The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  As Raleigh delivers his incessant monologue, I keep an idle eye on the other guests. It’s not a young crowd, and for rich people, they’re decidedly unattractive. Most of the men are, like Raleigh, some combination of balding, wrinkled, and overfed. The women are plump, too, and overly generous in their use of makeup, although tonight I’m not really one to condemn excessive cosmetics.

  Over at her end of the table, Hettie sits beside the only guest who looks younger than me. He’s pleasant-looking, probably in his midthirties, and I feel an immediate kinship with him because he’s made a fashion faux pas even graver than my own: he sports jeans and a plaid shirt. Hettie doesn’t seem to care. She asks him questions, laughs, smiles and nods at his replies. A family member? He retains an expression of vague unease throughout dinner that makes me wonder. I don’t think he’s used to running in these circles. To add to the intrigue, Sydney and Brigitte have it in for him. They cast him several contemptuous glances, exchange eye rolls with one another, and avoid Hettie’s attempts to engage them in her conversation with the man.

  Who is this guy? He’s hardly stop-in-your-tracks handsome, but he has a nice smile and the way he listens attentively to Hettie puts her daughters to shame. With his deep tan and close-cropped, almost military dark hair, he looks like more of a construction-worker type than someone who’d be running with the Deveaus. I wish I could hear what he and Hettie are talking about, but Raleigh’s booming voice has rendered that impossible.

  “Now, in the original home,” Raleigh says, shaking a meaty finger at me, “the kitchen was outdoors to avoid fires. Expandin’ the house while preservin’ the flow a the space was, a course, a challenge.”

  Having finished our salads, we are now staring down the main course: roast duck. Over the course of a half hour, Raleigh manages to both speak and ingest more than the average person would in a day. Once or twice, Brigitte asks me a few questions to be polite, but otherwise I’m at Raleigh’s mercy. Maybe Hettie knew what she was doing inviting me. Maybe I was the sacrificial lamb, there to protect the other guests from his pompous, long-winded lectures on plantation shutters.

  “See, it wasn’t until the Victorian era that we put shutters outside the house,” Raleigh explains, pausing to empty another wineglass. “Used to keep ’em on the interior, which kept out sunlight, but also, I think, aesthetically speakin’ . . .”

  I get a brief reprieve when Andre Deveau arrives. As a server quickly sets a place for him at the foot of the table, Andre makes his rounds, greeting guests and pausing to kiss the top of his mother’s head. He looks a bit puzzled by the casually dressed man beside her, but Hettie is too busy asking her son about his trip to make the introduction. When Brigitte waves Andre over and whispers something in his ear, I think at first that she’s briefing him on the mystery man in jeans. Then I see Andre glancing in my direction, nodding.

  “So you’re our writer,” he says to me with a smile. “Welcome.” He looks as I remember him from our Sophisticate interview years ago, only older. “Prince Charmin’ with gray hair,” Leeann declared when I asked her about Andre, and although he’s not exactly handsome, I can see what she means. The silvery hair and crinkly eyes suit him, make him look distinguished. In his blue eyes and high forehead, I detect traces of Hettie.

  Andre finishes making nice and slides into his chair near Jules. “I have something for you,” he tells Jules. “Before I forget.” He reaches into his breast pocket and drops two black cuff links onto the center of the table. There’s no mistaking the interlocking-L-and-V design: Louis Vuitton. “I found these lying around. I assume they’re yours.”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you.” Jules doesn’t bat an eye, but I can barely keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Was Jules speaking to Andre Deveau on the phone the other night when he asked his seemingly overscheduled boyfriend to bring these exact cuff links? Are these two an item?

  The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Jules is young and hot; Andre has money, power, and pedigree. It’s an old recipe for attraction, really. Their professional relationship could make things a bit sticky, I suppose, but the real obstacle here is that Andre is not gay . . . to anyone’s knowledge. I don’t necessarily blame him for his silence on the subject. As the CEO and owner of a South-based hotel chain, he would find his homosexuality a professional liability. And maybe it’s an unfair Northern stereotype, but the conservative, Confederacy-loving Deveaus don’t strike me as terribly gay-friendly. I doubt anyone in this family has a clue.

  Not five minutes later, Brigitte’s attempts to matchmake for her brother confirm her ignorance. “Andre,” she calls, coming over to fetch him before he’s had even three bites of dinner, “did you meet Ginny over here? She’s the woman I’ve been telling you about.” There’s no mistaking her intentions as she drags Andre to the other end of the table. “I really think you two would get along.”

  Beside me, Sydney glowers at her sister. “Just because she’s married, she thinks everyone else has to be.” She spears a piece of asparagus, and I remember reading something about a nasty divorce or two in Sydney’s past. “Being single is not a disease,” she mumbles to no one in particular, and I almost feel sorry for her.

  My pity proves extraordinarily short-lived because at that moment Raleigh leans over and places his hand on my thigh. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he says. “Seein’ as you’re so interested in houses, maybe you’d like to come by after dinner for a visit. Whattaya say? I’ll give ya the full tour a my domain.”

  That’s it. I can think of no place I wish to tour less than Raleigh Winn’s domain. I grab my clutch and excuse myself to the restroom, leaving him to interpret my look of nausea as he likes.

  • • •

  IN THE BATHROOM, I turn on the sink and let the water run, my fingers pressed to the cold, white marble. I don’t belong here. Any idiot can see that. I dab a tissue with water and attempt to clean up my smudgy eyes. Did I really think I was going to help Gabriel? How, exactly, does my attending a stuffy dinner party further this objective? As far as the Deveaus are concerned, I’m just some no-name hoochie for Raleigh to paw at, and I’ll never get any useful information if I’m stuck playing Little Miss Plantation Journalist.

  I pop open my clutch and check my phone, hoping for an update from home. Two voice mails, but the reception is too spotty to access them. Now I know why Jules was out in the garden talking to Andre. I sneak out through the kitchen door and listen to my messages in the dark. The first is a greeting from my grandmother, who assures me that she’s doing fine and hopes I am enjoying my brush with high society. The second message contains the only good piece of news I’ve had all day. “This is Detective Remy Minot from the Bonnefoi Parish sheriff’s department. Just returning your call. There’s not much to discuss about the Deveau case, but you’re welcome to come by the station tomorrow morning, say, nine o’clock. You have a good evening, ma’am.”

  Finally. Someone knowledgeable to talk to. Odds are he wasn’t on the force when Gabriel went missing, but in a community like this, you never know. He could potentially get me in touch with the cops who were involved. Or old witnesses even. I make a mental wish list. Madeleine Lauchlin, the nanny. Danelle Martin, the cook. Roi Duchesne, the recently fired groundskeeper who was originally of interest to police. I rub my arms, wishing again I’d brought a jacket.

  I’m trying, Gabriel. I’m trying to help you.

  As I head back toward the house, I come across the man in jeans who Hettie’s been talking to all night. He’s lighting up a cigarette, in no particular hurry, and I’m struck by how relaxed he appears. Relaxed, despite the cold, despite the stink-eye Sydney and Brigitte have been giving him, despite showing up to dinner in jeans and—I see now—cowboy boots. For the first time in ages, I feel pangs of regret that I quit smoking. I want some of that peace. I remember going to parties in college, parties where I didn’t know a single person and it didn’t matter. If I sat on the
front step with a cigarette, people joined me, bummed a smoke off me, started talking. It’s been fifteen years since I quit, but suddenly I’m jonesing hard.

  The man takes his first long drag, eyes half-closed as he savors it. My gaze travels down his fingers and settles on the glowing end of his cigarette.

  “You lustin’ for me or my Marlboro?”

  I look up, totally busted.

  He’s smiling. “You want one?”

  “You don’t know how bad. But I better not.”

  He nods. “Bad habit, I know. I quit for ages, but then . . . had a rough year.” His voice is twangy, not the flat Cajun accent I’ve been hearing the past few days.

  “Texas?” I guess.

  “You’re good.” He looks me over, but not in a creepy way. “I’m gonna say New York.”

  “Uh-oh.” Looking like you’re from New York is probably not a good thing. “What tipped you off?”

  He grins. “Heard you tell Brigitte durin’ dinner. Congrats on your escape, by the way. Tough crowd.”

  I’m glad we’re on the same page about that torturous meal. “It wasn’t easy. You saw what I was up against.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, that old guy was workin’ you pretty hard.”

  By now, I’m really, really cold, but I don’t want to go back indoors. There’s something about this guy, an easiness I like. And I’m curious. I want to get his story. I take a few steps in his direction. “We were never properly introduced.”

  He extends a hand. “Noah.”

  “Charlie,” I tell him. His hand is large and rough when I shake it, like he’s someone who could change his own tire or repair a leaky roof. But warm. Very warm.

  “Charlie,” he repeats. “That’s cute.”

  “So what brings you to dinner tonight?” I ask.

  “I’m out here doin’ some work for Hettie.”

  Now I’m really confused. Is he some kind of laborer, and if so, why was he at dinner?

  “What kind of work?” I’m bordering on nosy, but I might not get another chance to ask.

  “Landscapin’.”

  Huh? Hettie is palling around with the gardener? “Do you . . . like it?”

  “I started my company when I was nineteen.” He shrugs. “It’s what I know.”

  “Nineteen, wow. Contract work can be so hard. Hard to get enough jobs, I mean.”

  Noah senses where I’m going with this. “Not too hard,” he says. “I got enough to keep forty guys busy full-time. Got a contract with parks and rec back home.” He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners like all my caste-sniffing amuses rather than offends him. “Look, I know what you’re thinkin’. I’ve known Hettie just about all my life. She’s an old family friend. Sweetest woman alive. Knew my grandparents.”

  “I wasn’t judging,” I protest. “I just figured—”

  “You figured I don’t go to these kinda dinners much.” Noah looks down at his jeans and laughs. “And you’d be right.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I point to my low neckline. “You can tell I don’t either.”

  He casts a quick glance at my cleavage and then virtuously averts his eyes. “I think every woman in that room would like to have some a what you got.” Then he adds as an afterthought, “The guys too.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t know whether he’s counting himself as one of the guys, but I kind of hope so. I take a few steps back toward the house. “I better go say a proper good-bye.”

  “You’ll never get out again.”

  Actually, I’m afraid of that. I don’t think Raleigh will let me slip away so easily next time, and I’m not sure how to defend myself from future awkward gropes without making a scene. But I’ve already screwed up enough tonight, etiquette-wise. “I’ve got to thank the hostess,” I tell Noah. “Aren’t you going to?”

  “Nope. Told Hettie I was turnin’ in for the night. Just got in today, so I played the tired-from-travelin’ card.”

  “Good call.” I sigh.

  “Hey, if you don’t wanna go back, then don’t. Tomorrow you can just say you got sick.”

  I think it over.

  “You really think any a them care if you’re there? Besides the grabby guy, I mean.”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t.” It’s tempting. And I did say I was going to the bathroom. If they assume I got the shits and ran off, it’s not any worse than the rest of the evening.

  He sees me wavering. “You stayin’ in one a the guest cottages?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. I’ll walk you back.”

  And just like that, we ditch dinner. The garden is considerably less frightening when I have an escort. Shrubs look like shrubs; I can sensibly attribute the soft rustling sounds to wind and leaves. Only the temperature spoils an otherwise lovely stroll. My teeth start chattering.

  “Wish I had a coat for you,” Noah says apologetically. “I’ll give you an arm if that doesn’t seem too bold.”

  Too bold. I can’t help but smile. “Sure, I’ll take an arm.” I latch on to him. With my heels on, I’m about the same height as he is, but his arm is like two of mine. I wonder if he’s a gym rat or bulked up on the job.

  “So what got you smoking again?” I ask. “You said you had a rough year.”

  “Oh.” He rubs his forehead like it gives him a headache. “Lost my granddaddy. Got a divorce.”

  “Ah. The first year is bad, but it gets better,” I promise. “I got divorced a couple years ago.”

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  “He was cheating.” For a brief second I’m oddly grateful to Eric for making me sound so blameless. “How about you?”

  “Nothin’ like that.” He steadies me when I trip on a tree root. “I guess when we got married, we were on the same page about kids, but . . . I changed my mind.” Noah takes another pull off his cigarette. “There’s no real compromise for that one. You can’t push someone into havin’ a kid they don’t want. So we went our own ways.”

  I feel fleeting sympathy for his ex-wife, probably in her midthirties now and stuck searching for a man to father her child. My sympathy is quickly eclipsed by relief, however. This guy won’t be pulling out photos of his adorable children, thank God.

  We’re standing outside my guest cottage now, and though I could leave, could end the night here, I don’t. I watch as Noah stamps out his cigarette. The embers die beneath his boot, but I still smell it on him, the fresh smoke. He reads the hunger on my face and pulls out a pack from his pocket. “I got more. All you gotta do is ask.”

  “I’d be such a hypocrite.”

  “I won’t tell.” He holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  I wince. “Okay, fine. You’ve sold me. Light me up.”

  He removes a cigarette from the pack and places it in my mouth. Apparently rekindling an old addiction is like riding a bicycle, because the sensation is instantly familiar. I cradle the Marlboro between my index and middle fingers, enjoying the weight, the shape. Noah retrieves the lighter from his back pocket, and with a quick movement of his thumb, the flame springs up. I lean toward him, into the flickering, pale orange light, and inhale deeply.

  Maybe it’s the hint of his aftershave or the way his arm feels when I huddle against it. Solid. And safe. Maybe it’s his broad shoulders, or those dark eyes I can just make out in the moonlight, trying to figure me out, letting me make the next move. Maybe it’s just the heady feeling of nicotine spreading through my bloodstream, hitting my brain, asking me, Why the hell not? I look up into the clear, starry sky and blow a small ring of smoke.

  “Hey,” I ask, “do you wanna come in?”

  9.

  My mouth tastes like an ashtray. It’s the second thing I notice when I wake, the first, of course, being the naked man in my bed. Both my mind and heart race. I go from a disoriented state of just-w
oke-up to full-blown panic in a matter of milliseconds.

  Shit, shit, SHIT.

  He’s still crashed out, thank goodness, a mound of skin and shadow and bedsheets splayed beside me. A butt cheek peeks out where he ran out of blanket. It is a very, very nice butt, which leaves me even more rattled. I don’t even know this man. I should not be assessing the cuteness of his butt.

  Plan. You need a plan. First step: locate clothing.

  I’ve never been the one-night-stand type. I’m too picky. And being naked in front of a stranger has always seemed more stressful than sexy. Yes, I made a couple of bad decisions in college, but who hasn’t? There was Kurt, the German guy I slept with the night of his going-home party. Predictable outcome: he went home. And Justin Shanley, a crush I jumped into bed with, hoping it might go somewhere. Predictable outcome: it didn’t. I thought I’d learned something from my youthful stupidity, but here’s Noah, proof that I can be as dumb at thirty-eight as I was at twenty.

  I slip on a bra and fresh underwear, but I still reek of cigarettes. I need a shower. I look back at Noah and cringe. Every awkward moment of the previous night comes flooding back. It was like we were seventeen one minute, all misplaced elbows and knees, clueless about the gentle choreography of lovemaking, then seventy the next, too slow and careful with each other for the breathless, animal encounter you’re supposed to have in these situations. Is this okay? he kept asking. Are you sure?

  But I was sure—at least I was at the time. I could smell the aftershave on his jaw, his neck, and he smelled so good.

  I head into the bathroom and frown at my reflection. Dark smudges of mascara have gathered under my eyes, and my hair spikes out in bizarre directions like a manga character’s, minus the cute. I wash my face, brush my teeth. There’s no fixing my hair until it gets a good washing.

  Do I wake him? Let him sleep? Bump loudly around the cottage until he gets up? I’m not used to men anymore, I realize. The space they occupy, the little snorts of their sleep-breathing, their big man feet and hairy, crooked toes.