open, it let go a yawning creak that nearly propelled her under his bed.

“They'll know now,” she whispered, feeling Ben's hand close around hers in the near darkness.

“No, they won't,” he assured her, pulling her into his room and carefully closing the door behind them, knowing the perfect speed to keep the hinges quiet. He switched on the light atop his dresser, casting the sparse room in a soft glow. Camille looked around at the tidy bed, the bare floors, the tall dresser with a curious collection of pencils, drill bits, and change. She had an urge to slide out one of those drawers, to see inside.

When Ben reached up to spread apart the neck of her silk robe, he had to stop, his fingers were shaking so badly. He blew out a ragged breath, lowering his hands. “I can't believe how nervous I am,” he said.

Camille smiled, lifting his hands once again and settling them above her breasts.

“Are
you
?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, her own skin prickling with anticipation.

“Silly, isn't it?” he said, his mouth dry as her bare flesh began to be revealed, the cappuccino-colored skin so smooth, the faint smell of rosewater rising as the fabric fell away. When he closed his wide palms over her bare breasts, they both exhaled.

“Everything was firmer once,” Camille confessed when Ben carried her to the bed and laid her down.

“Me too,” he said, lowering himself beside her. They took their time—after all, they had waited a year; what was another few minutes when there was so much to explore, to touch, to taste? When Ben finally eased himself down on top of her, Camille shifted beneath him, settling him inside of her, watching the familiar lines of his face deepen, the rough skin of his jaw flush with each thrust. She could feel her own skin reddening too, the forgotten splotches of heat that always appeared below her neck when she made love.

After several minutes, Ben slowed. “I have trouble,” he admitted quietly. “Sometimes I just can't—”

“Shh . . .” Camille pressed her fingers against his lips. When he tried to withdraw, she wrapped her legs around him, keeping him inside of her.

“I never could have imagined,” Ben whispered. “I thought this part of my life was over. And then you came here. . . .”

Camille didn't know how it was possible. Her falling so deeply in love, and she'd never even dressed a candle for him.

Twenty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the fly appeared in the café kitchen on a soft May morning, Camille was too busy stirring praline syrup and chopping piles of okra and onion to see it. If she had noticed the insect, she would have been warned that Charles was on his way back to the island; a lingering fly always signaled the arrival of an unwanted guest.

So when Charles stepped off the ferry that same afternoon, swinging his precious trumpet case and greeting strangers with a confident grin as he climbed Ocean Avenue to Main Street, Camille was far from prepared.

When the knock came on the apartment door, Camille was folding laundry in the living room. She was sure it was Ben, couldn't conceive of anyone else being on the other side of the door, so when she found Charles standing there, she had to grip the knob to keep from falling over.

He spread his arms. “The new me, darlin'. What do ya think?”

Camille hardly recognized him. He wore an ivory suit under a long wool coat, leather gloves, and polished shoes. His hair was combed flat, his jaw clean-shaven.

“Charles,” was all she could manage, though he wouldn't have waited for more.

“Told ya I'd be back.”

He tossed his belongings into the apartment and swept her up, spinning her around as he steered her toward the couch, his linen shirt sticky with sweat under her splayed hands.

“You should have called,” Camille said, breathless as he dragged them both down to the couch, nuzzling her neck as she tried to gather her wits. A prickling fear flooded her. She searched the room over his shoulder, seeking evidence of her new lover, pieces of her guilt. Just that morning, Ben had slipped from the pullout at five, making sure to be back in his own bed when Matthew rose at five thirty. Camille felt sure the flush of their dawn lovemaking was still evident on her skin, the cushions still hot beneath Charles's seat.

“Where the girls at?” he demanded, pulling off his coat and gloves, tossing them easily onto the love seat.

“School.”

“School, huh?” Charles tugged at his collar, plucking buttons from their holes.

“You must be thirsty,” she said, seeing her chance to flee. “I don't have much in the house.”

“You're lookin' at a new man, Camille,” he announced proudly, lifting his chin. “Don't touch the hard stuff anymore. Haven't had a drop for almost a month now.”

“A month?” It was unimaginable to her.

He rubbed her thigh through her caftan. “I'd love me a tall glass of sweet tea, though.” Camille nodded dully, rising and making her way into the kitchen. “And some beans and rice, or jambalaya or somethin',” he said, tugging out his cigarettes and snapping open his lighter. “I'm starved. Jesus, I forgot how god-awful the food is up here.”

Camille's hands shook as she drew the pitcher from the fridge, then set the pot of red beans on the stovetop. From the kitchen, she watched him, dumbfounded, sure there had been some mistake, that the real Charles Bergeron would appear at any moment, bursting out of his clothes like a dancing girl from a cake.

“You look pale, baby,” he observed coolly, squinting through the smoke of his cigarette when Camille came out with his food and tea, setting them down carefully in front of him. “You feelin' okay?”

“I'm fine,” she managed. “It's just . . . we hadn't heard from you in a while.”

He rested his smoke on the edge of the tray, scooped up a wedge of bread, and chewed it. “I know,” he said, “and I'm sorry for that. But I had to get some business squared away. Certain things straightened out.”

Business. Her stomach lurched at the word. She knew there was only one kind of
business
that would allow a man like Charles to afford expensive clothes.

She glanced nervously at the clock on the table. Four ten. The girls would be home soon. And Ben was to come by to fix the light in the bathroom.

She swallowed, clearing his plate the instant he'd scooped up the last spoonful of beans.

“How long are you here for this time?” she asked, fleeing to the kitchen again.

“Well, now, that's just it.” Charles reached back and draped both arms across the back of the couch, stretching out his legs. “I decided if y'all won't come home, then I was gonna bring home to y'all.”

“Wha . . . what do you mean?”

Charles reached into his coat pocket and produced his wallet, parting the billfold so that she could see the thick fan of bills. “It's just for starters.” He tossed it onto the coffee table. “Business been so good lately I was thinkin' I might take a little break. I think I'm gonna buy me a lobster boat and start pullin' up some of them ugly sons a bitches myself.”

“Charles . . .” Camille came back into the living room and gave him an even look, trying to keep the panic from her voice. “Charles, you can't be serious. You don't just
become
a lobsterman. There are licenses, and the weather here can freeze, and you don't know the first thing about trapping lobsters or owning a boat.”

“Well, shit, Camille.” He snorted, lighting a new cigarette. “Bergerons been shrimpin' the gulf for generations. Pullin' shit out the water is in my blood.”

“That may be,” she said, the panic now creeping into her tight voice, “but catching shrimp and trapping lobster are very different things.”

“Oh, come on now, darlin'.” Charles grinned at her, his expression utterly carefree. “I told ya. You're lookin' at a new man. I been livin' wrong for too long now, but I got things straight in my head. We gonna be a family again. I swear to you, Camille.”

She managed a weak smile, even as her heart sank, as deep and heavy as a lobster trap into the bay.

 

“A lobsterman? Is he out of his goddamned mind?”

Dahlia paced in front of the window while Camille explained Charles's plan to them that night. Josie sat on the love seat, bent at the waist, as if she were warding off nausea.

“What about Ben?” Dahlia said. “Have you told him about you and Ben?”

“Of course not,” Camille said. “And I don't want either of you saying a word; do you understand?”

Josie nodded obediently. Dahlia flopped beside her on the love seat. “He'll drown. He'll fall overboard within a day.”

Josie gnawed on her thumbnail, wincing when she drew blood.

“Where is he, anyway?” Dahlia asked, looking around.

“At the grocery,” Camille said. “He insisted on buying steaks for dinner.”

Dahlia stood up. “Well, I can't stay,” she announced. “I have plans.”

Josie looked up, panicked. “You're leaving us?”

“I am if I want to catch Jack on his way over here.” Dahlia crossed to the bedroom. Josie followed.

“At least wait until Daddy comes back,” Josie pleaded, closing the bedroom door behind them. “At least say hi.”

“If I say anything, it won't be hi.” Dahlia walked to their dresser and snapped on the radio to drown out their conversation. Rod Stewart came on. She turned it up. She shook off her flared jeans and walked to the closet, finding a denim miniskirt in a pile on the floor and tugging it over her hips.