by Hester Young
I give him a couple of minutes, idly imagining what kind of beautiful, high-powered woman has chosen to tolerate Jules—a married one, if they’re sneaking around—and then head for the warm glow of the kitchen.
Through large French doors, I can see a young black family seated in the breakfast nook. Employees of the estate, I guess, since they aren’t being served in the dining room. It hadn’t occurred to me that families might live on the premises, but there they are: a mother, a father, and a small girl on bent knees who frowns suspiciously at her food. I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to interrupt the scene, but Leeann, the cook, spots me and hurries over to let me in. A large, old, rust-colored dog follows on her heels, waiting for handouts.
“Well, hey there! I was wondrin’ if you were goin’ to stop by.” She’s a hefty, fair, apple-cheeked girl who barely fits into her massive chef’s shirt, and she’s even friendlier now than when I met her with Jules. Again I’m struck by how young she looks. If I saw her on the street, I’d put her at twenty.
“Hi, Leeann.” I return her toothy grin and stoop to pet the dog. “This place smells heavenly.” Although I’ve never been a fan of Country French décor, the whitewashed cupboards, cart of potted herbs, and hanging rack of copper pots provide the room with a homey sweetness. On the wooden island, Leeann has laid out a plate of fish, along with half-empty bowls of collards and something orange. I help myself and join the young family at the table.
“This is the lady from New York I was tellin’ y’all about,” Leeann informs them. “Charlotte, right?”
“I go by Charlie.” I wave at the little girl. Her father, a long-limbed young man who doesn’t look much older than Leeann, leans over her plate cutting her fish into pieces. Beside him, the mother shifts in her chair and regards me neutrally. I see now that she is very pregnant.
“Charlie, this is Paulette.” Leeann puts her hands on the pregnant woman’s shoulders. “She’s the housekeepa. Well, for a couple more months, anyway. She and Benny here got a baby boy comin’ March first.”
“Congratulations,” I say, but the word feels awkward in my mouth. Of course there would be kids here. And a pregnant woman. I don’t know why this surprises me.
I turn to Paulette’s husband, forcing myself to be pleasant. “Do you work here too, Benny?”
He nods. “I look afta da cars, drive Mrs. Deveau around, fix stuff what breaks.”
Their daughter eyes me as she shovels chunks of fish into her mouth with her fingers. In a few years, she will be a homely child, but for now her wide-apart eyes and big forehead are still cute.
“Bailey, use a fork.” Benny hands her one. The dog makes an astute canine calculation and plops himself down by Bailey, who continues studying me.
“I’m tree years old,” she announces loudly. “Ma name is Bailey Thomas. You should wear makeup.”
“Bailey!” Paulette exclaims. “You act right!” She looks at me, apologetic. “I’m sorry. We still workin’ on manners.”
“No problem. She probably has a point.” It’s embarrassing to have a three-year-old tell me I’m not keeping up my appearance, but Bailey is right. I’ve let myself go. If I’m going to run with the Deveaus, I need to look like money.
“Don’t you mind Bailey. She the li’l princess around here, ain’tcha, mamzelle?” Leeann coos.
Bailey swallows her food down with a gulp of milk. “I’m tree years old,” she reminds me, a bit aggressively, as if I might accuse her of being two.
I put on an impressed face. “Three is pretty old.” Older than Gabriel ever got to be.
“It’s not that old.” Bailey frowns. “On ma next birthdee, I’m gone be four.”
“She the same age as ma li’l man,” Leeann tells me.
I can’t conceal my surprise at that one. I knew I was an older mother, but seriously? How can Leeann have a three-year-old?
“You look too young,” I say.
“I’m twen’y-three.”
I bet she didn’t even mean to have him. I bet he was an accident and yet there she was, popping out a baby before she could even legally drink. Why does she get to have a child and I don’t?
“Does your son live here, too?” I ask. If I have to watch him frolicking about every day, I might have a breakdown.
“Not anymore.” Leeann looks awfully proud of herself. “We live in town now, with ma boyfriend. Those cottages get a li’l cramped.”
“For true,” Benny agrees. “I dunno how we all gone fit.”
“So, Charlie, you a writa?” Paulette asks with polite interest.
I do my best to sell the plantation-home story. Fortunately, the subject is dry enough to kill any further lines of questioning. Leeann switches the topic to New York City, which she has a small-town-girl crush on. Bailey, no longer the center of attention, begins playing with the cushion on her bench, singing noisily, and accidentally-on-purpose dropping food for the dog. Her parents exchange The Look, excuse themselves, and haul their daughter out of the kitchen.
Time alone with Leeann is not without potential benefits. She’s a talker by nature, the perfect candidate to say something indiscreet. I let her interrogate me about Broadway, the cost of rent in Manhattan, and subway safety. I inquire about her job at Evangeline, which she says she’s had for two years now.
“My daddy owns a diner in town called Crawdaddy’s,” she explains. “I used to cook there, and then Mr. D liked my food so much he offered me the job.”
“Mr. D? You mean Neville Deveau?”
She nods. “I heard he was a mean’un when he was young, but he was always sweet as pie to me. When he passed, I cried and cried.”
I take my final bite of perfectly seasoned catfish. “So now Hettie’s your boss?”
“I guess technically Jules is.” Leeann rolls her eyes. Exactly the opening I’m looking for.
“What’s he like?”
She giggles. “Well, you met him.”
I smile. “I thought maybe he was having a bad day. It sounded like he was having girlfriend issues earlier.”
Leeann gives me a long look. “Jules got issues, fo’shore, but girlfriends ain’t one.”
As soon as she says it, I can’t believe I didn’t put it together before. The hair, the clothes, the painstaking enunciation of every syllable, the fussy mannerisms—all glaring stereotypes I missed. I mean, Louis Vuitton cuff links? Where was my gaydar? Somehow I just didn’t imagine gay men as part of the conservative Louisiana landscape. Jesus, Charlie. And you mock Southerners for their prejudices.
I ask Leeann about the rest of the help, who has been at Evangeline the longest.
She shrugs. “Deacon and Zeke are olda. Maybe ma daddy’s age. They work security. I dunno how long they been here.”
I’m about to pursue it further when Leeann exclaims, “Oh no!” She’s looking over my shoulder, where a small elderly woman stands in the doorway, propped up against a nurse. No more than five feet tall, she’s a gaunt, bony thing with wispy white hair and skin you can see the blue of her veins through. She looks to be my grandmother’s age, although I know she’s about fifteen years younger. The old dog rises to its feet, tail wagging furiously at the sight of her.
Leeann clamps her hand to her mouth, horrified. “Oh ma gosh, Mrs. D! I’m so sorry! I forgot to send you food on up.” She scrambles to grab a plate.
“Leeann, darling, don’t worry.” Hettie’s voice belies her frail exterior. “I’m not a bit hungry, but Rose here is insisting I eat something.” She pats the hand of her nurse and then shifts her gaze to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I rise from the table and approach her nervously. “Charlotte Cates, ma’am. I’m with Meyers Rowe—”
“Oh!” Her eyes light up. “The writer! Jules didn’t tell me you’d arrived. When did you get in?”
“This afternoon.”
“Marvelous.” Her thin lips stretch into a genuine smile. “I think we’ve got quite a treat for you.”
“What’s that?”
Even ill and unable to walk without her nurse, she still possesses a stately dignity. “We’re entertaining some friends and family this weekend. I hope you’ll join us for dinner on Saturday.”
This is a far cry from the attitude Jules gave me. “That sounds wonderful.”
“There’s someone you’ll want to meet. Raleigh Winn.” Hettie pronounces the name as if I’m a preteen receiving news of her favorite boy band.
“Raleigh Winn,” I repeat. I really, really wish I knew who that was. “Well . . . wow.”
“I assume you’ll include a chapter about Fairview Manor in your book,” she says, “and Raleigh takes such pride in the restoration work he’s done. He’ll be thrilled to speak with an expert in the field.”
I’m dying to hunt down Jules and Brigitte and kick their conniving little asses. There is no way I can keep up this plantation-book charade, not if I’m paraded in front of people who actually have a clue about the topic. But what can I do, having already accepted her invitation?
“Mrs. Deveau,” I say, smiling until it hurts, “I can’t wait.”
8.
Smoky eyes, perfectly arched eyebrows, and a mouth like a fresh red gash. The woman in the mirror is one I haven’t seen in a long time. I’ve taken Bailey’s advice: I’m wearing makeup. Dinner starts in twenty minutes, and I have yet to choose my dress. There are two options. The safe choice, a modest black number, won’t turn any heads. My other possibility, a cobalt Elie Saab with a plunge-neck bodice, will leave an impression, but the right kind? Do I want to be ignored or stared at? I’m not sure.
The last few days at Evangeline, I’ve accomplished little. I’ve met most of the staff, but no one’s warmed to me like Leeann. They see me for what I am, a college-educated woman from the Northeast out for dirt on the rich people they serve. Why would they trust me? Yesterday I finally met Zeke, one of the older security guards Leeann mentioned, but he was not exactly friendly, offering one-word answers to my questions with a barely suppressed scowl.
Jules, for the most part, avoids me. I pulled him aside yesterday to air my grievances about the Raleigh situation, but his response was a shrug and a “Run with it.” Thus far, his sole contribution to my project has been sending Benny over to my cottage this afternoon with a dozen boxes of the family “archives.” When I told Jules that I needed something better than old genealogical records to write this book, I wasn’t expecting unsorted junk from Evangeline’s attic. Junk, however, is what I’ve received. Loose photos, cards, toys, a daily planner from 1991—I haven’t gone through most of it yet. But who knows. Something interesting could turn up.
I stare again at my two dresses. There’s only one chance to make a first impression, and Sydney and Brigitte arrived last night. Their older brother, Andre, should be getting in today. I’ll be meeting them all for the first time at this dinner. I can be a little nobody in black, or I can make my presence known. An old article from Sophisticate flashes through my head: Dress like the woman you want to be. I know the person I want to be, and I can dress like her.
With a little time to spare, I sort through one of the Deveau boxes, the contents of which belong primarily to Andre. I find copies of the Economist from 1981. A notebook from a high school physics class, formulas and problems copied in painstakingly neat handwriting. Yearbooks from what appears to be a prestigious prep school. I flip through the pages of the 1981–82 edition and find Andre’s senior photo. He’s clean-cut and unsmiling, his face forgettable. Listed, unsurprisingly, as an officer of the Future Business Leaders of America. I feel sorry for him. As the oldest, and ultimately the only boy, did he ever have a choice about who to be?
I dig a little deeper into the box and discover a book of Shakespearean sonnets with a barely legible inscription: For Andre on his 18th birthday. Hope you enjoy these as much as I did.—Sean. Scraps of paper bookmark various sonnets throughout, and I gather that, despite his sensible extracurricular activities, Andre had a more sensitive side. There are also loose photos. Andre and some boys from school, dressed in tuxedoes. His smile is thin-lipped, restrained. In another photo, he stands with his date, a plump blonde with a generous bosom. Finally, on the bottom of the box, I see it. An invitation to Sydney and Brigitte’s sweet sixteen bash on the evening of August 14, 1982. A shiver runs through me. That was the night Gabriel went missing. I trace the silver edges with my finger.
Your mommy and daddy were in New Orleans with the twins that night. What about you, Gabriel? Who unlocked your door?
I hold the invitation in my hands, close my eyes, let my mind go blank. He communicated with me at the swamp. Maybe I can summon him now.
Show me that night. Show me what happened.
Nothing. The room is absolutely still. My eyes flutter open and I realize I’d better check the time. Already past eight. Shit.
I give myself a quick look in the mirror and begin to doubt my choice of outfits. The dress accentuates all the right parts, making my boobs look bigger, giving shape to my butt, and cinching in at the waist, but it’s a little . . . sexy. I vacillate. The black dress lies on my bedspread, shapeless, an invitation to be blah. I can’t do it.
Be bold. Own this.
At eight fifteen I dash out of the cottage, black clutch in hand, and stumble through the dark in my heels. The moon is out tonight, so I can see somewhat, but it’s cold. I wish immediately that I’d grabbed a throw. Oh well. No time to turn back.
Upon entering the lavish dining room, I come to an unfortunate realization: there’s no such thing as fashionably late to a Deveau dinner. Ten people are already sipping glasses of wine around the exquisitely set table. A man dressed in a server’s uniform helps me to my seat, which happens to be beside Sydney Deveau. Cheeks flaming, I murmur apologies to everyone.
The server takes my wineglass. “Red or white, ma’am?”
“Just water, thank you.”
“Well,” says Hettie, “here she is! Our writer!” She doesn’t say my name, probably because she’s forgotten. I’m not particularly keen on anyone knowing my name right now anyway because I’ve just made my second unfortunate discovery.
My dress is very, very wrong.
The other women at the table, and there are five, all look prepared to join a convent. Drab, dark colors. High necklines. Long sleeves. I, in comparison, belong on a street corner. I stare at my place setting—crystal glassware, whitework embroidered linen, polished and monogrammed silver cutlery—afraid to look up, afraid to see who is watching me. A moment later, the server returns with plates of salad. They must have been waiting on me to start eating.
Only when everyone is occupied with their food and an ardent discussion of Belgian endives is under way do I finally dare to peek at the other guests. At the head of the table, Hettie Deveau presides, so bright-eyed and beaming I’d never guess that she was terminally ill. I recognize her daughters, too, from television and gossip pages. Although the two women are identical twins, Sydney and Brigitte are easy to tell apart. Sydney, seated to my right, wears her hair short and dark. Brigitte, opposite me, wears hers long with blond highlights. At forty-five, both women are overweight, with expanding cheeks and chins that call to mind a pair of greedy hamsters.
Their brother, Andre, must have begged out of this dinner, as the only other person I recognize is Jules, even more spruced up than usual, though looking a bit sulky. I don’t blame him. I don’t know how he got roped into this, but exchanging banal pleasantries with the wealthy friends of his employers must be a far cry from the weekend with his boyfriend that he’d been planning.
“Where is Andre?” Brigitte asks, as if reading my mind. “I thought he was coming tonight. He has to meet Ginny over there. She’s single. She’d be perfect for him.”
“His flight was delay
ed,” Jules reports dutifully. “He’s still hoping to be here for dessert.”
“He always does this,” Brigitte complains. “I swear, I don’t even bother to count on him for my dinners anymore. He throws off my numbers.”
From her end of the table, Hettie leaps to her firstborn’s defense. “Well, he has a company to run, doesn’t he? I think we’re very lucky he takes his responsibilities so seriously. And speaking of absentees, where’s my granddaughter?”
Brigitte falls into a stony silence, leaving the man I assume is her husband to tactfully explain that their daughter is with her friends on a cruise to Mexico.
“Mexico?” I don’t hear the rest of Hettie’s scandalized response because Sydney gives my hand a little tap.
“Mama hasn’t been asking too many questions about your book, has she?” she murmurs.
“Not yet,” I tell her.
She nods, relieved. “Good. She’s lively tonight, but this may be her final dinner party. Another month and I doubt she’ll know what’s going on.”
The comment is delivered so matter-of-factly I can’t tell what’s behind it, regret or resignation or—I cringe at the possibility—impatience. I’m about to express gentle dismay at the lie she and Brigitte are asking me to perpetrate when the guest to my left addresses me.
“So, young lady, I hear you’re writing a book about plantations.” He’s older, red-faced with just a few strands of greasy gray hair, and his thick, phlegmy voice sets my teeth on edge. He doesn’t introduce himself, just smiles smugly as if I ought to know him already.
This must be the famous Raleigh Winn. Ew.
Since Hettie’s invitation, I’ve been studying up on Fairview Manor, hoping to develop a few intelligent questions for the much-anticipated Mr. Winn. It soon becomes apparent, however, that this was unnecessary. I ask about his home, and off he goes. Construction. Materials. Previous owners. His purchase. Experts consulted. Brilliant refurbishing decisions and their rationale. All this delivered in a voice that makes me want to scream, Clear your throat! I suffer through his not-so-subtle glances at my chest, wishing that I’d covered up.