Rising Tides (7 page)

Ben was alone on the gallery when she returned. “I’m ready if you are,” she said.

“Let’s get it over with.”

The path was as badly overgrown as she’d feared. Morning glory and creeper screened dead and dying trees, and the still air was heavy with the scent of decay.

They reached the
garconnière
without having exchanged one word. Dawn gestured toward the steps. “I’ll go first.” At the top, she stepped aside and gestured toward the door.
“Voilà.”

With no ceremony, he took the key from his pocket and thrust it into the lock. He turned it, and the door swung open.

He faced her. “Surprised?”

“More than a little.” She entered first, since he was obviously waiting for her. Her eyes adjusted slowly. The room was the size of a French Quarter bar. There were six windows, old-fashioned double-hung panes grimy with dirt. Everything was just as she remembered it; in fact, it was hard to believe anyone had been inside in a decade.

Ben whistled softly. “Such wealth. How am I going to get this back to San Francisco?”

The idea was so ludicrous that she had to laugh. “Shipping the dust will eat up your life savings.”

“Got your key handy?”

“See anything I could unlock?”

He went to the nearest window and used a corner of a faded green curtain to dust it. The room grew subtly brighter, and she followed his lead, until all the windows had been wiped down. “I guess we’d better start some where and work our way around the room.”

“Did your grandmother ever throw anything away?”

“Apparently not.” Dawn approached an old chest with a cracked marble top. All the drawers opened easily. Something rustled in the corner of one, and she slammed it shut. “Mice.”

“If that’s the worst we find, we’ll be lucky.”

“Please.” She tried an armoire, packed full of filmy, fragile dresses spanning half a century in style. “There are museums that would love to have these.”

“I haven’t seen anything that needs a key.”

“We’re not done.”

She rummaged through boxes of dusty books and mementos, while Ben methodically examined furniture. They had almost progressed around the room before Dawn spotted the trunk. She remembered it well be cause it was the same one that had held all the family photographs. Some of the photographs were still there, but now half the space was taken up by a small leather suitcase.

Dawn sat cross-legged and lifted the case to her lap. She traced her grandmother’s initials, gold against dark blue. “Look.”

Ben squatted beside her. “Locked?”

She reached inside her pocket for the key. The lock opened as easily as the door. She lifted out a black leather journal. The pages were edged with gold, like a Bible. The first page was inscribed in fountain pen. The script was rounded and carefully formed. With childish whimsy, an ink blot had been turned into a tiny spider.

She was puzzled. She was halfway through the page before she realized who it belonged to. “Ben, this is Uncle Hugh’s journal. I didn’t even know he’d kept one.”

She looked up. Ben’s eyes were shadowed. “I’ve wondered what happened to it.”

“Then you knew?”

“I lived with him that last summer. I saw him writing in it sometimes. When I got out of the hospital and went back…to the rectory, I looked for it. But all his things were gone by then.”

She leafed through it. “It starts when he’s about ten, I think, and it’s pretty sporadic. But look, it’s nearly filled. Almost like…” She didn’t want to go on.

Ben finished for her. “Like his life and the pages ran out together.”

She didn’t want to think about that. “There’s more.”

She set the journal beside her and took out a lavender metal box decorated with pansies and violets. Inside, she found a thick stack of letters tied with a black rib bon.

The letters were more faded than the journal. In the dim light, she was forced to squint to make out words. “This one’s addressed to a Father Grimaud. Look, it’s in French.”

He squinted, too. “I studied Latin.”

“My French is acceptable.”

“Phillip’s is perfect, if you need a translator. Who are they from?”

She turned the first one over. “Lucien Le Danois.” She looked up at Ben. “He was my great-grandfather.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

There hadn’t been time to ask herself that question. Now Dawn realized how important it was. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

He shrugged.

Dawn realized she was hugging the letters to her chest. “If
Grandmère
had only wanted me to have these, she would have given me both of the keys. Or she wouldn’t have bothered with keys at all. Spencer would have handed me the suitcase
this morning on the porch. Do you see? Obviously she wanted us to work together.”

“What right do I have to delve into your family history?”

“I don’t know. Do you have any theories?”

“I haven’t had time to concoct any.” He stood. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take the letters back to the house and read them.” She stood, too. She met his eyes, and for a moment she didn’t speak. Then she held out her uncle’s journal. “You take this.”

“Why?”

“Think about it.
Grandmère
wanted us both to find the case. Obviously she wanted you to be part of this. You don’t speak French, but you were with my uncle when he died.”

“Why do
you
want me to be part of this?”

“I don’t. But my grandmother did. Besides, don’t you need something to do besides sit around and judge me and my family?” Reluctantly she inched the journal closer to him.

He took it with something that seemed remarkably like gratitude.

“So, you want to share what we find at breakfast to morrow?” she asked.

“If we find anything.”

She put the empty suitcase back in the trunk and led the way out. The sky had darkened by the time they emerged. They had come in silence, but now that seemed intolerable. Her grandmother’s strange offering had tilted the balance between them. Dawn no longer knew exactly what to think.

“Betsy’s still threatening,” she said as they started back to the cottage. “Maybe nobody will be able to stay here the full four days. We might have to evacuate. I wonder what that would do to the will….”

“Nobody’s forecasting she’ll come ashore here.”

“Mistakes have been made before.”

They parted inside, their supply of small talk used up. Dawn watched Ben disappear into the kitchen, perhaps to find Phillip and report on this turn of events. She took the letters upstairs and set them beside her bed. A quick scan had shown that they covered a period of years. A good start on translating them would take her into the late hours of the night.

This new link with her grandmother was a surprise and a pleasure. There was really very little that she knew about her grandmother’s family or Aurore’s early life. Who was the woman who had married Henry Gerritsen and borne his two sons? Who was the woman who, contrary to the social mores of her time, had helped build Gulf Coast Shipping into a multimillion-dollar corporation?

Dawn washed and changed for supper; even the knowledge that she would have to face Ben over the table had taken a back seat to the letters and what she might find there.

By the time she went down to eat, rain pelted the roof and thunder shook the rafters. That, too, seemed unimportant.

Alone at last for the evening, she dressed for bed. Then she picked up her grandmother’s bequest.

“You were a crafty old lady.” She hugged the letters as she had earlier. “What was it that you couldn’t tell me yourself,
Grandmère?
”

She settled into bed and set to work.

B
onne Chance lay just across Barataria Bay, not an easy or short journey from Grand Isle, since marsh, water and one ambivalent hurricane separated them. But getting there, even in bad weather, was possible, if you drove back toward New Orleans and cut east to the Mississippi River. Bonne Chance was a one-dictator town, home of Largo Haines, a crony of Ferris’s. It had also been the final home of Hugh Gerritsen.

“I don’t understand why dinner with Largo couldn’t wait until this fiasco at the beach is finished,” Cappy said, peering out the windshield as sheets of rain washed the blacktop in front of them. “We’ve been in the car for hours. We could have had him up to New Orleans next week. I could have made sure everything was perfect.”

“Largo doesn’t care about perfect. He knows exactly how far away we were. He cares whether I come when he whistles, like a well-trained Labrador.”

“Well, apparently he’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing at all. I’ll play bird dog, and the minute I don’t need Largo Haines, I’ll chew him up like an old shankbone.”

“There it is.” Cappy pointed to a discreet sign illuminated by floodlights.

They turned into a driveway that in better weather would have been comfortably familiar. Now the landscape was a thousand shades of forbidding gray, and the Corinthian columns of the Bonne Chance Country Club offered no guarantees that the building would withstand a hurricane.

Inside the marble-tiled foyer, they checked their coats. Ferris swept Cappy from head to toe with critical eyes, but not a golden hair was out of place. Her hat was still perched at a jaunty angle, and the veil that matched the dark red of her suit brushed her forehead.

At moments like these he admired her most, and, as always, on the heels of admiration came desire. These days his sexual needs were few and easily taken care of, and he rarely bothered to spend the night in Cappy’s bedroom. Still, he had never ceased to want his wife when she was most untouchable. Now, as she straightened her skirt, he felt himself growing aroused.

“I’ll never understand why Largo doesn’t insist they redecorate this place,” she said.

“Maybe he likes it.”

She checked the circlet of diamonds above her left breast and brushed away an imaginary speck of lint. “Bamboo furniture and chartreuse walls? I half expect to see a native in a loincloth fanning the guests.”

“Not everyone has your patrician tastes, darling.” He took her arm. “And not a word of criticism.” He brushed his hip against hers as he led her into the dining room.

Largo was waiting at a table in the corner. There were no guests seated near him, but he wasn’t alone. The club manager stood at Largo’s right, his posture deferential. “I’m telling Charles here that we’ll have some crabs and a round of dry martinis before we order.” Largo waved Charles away and stood to embrace Cappy. Ferris watched the byplay and admired—as
he simultaneously detested—the finesse with which Largo had already put everyone in the room in their respective places.

He shook hands and grinned when his own moment arrived, then held Cappy’s chair until she was settled. Seated across from Largo, he examined the man who could help install him in the governor’s mansion.

At fifty-nine, Largo had thinning hair that was the ivory of his suit, and his florid face was unremarkable. Raisin-dark eyes snapping with vitality were the first hint that he wasn’t someone to be taken for granted. His hands were even more revealing. Largo’s fingers were gnarled and knotted, yet he used them freely, as if he had an enormous tolerance for pain. More than once, Ferris had dreamed of Largo’s hands.

“The crabs are good,” Largo said. “Catch ‘em right here in Plaquemines.”

“How have you been, Largo?” Ferris asked. “Does Betsy have you worried?”

“Never yet seen a storm I couldn’t ride out. We might get a little damage. Some of the worst shacks’ll go.” He shrugged. “As good a way to clean up the place as any.”

He began to pepper Cappy with questions, which she answered with confident charm. Ferris knew she considered Largo a member of the overseer class, but she was political to the core and perfectly willing to abandon her snobbery on the surface if it suited Ferris’s purposes. And cultivating Largo suited them.

The crabs arrived, and Largo continued to chat as he twisted the shells into sections and dug out the meat with his fingers. The performance was a classic one, visceral and primitive, but most of all repugnant, because Largo obviously derived more pleasure from gutting the crabs than from the flavor of their meat.

Cappy politely worked on one with her knife and fork, and
Ferris did, too. His mind drifted to a long ago night under the summer stars, when he and Hugh had sneaked away to the beach at Grand Isle with a dozen boiled hard-shells and half as many bottles of beer. Two young men with their lives ahead of them, they had for gotten their differences. By the time they staggered home at dawn, no secrets had been left between them.

The waiter returned, and at Largo’s recommendation they ordered turtle soup and broiled pompano. The meal progressed in lazy Louisiana fashion, with impeccable service and perfectly seasoned food. One round of martinis became another, with a manhattan thrown in for Cappy.

As they sat over coffee at the meal’s end, Cappy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and left them to speak alone.

“So your little girl’s home,” Largo said. “Good to have family together.”

“She’s grown up, Largo. A real beauty.”

“You should have brought her.”

“Another time,” he said, although both men knew it would never happen.

“She favor you or her mother?”

Dawn favored Hugh, but Ferris wasn’t going to make that announcement. He wondered what trick of nature had doomed him to see his brother’s face when he looked at his only child. “She looks a little like my mother,” he said.

“I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Gerritsen. State lost a fine lady when she passed away.” Largo stood. “I need to stretch my legs. Let’s walk along the bayou. It looks like the weather’s clear enough now.”

Ferris didn’t know what “clear enough” meant. There was a steady drizzle, and the soft ground promised to suck at every footstep, but he followed Largo to the foyer and instructed the hostess to tell Cappy where they had gone.

If nothing else, the fresh air was more palatable than the mildewed atmosphere of the dining room. Largo started away from the parking lot, and Ferris followed.

“Since Rosie passed away, I don’t get over here as much,” Largo said. “I eat at home. Got a nigger cook that can bake circles ‘round the one at the club.”

“I’m glad you felt like coming tonight.”

“I didn’t. Not really. But business is just that.”

“What business are we talking about?”

“You running for governor.”

“What do you think about it?”

Without answering, Largo walked to the edge of the narrow bayou. It was hardly wider than the length of two cars, and despite the rain, the water was sluggish, as if it were in no hurry to empty itself into the marsh. He kicked a stick into the water, and they stood watching it sullenly ride the current until it disappeared into the darkness.

“I was a boy,” Largo said, “I used to swim in this bayou. Now I wouldn’t stick a toe in. Never know what you’ll find in the water these days.”

“Never do.”

“Those days, I’d swim with pickaninnies that lived down the road. Didn’t know any better till my daddy caught me. Nearly skinned me alive when he found out what I’d been doing. Told me then that I’d never amount to a thing if I didn’t pay attention to my character. And I’ve done that all my life. I got where I am by watching who I associated with. Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly.”

“You got a silver spoon in your mouth, Ferris. Not pure silver, good silver plate, on account of your father. Your mother,
now, she was sterling. Me, on the other hand, I started out without a goddamned thing.”

“It’s where a man gets to, not where he starts, that matters.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You and that pretty little wife of yours think I’m poor white trash. And you’re just about right. When I started out, those nigger kids I swam with had more class than I did, but now I got more money and power than any man’s got a right to. And I intend to keep every last bit.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Largo. It’s power I’m asking you to use on my behalf—though I wouldn’t mind a generous campaign contribution, as well.”

“I understand a man who wants it all.” Largo began to walk along the bank, following the route of the vanished stick. “And I like you, when I can turn my head far enough to watch my back.”

“I’m not after you. You should know that.”

“I know for a fact you’re hungrier for power than me, and until I met you, I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I just want to be governor. And maybe president later on. Could you use a friend in the White House?”

“I wonder what your brother would think of all this shinnying up the highest tree. Used to say, didn’t he, that a man’s real power was in his relationship with his Creator?”

“He probably did. Hugh was fond of saying things that had nothing to do with real life.”

“Miss him, don’t you?”

Ferris was silent.

“You know, Father Hugh could be the sticking point in your campaign.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Don’t you? I can think of more than a few reasons. Those
who loved him will despise you for not being like him. And those who hated him will be afraid you’re too much like him.”

“That’s why I need people like you to make it clear exactly who I am and who I number among my friends.”

“Then, of course, there are things about your relationship with your brother that aren’t generally known…but could become so.”

Ferris didn’t miss a beat. “Right now I just want to find out what you’d like for this parish if I run for governor.”

“All I’d like is to be able to count on a governor to keep the welfare of the southern parishes in mind, and possibly to take a little advice from time to time.”

“I’m your man.”

“I think maybe you will be, but only if you remember that I’m not your man, or anybody else’s.”

They had reached a turn in the bayou. The water moved faster here, as if it had given in to the inevitable. Largo stopped and pointed. “Look over there. Stick didn’t make it ‘round the bend.”

Ferris saw something caught in the gnarled roots of a willow that clung tenaciously to the opposite bank. Whether it was the same stick or another was impossible to tell.

“Now, you can look at that stick two ways,” Largo said. “One, it didn’t want to go, so it’s hanging in those roots as a last stand. Two, it was bobbing happily down stream and got caught unawares.”

“Doesn’t say much for it either way,” Ferris said.

“No sir. It’s like a man who resists too hard or com plies too easily. Figure out how to straddle that line, Ferris, and I’ll help put you exactly where you want to be.”

Rain fell throughout the night, a dreary, steady drumming on the cypress-shingle roof that lacked drama. Drama was unnecessary. With the first light of morning, Dawn took her great-grandfather’s letters and hid them under the scatter rug beneath her dressing table. As a child, she had been full of secrets, hiding everything personal from the prying eyes of her parents and the house hold staff. Most of the time nothing she had hidden would have interested anyone, anyway. But the letters written by Lucien Le Danois were a different story.

She hadn’t known what to expect. In the
garconnière,
she had seen that the first few letters were addressed to a priest. But she had suspected that farther into the pile she would find advice from a father to his daughter—although the voyeur inside her had hoped for passionate love letters. Instead, she had gotten something very different.

She didn’t want to wait until breakfast and the reading of the next section of the will before she spoke to Ben. She had hardly slept, but she was past needing anything except answers.

She took time for a shower and a change of clothes; then she went downstairs, hoping she would find him there. Instead, she found Phillip, in a T-shirt and shorts, sitting on the hood of Ben’s car, tossing bread crumbs at a trio of sparrows. The birds ignored her approach, and so did he.

She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “Phillip, have you seen Ben?”

“No one else is up. Just you and me.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to do next or where to go. She needed answers, but nothing could persuade her to go into Ben’s room and wake him.

She thought about Pelichere and Spencer. One or both of them might be able to fill in the story that had been sketched out for her. But she just wasn’t sure.

“Not having the best kind of morning, are you?”

Dawn realized she had been staring right through Phillip. “No. I…” She turned her palms up and shrugged.

“Tell me something. Have you given much thought to why I might be here? Or my family?”

“Of course.” She knew this was bound to be an interesting conversation, but the letters were on her mind.

“Drawn any conclusions?”

“Not a one.”

“Not yet, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nothing as overt as hostility had been in Phillip’s voice, but again she sensed distrust. “I don’t know anything except the obvious.”

“The obvious? Like our color?”

She shoved her hands in her shorts pockets. “The obvious. Like your writing and your mother’s music.”

“Really? You haven’t noticed that you and I aren’t exactly the same?”

“Look, I’m not in the mood for this, okay? I don’t care what color you are. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but didn’t. Suddenly she suspected that she and Phillip weren’t talking about the same thing at all. He moved over a little, almost as if he were inviting her to sit beside him.

She joined him on the hood. Now they were both staring at the house.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” she said.

“I’m waiting for a whole lot of things.”