by Karen White
I sat and clenched my hands in my lap, unsure of Aimee’s reception, Trey’s stinging words still fresh in my mind.
“I’ve asked for Kathy to bring up Beau as soon as we’re finished, but I wanted us to have a long chat alone first.”
Warily, I nodded. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions about Monica. She always spoke fondly of you.”
Aimee smiled sadly. “We will, we will. But first I wanted to talk about you.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair. “All right. But there’s not much to tell.”
Aimee studied me over her glasses, making me feel like a bug under a microscope laid out for examination. “My grandson was very busy on his phone and computer while we waited for you and Beau to arrive. He found a number of newspaper articles from 1993, when you were twelve.”
The central air whirred to life, lifting the corners of several photographs that were scattered on the bedclothes near the box. I stared at them, trying to find words to defend myself, but knowing that after years of trying to find them, they weren’t there.
“How sad for you. You were so young, only twelve when your sister was taken. I imagine you blamed yourself.”
I raised my eyes, hearing the understanding in Aimee’s voice. “Of course I do. My mother asked me to be in charge and watch my little sister while she ran to the grocery store to get milk and eggs.” I paused, then forced myself to continue. “It was my birthday, and she was making my birthday cake.”
Aimee carefully took her glasses off and laid them on her lap. “And your family—where are they now?”
I put my hands on the arms of the chair, ready to leave. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is none of your business. We need to discuss Beau, and the portrait. The beach house. And none of what happened to my family has anything to do with it.”
The older woman smiled, but a slight frown creased her forehead. “I disagree. Your past has everything to do with why you’re here now.”
I sat back, confused. “I don’t see how.”
“Allow an old woman her ramblings, if you will. Now tell me, where is your family?”
After a moment, I answered. “My mother died ten years ago from a brain aneurysm. My father is living in the Canadian wilderness with a succession of girlfriends, and my older brother, last time I talked to him some five years ago, was living in California and working as a waiter. Now please tell me how any of that relates to Beau and everything else.” I didn’t bother to hide the hard edge in my voice.
Aimee didn’t say anything. Instead, she reached over and picked up two photographs, then slid them over to me. “Do you know what this is?”
I picked them up to examine them, shifting them slightly to escape the reflection of the bright sunlight coming from the windows. The first photograph was of River Song exactly as Monica had painted it: the graceful columns, the front porch littered with rocking chairs of all sizes, the sandy front yard with the large oak. Even the tire swing hung on the same branch Monica had painted. Clustered on the front steps of the porch were six people, varying from about Beau’s age to older teenagers. I recognized a tanned and happy younger version of Monica standing in the back of the group and leaning on a column, a small child perched on her hip.
Without taking my eyes from the photo, I said, “Monica painted the house for me, and told me so much about the summers and weekends she spent there that I almost feel as if I’ve been there, too.” I paused for a moment, needing to swallow the thickness in my throat. “She had big dreams of returning to it one day with her children.”
A soft smile filled Aimee’s voice. “She loved that house. Loved to have her cousins and friends visit. It was her escape from the city, and school. From her parents fighting. She hated that. But the house and the beach were like a prayer to her. They soothed her soul like nothing else could.”
I flipped the photograph behind the second one, and found myself lowering it onto my lap, not wanting to see this one in such close detail. It was the same house, minus the people, the roof, most of the second story. Tree limbs and garbage lay strewn over the lawn, an old car in pristine condition resting upside down by the oak tree as if somebody had placed it there as a joke.
I held the photograph up to Aimee. “Was this after Katrina?”
“No. That was August 1969. Hurricane Camille.”
“Camille?”
“You’re too young. Ever since Katrina, people tend to think of it as the only hurricane ever to hit the Gulf Coast. But Camille was a category-five hurricane, just like Katrina. Made a direct hit on Pass Christian, but New Orleans didn’t have the catastrophic flooding that time. The Mississippi coast was as devastated back then as it was after Katrina.”
I placed the photos on the bedspread near the box, eager to get them away from me. “Why are you showing these to me?”
“Trey offered to buy out your share of the property, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
I allowed my head to fall back against the seat. “I didn’t have an answer for him, because I honestly don’t know.”
“And if you don’t stay to rebuild, what would you do? What would Beau do?”
There was no incrimination in Aimee’s voice, but I knew I had to tread carefully. I looked Aimee in the eye and told her the truth. “I have no idea. Despite Monica’s vote of confidence in me by leaving Beau in my care, I have no job, no home, no family, really, to speak of. Not a winning situation.” I tried to smile but felt my lips tremble.
“I’ve been sitting up here while Trey interrogated you downstairs, thinking very hard about this situation. First, I had to come to terms with not ever seeing Monica again.” She closed her eyes briefly. “But my grief is made easier knowing about Beau. It’s like he’s here to give us all a second chance. Including you.”
I started to protest, to tell her that I wasn’t the kind of person who deserved second chances, but she held up her hand and continued. “You own half of a beachfront property, and have custody of a little boy who loves you and whom, I expect, you love back. I don’t know you well at all, but I know that Monica was a good judge of character and always selective when choosing her friends. Which is why I think you should stay here and rebuild River Song. That would give you and Beau enough time to grow accustomed to a place, to decide if it’s where you want to stay.”
“Me? Rebuild?” I shook my head. “First off, I don’t know anything about construction or reconstruction. And second, have you been down there? Have you seen it? So many people haven’t moved back or rebuilt, and I totally get it. Why invest all of that time and money when each hurricane season brings a new threat?”
Aimee regarded me with a steady blue gaze. “Why build skyscrapers in San Francisco that might be knocked down by an earthquake? Or why build farms in Kansas and Oklahoma that might get blown away by a tornado?” She snorted, and it seemed so uncharacteristic for the elegant old woman that I almost laughed. “Where did they want us to go, anyway? I figure if we’re still breathing, then we’re meant to keep going. So we rebuild. We start over. It’s just what we do. I imagine she wanted that for Beau: a sense of belonging, of having a place to return to from wherever else he goes. A place he can call home because he feels it, and breathes it. Tastes it.”
Aimee leaned forward, her cheeks pink. “You haven’t had a place to call home in a very long time. Maybe if you did, you’d understand.” Her shoulders lifted and I had a glimpse of the young woman Aimee Guidry had once been. Aimee tapped the pictures. “Who do you think restored River Song after Camille? I did. Because walking away wasn’t an option I cared to consider.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to remember what Ray Von had said. Quietly I repeated, “ ‘If you ain’t dead, then you ain’t done.’ ”
“Ah, you’ve met Ray Von.” Aimee smiled softly, lost in secret thoughts.
I nodded. “Then why did Monica leave? If all of this meant so much to her, why would she leave it all
behind her and never come back?”
“I don’t know.” Aimee’s answer was tempered with the same weariness as Trey’s answer to the same question, and I found myself wondering once again if I could believe it.
Aimee continued. “But I do know that regardless of her reasons for leaving, Monica would want Beau to come back, to experience a happy childhood at River Song, as she did.”
I leaned my elbows on my knees, cupping my chin in my hands. “So maybe I should let Trey buy out my interest and rebuild it himself.”
Aimee frowned as if she were talking to a recalcitrant child. “Why do you think Monica left you her portion of the house instead of Trey? It would have made sense to have Trey own the entire property. So leaving it to you was intentional. She might not have known how devastated the house was, but she must have guessed that it had sustained some damage. And knowing her brother as well as she did, she would have also guessed that he wouldn’t do anything with it until she returned.”
I shifted in my seat, unsure where this was leading. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I think that she wanted you to restore River Song to the way it used to be.”
“But why me?”
Aimee’s face softened as she regarded me. “Maybe because she thought that you had more to rebuild than just a house.”
I sat up abruptly, angry but not sure at whom.
“Don’t be angry, Julie. I’m grieving for my granddaughter and trying to accept and understand her wishes, which is hard to do when the recipient of her wishes is both a stranger and a reluctant participant. But for her sake, and Beau’s, I’m going to try to convince you to stay and restore River Song.” She leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, as if she were trying very hard to restrain her emotions. “Have you ever thought about what happens when you find your sister? Where will you bring her home to when you find her?”
I put my forehead in the heels of my hands, clenching my eyes shut. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about what comes next.”
Aimee began to gather the things from the bedspread and place them in the box, leaving out the pictures of the house. “I don’t want to state the obvious, Julie, but you’ve got a child to consider now. A child who needs a home. And a future. It’s time that you started seriously considering what comes next.”
I wanted to argue, but I knew Aimee was right. When you find your sister. Aimee had said that as if she believed it to be true, and I warmed to her. “I haven’t been able to look ahead for a long time. It’s always been about finding Chelsea. And I still believe that I will. Blind faith, I guess, but I can’t stop hoping.”
Aimee slid the photographs toward me. “Believe me. I know what blind faith is all about.”
I rubbed my palms against my skirt again, still unsure of what I was supposed to do. I knew without a doubt that rebuilding River Song was out of the question. It was too far gone, too consuming, too . . . permanent. Everything I didn’t need, and everything Beau did.
Aimee was watching me as if she could hear my thoughts. After taking a deep breath, I said, “I should go get Beau now.”
As if she hadn’t heard me, Aimee said, “Did Trey tell you who was in the portrait Monica left you?”
“Yes, he did. It surprised me, actually. Your mother-in-law, right? Made me question . . . a lot of things. Like Monica’s finding me at an Abe Holt show. It makes me think our meeting wasn’t entirely coincidental. But I can’t figure out why.” Uncomfortable, I stood. “I’ll go get Beau.”
Aimee’s blue eyes were piercing as she regarded me. “When Monica went away, it wasn’t the first time this family has had to deal with a disappearance.”
The air-conditioning vent blew cold air on my face, making me shiver. “What do you mean?”
“Caroline Guidry, the woman in the portrait, disappeared, too. In 1956. Not long after that portrait was painted by your great-grandfather.”
I forced myself to speak against the dryness in my mouth. “What happened to her?”
Aimee sat back against her pillows. “It’s a long story.”
I glanced at my watch, eager to leave. “I should go get Beau. We’ve been here a long time already.”
“Where do you need to go? Beau is my great-grandson and you’re his guardian. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Besides, Trey is with Beau right now. And if there’s anybody who needs the kind of attitude adjustment that only small children can give, that would be him.”
I felt my mouth lift in a half smile. “Can you just tell me if they ever found her?” Goose bumps tickled my arms as I shivered again, my words reverberating in my head. It makes me think our meeting wasn’t entirely coincidental.
Blue eyes regarded me quietly. “That would be jumping ahead. Besides, you need to know the whole story. It will give you insight into the kind of people who rebuild again and again, even in the face of another hurricane.”
I sat down slowly, feeling the cool fabric beneath me again. “All right. But only for a short while. I’ll need to get back to Beau.”
Aimee closed her eyes again and began to speak.
CHAPTER 6
Not houses finely roofed or the stones of walls well builded, nay nor canals and dockyards make the city, but men able to use their opportunity.
—ALCAEUS
Aimee
SUMMER 1950
Even now, after all these years, when I smell the summer grass and the thick odor of the muddy water of the Mississippi River, I think of Gary and the summers when we were young. The summers when the burdens of growing up had not yet found us. And I think of the first time I ever fell in love.
I had been spending my summers in New Orleans, and eventually Biloxi, too, all of my life. Always alone, without my father. My mother died when I was three, and my father moved us up to Philadelphia and away from New Orleans and all that reminded him of her. I think he might have left me, too, for the same reason, except for the fact that I was his flesh and blood as well as hers. I had inherited her deep red hair, and I knew he was reminded of my mother every time he looked at me. My father never returned to the city of his birth. Instead, he would send me to my grandmother’s old house in the Garden District every summer, as a sort of peace offering to his mother, who had never forgiven him for taking away her only grandchild.
Grandmother was a formidable woman, short and pencil-thin, with silver hair always tucked into a tight bun. I used to sneak up on her at odd hours of the day and night, hoping to see if there was ever a hair loose. I was always disappointed. She was stern, proper, aware of her status in New Orleans society, and always concerned that my Yankee upbringing would turn me into someone too uncouth to be a true Southern lady. In her way, she loved me—almost as much as I loved her old house and the city of my birth. And, later, our next-door neighbors.
The summer I was twelve I met the Guidrys. I already knew Mr. Guidry—he and Grandmother were friends, and he was our supper guest more nights than not. A tall, thin man with dark eyes and a sad smile, he sometimes talked about his wife and two sons. I asked Grandmother why they never came to dinner with him, and she told me they lived in Atlanta. She then shushed me and said it was something that wasn’t discussed.
Mr. Guidry’s house was another huge Victorian on First Street, but with a wraparound porch and two turrets. Painters on tall ladders would splash on a fresh coat of paint almost every summer, and the white wicker rockers on the porch would have new cushions, but the windows were always shrouded in darkness. I would stare at the black glass, and they would stare back at me like empty eyes. I wondered what had happened inside that house to make it so sad.
At the beginning of that summer, as Grandmother’s car turned onto the tree-lined street, I knew something was different next door. The overgrown bushes that usually hid the house and garden from the street had been pulled out, allowing me to see the water fountain of the little boy peeing. Bright red hibiscus edged the wrought-iron fence like a hemsti
tch on one of Grandmother’s napkins. As soon as the car stopped, I ran out to the sidewalk when I spotted Mr. Guidry backing out of his driveway in his Chevy Bel Air, the whitewalls of his tires gleaming in the bright sun.
I waved to him, making him stop the car. “Hello, Mr. Guidry. I’m here for my summer visit.” I watched my distorted reflection disappear as he rolled down his window the rest of the way.
“Good morning, Aimee. It’s good to see you.”
I caught a strong odor of cologne. I took a step back and nodded toward his garden. “I like what you’ve done with your flowers.”
“My wife did that. She’s come with one of our two boys. Our oldest will be joining us as soon as his term’s up at school.” He smiled, but his eyes remained somber. “I’ve got to go to work now. I’ll see you later, Aimee.”
He rolled his window up and backed out onto First Street, his tires squealing on the asphalt as he turned his car toward Magazine Street.
Later I asked Grandmother why Mrs. Guidry had come back, but she ignored my question and said, “The past is best forgotten. We must make Mrs. Guidry feel welcome for Mr. Guidry’s sake.” Her lips turned white from the pressure of keeping them together as she slammed the drawer of the breakfront, knocking over all her carefully stacked silverware.
Grandmother was true to her word and invited Mrs. Guidry to a formal tea the following week. I sat on a scratchy yellow sofa in Grandmother’s parlor, wearing a stiff, high-necked collar that irritated my neck and forced me to keep my head straight, eyes staring directly ahead. But she’d allowed me to wear my mother’s pearls, so I felt very grown-up.
When Caroline Guidry entered the room, I could smell her musky perfume before I turned in my chair to see her. It was the scent I had smelled in Mr. Guidry’s car, something oddly familiar. A smart, small hat perched on her dark head, and she wore a gray dress made of some kind of shiny, crinkly material with a big shawl collar and a huge bow at her tiny waist.