The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  Any way you slice it, Noah’s an unpredictable choice. I’m an overeducated, liberal New Yorker. Noah doesn’t even have a college degree. He’s from Texas. He wears cowboy boots and probably owns guns. Ten to one he’s a Republican. And he’s clearly rebounding from a rough divorce. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong person. So why, why, why?

  Right now, all I know is that I wanted to. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks burn, my stomach do wild flip-flops. I’ve got to get him out of my place, sort myself out.

  I peer at him from the bathroom doorway. He’s rolled over and his eyes are at half-mast.

  “Hey.” He stretches. “You’re up. What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.” I spot his jeans and briefs in a pile by the bed and collect them.

  He rubs his face. “You sleep okay?”

  I nod, and now that I think about it, I did. I got more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep. For me, that is a pretty big accomplishment. I hand him his clothes, careful not to look at his body.

  “How ’bout we both shower and get dressed, and I’ll come back here in half an hour,” Noah suggests. “I’ll take ya to breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He still hasn’t put on his briefs. “I’d like to. If that’s all right.”

  I fall silent, still in flight mode, trying to figure out the best strategy to extricate myself. He must see it on my face because doubt creeps into his voice. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

  “No, no.” And he didn’t. The wrongness is all me, thinking I could handle this.

  “Look, I don’t know anything about datin’ anymore. I hope I didn’t—disappoint you.”

  I look the other way as he slips into his clothing.

  “I was with the same woman for twelve years,” Noah says. “I’m kinda learnin’ everything all over. And I wasn’t expectin’ . . . I mean, you took me by surprise.” I have no idea what he’s getting at until he says, “Gimme some time. I’ll figure out how you work, how to make you feel good.”

  Oh God, the poor thing. He’s afraid he sucked in bed. I want to tell him there’s blame enough to go around, but at this stage, that might be a little too much honesty.

  “You were fine,” I assure him, and then, realizing no guy wants his sexual performance to be just “fine,” I add, “It was nice.” My weak attempts at sensitivity are probably negated by my handing him his boots immediately after.

  He finishes dressing in silence; I do nothing more to encourage him. We walk together toward the cottage door and he pauses, runs a hand over his buzz cut. His eyes meet mine, questioning, and we both understand this is my call. If I open the door, he won’t bother me again. When we see each other around the estate, he’ll be personable, but he’ll keep his distance. Privately, though, he’ll worry. He’ll play the night over in his head, asking himself, What did I do?

  Your move, Charlie.

  In the end, I have to accept facts. I’m not a frat boy out for conquests. I’m a woman, endowed with empathy, and I don’t want to leave some basically good guy freaking out about his penis size or whatever it is that men freak out about when they’re rejected. One meal. I can survive one meal.

  “I hear there’s a good diner in town,” I say.

  His relief palpable, Noah smiles and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

  • • •

  WE’RE EARLY ENOUGH that Crawdaddy’s Diner isn’t crowded yet. Leeann told me her dad’s place is a madhouse on Sundays after church gets out, but it’s barely eight. Most of the patrons are older or look like they were out all night drinking. Our waitress, a puffy-eyed teenager in the latter category, leads us to a booth and doles out menus with an anemic smile.

  The diner is a worn little joint with an off-white and avocado color scheme, but it’s clean and smells pleasantly greasy. Noah and I study our options quietly until our waitress returns a couple of minutes later with a pot of coffee and a notepad. Noah gets a crawfish omelet. I’m not in the mood for anything adventurous. I need comfort food.

  He seems content for us to sip our coffee in silence, but the not talking unnerves me. We should get to know each other, right? I reach for some stock question—What are your hobbies? Do you have any pets?—but something else tumbles out.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That’s a funny question.”

  Well, yes. But I play it off. “I’m just curious. Do you?”

  “Sure. Couple a huntin’ rifles and a nine-millimeter.”

  “You hunt?” There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Mostly deer. My buddies and I do a huntin’ trip every year.”

  I picture his living room walls, rows of mounted deer heads. “So you just—kill animals? For fun?”

  “For sport and for meat,” he says. “I eat what I can of ’em. Why? You think it’s cruel?”

  “Yeah, I do. Isn’t killing animals for fun pretty much the definition of animal cruelty?”

  He rolls his eyes. “You gotta control the deer population somehow. And how do you have a leg to stand on talkin’ ’bout animal cruelty? You just ordered bacon, didn’t you?” He swallows the last of his coffee. “You really think that pig you’re gonna eat had a better quality a life than the deer I shoot?”

  That shuts me up. I still think he’s a bloodthirsty hick, but at least he’s not a pushover. Eric was always so reluctant to disagree with me—so placating. I’m dying to get a read on Noah politically, to see what kind of fireworks that produces, but figure I should probably back off. What do our differences really matter, anyway?

  “So how big is your job at Evangeline?”

  “Not sure ’til I get the plans drawn up, but pretty big.” He holds out his empty cup to a passing waitress, who promptly refills it. “Hettie wants the garden to look like it did in the 1920s. I’ve got some photos to work with, and my designer should be comin’ in a week or so.”

  “That seems like a strange project for Hettie to start when she’s so sick,” I point out.

  He twists his napkin around a finger. “She wants to leave the home behind in a certain condition.”

  “Why? Her kids won’t care. They’re hardly ever there.” I know that he is close to Hettie, but maybe he doesn’t realize how poor her health is. “From what I hear, she doesn’t have a lot of time, Noah.”

  “I know. That’s why we’ve got to do it now.”

  His answers don’t sit well with me. I find the project increasingly suspicious. “Whose idea was this whole garden renovation, anyway? Hers or yours?”

  He heaves a deep sigh. “Hettie called me, okay? I’m not some asshole tryin’ to screw over a dyin’ woman here.” He hesitates. Gazes at me appraisingly. “Can I trust you?”

  “Yes . . .”

  We’re interrupted by the arrival of our breakfast. Little Miss Hangover plops our plates on the table, looking nauseous. I look at Noah, expectant, but he’s already stuffed his mouth full of egg, and now I have to wait for him to finish chewing.

  “So you can’t tell anyone this.” He wipes his mouth.

  “Okay.” I wrap both hands around my mug.

  “Hettie’s not leavin’ the estate to her kids.”

  “What?!” This is better than I thought. “Do they know?”

  “Hell no. She says Andre won’t care. He’s got no love for Evangeline. But the daughters . . .”

  “They’ll pitch a fit,” I predict. “What’s happening to the property, then?”

  He shovels another chunk of omelet into his mouth. “She’s donatin’ the place to the Louisiana Historical Association. Should generate some tourism for Chicory. That’s real important to her, takin’ care a the folks in town.”

  Impressive, really, the deception that goes on between Hettie and her daughters. I knew the tw
ins were sneaky bitches, but Hettie’s treachery surprises me. “Who knows about this, besides you?”

  “Just her lawyer, I guess, since he drew up the will. And you. That’s probably it.”

  Something about this situation doesn’t smell right. “Why would she tell you something like that? No offense, but that’s big stuff.”

  “Well, I needed to know for the job, to get the place historically accurate and tourist-ready. And Hettie likes me.” He sees my skepticism and gets defensive. “She does. She’s really looked out for me over the years. Gave me the seed money to start my business.”

  This baffles me. “She must’ve been really close to your grandparents.”

  He nods. “They worked at Evangeline for, oh, thirty years, I think. I used to visit when I was small.”

  And then suddenly I get it. “How old are you, Noah?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  He’s younger than I first thought, and now it makes perfect sense. “You’re the same age her son would’ve been,” I say softly. “He would’ve turned thirty-two last September.”

  “Gabriel? Yeah. We used to play together.”

  An odd little shiver runs up my back. Something about seeing this adult man in front of me—a real, physical being with stubble and eyelashes and ears that stick slightly out—drives it home for me. This is what Hettie lost. Not just the child, but the man. Can it really be pure chance that the man I fell into bed with last night is connected to Gabriel? I don’t think I was drawn to Noah by inexplicable supernatural forces, but at this point, I’m not ruling anything out.

  “You remember him?” I ask.

  “Charlie, I was only three when he went missin’.”

  “Hettie must think of you as a son,” I say. “She must think of him every time she looks at you.”

  And then it hits me. Noah is her Zoey. Her son’s playmate, loved to pieces, but always a reminder. I try to imagine how I’ll feel looking at Zoey ten, twenty years from now, seeing what Keegan never had a chance to be. I pick at the food on my plate, no longer hungry.

  Noah looks uncomfortable. He dumps a package of creamer into his cup. “She’s been good to me, whatever the reason.”

  “So your grandparents—” I suddenly remember his telling me last night that his grandfather died recently. “Your grandmother,” I correct myself, “is she still alive?”

  “Died my senior year a high school.” He loads up a forkful of hash browns, not meeting my eye. “She and my granddaddy raised me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “You’re like an orphan, then.” My sympathy is, of course, mixed with disappointment. His grandparents would’ve made for some excellent interviews. “What happened to your mom?”

  “Died when I was a baby. And my dad went AWOL, so. Just me, Nanny, and Daddy Jack.”

  “You mean your father just took off on you?” Parent Ditches Child is familiar territory with me.

  “I mean he was in the military and he literally went AWOL. Was supposed to get sent overseas somewhere, and he disappeared. We never saw or heard from him again.” He shrugs, like this is no big deal. “I was little. I don’t even remember him.”

  “That sounds a lot like my family,” I say, “if you switch the genders.” I wasn’t planning to get personal with Noah, but the similarities to my own life are eerie. “My mom was the one who ran off, and my dad died. I was older, though, when I lost him. Fourteen. My grandmother took me in.”

  “Weird.” Noah studies me. “Shitty thing to have in common.” Our waitress trudges over to top off our coffee. She has a faraway look, like she’s mentally composing a suicide note. “Don’t know what she got up to,” he says after she’s dragged herself to the next table, “but I’m pretty sure we had the better night.”

  Oh God, last night. Now I’m thinking about him naked again. I can feel a blush coming, so I abruptly change the subject. “What did your grandparents do at Evangeline? Is landscaping a family thing?”

  “Kinda. Daddy Jack was a caretaker and Nanny was . . . well, a nanny. She took care a the twins and Andre when they were little, and years later, Gabriel.”

  The nanny. My God. His family was in deep with this. “Madeleine Lauchlin,” I murmur. One of the witnesses on my wish list, and she’s dead.

  “Everyone called her Maddie, but yeah.” He peers at me. “You know a lot about Gabriel.”

  This is my cue to spill my guts about the book, but I can’t do it. He’s too close to Hettie. “I used to write for Cold Crimes magazine,” I say. It’s not a lie, anyway.

  He wrinkles his brow. “And then suddenly you started writing about plantations?”

  “Even weirder. I started working at a women’s magazine. Sophisticate. For rich women who need the latest scoop on collagen injections or, I don’t know, the dangers of wearing high heels in icy weather.”

  Noah busts out laughing.

  “It isn’t funny. I worked there for twelve years. It was soul-killing.” I’ve never admitted this before.

  He tries to take a sip of coffee, still laughing, and chokes. “My wife reads that magazine,” he says when he’s finished coughing. “Ex-wife, I mean.”

  That throws me. I’m about to completely reevaluate my ideas on Noah, his lifestyle, and the women he goes for, when I remember something. The voice mail I got last night.

  “Oh no, I have to be somewhere . . .” Detective Minot invited me to stop by this morning to chat about the case, and I completely forgot. “Any chance you could drop me off at the police station?”

  Noah squints at me. “Something I should know about you?” He’s only half-kidding.

  I can’t tell him the real purpose of my visit, so I stare at my lap, face flushing as I deliver the first stupid lie that comes to me. “Just, you know, trying to fix a parking ticket.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll take you over, but I wouldn’t hold your breath on that.”

  “Yeah, well. You never know. I can be pretty persuasive.”

  His eyes flicker over me, and he smiles slightly. “I bet you can.”

  10.

  Though seated in Chicory, the sheriff’s department serves all the towns in Bonnefoi Parish, and it’s not as podunk as I’d imagined. Like the surrounding municipal buildings, it’s an ugly brick structure with unexpectedly grand white columns. The sprawling grounds boast oak trees that must be at least a couple hundred years old, and in the background, a dark ribbon of bayou weaves by.

  I climb out of Noah’s truck, my brain shifting to Gabriel mode. “Thanks for the ride. And breakfast.”

  “Let me give you my cell number,” he says. “I’ll pick you up.”

  I try to protest, but Noah assures me he’s got nothing better to do. I program his number into my phone, well aware that chauffeuring me around town is dangerously boyfriendlike behavior.

  Once inside, I’m surprised by how clean and well-lit the building is. I follow signs to the Bureau of Investigations, where a receptionist tries to calm two very distraught women. I study a community board while I wait, reading a flyer for a women’s handgun safety class and marveling at news of a Bonnefoi Parish sheriff’s department mobile app that boasts instant access to the parish sex offender registry. I’m imagining the kind of resident who might avail herself of these two resources when a middle-aged officer comes up behind me.

  “You lookin’ for someone, ma’am?” He smiles at me from under a rather large mustache.

  “I’m here to see Detective Minot.”

  “You gotta be the journalist, right? I’m Officer Kinney. Heard you might be droppin’ by.” He places his hand on the small of my back, a gesture I find overly friendly. “Remy’s in a meetin’, should be just a minute.” Officer Kinney steers me through the reception area and past a few cubicles. In one, three men wearing button-down shirts and badges stand around having a discussion and drinking coffee. In another, a
woman fills out a report on her computer. For a Sunday, the place is dishearteningly busy.

  We stop at a tidy desk fringed with yellow Post-it notes. The reminders, I see, are both personal and professional: Pick up Rx and Toussaint Testimony, Thurs 10 a.m. On the computer, a photograph of a little red-haired girl bounces around as the screen saver. Detective Minot’s daughter, I guess, or maybe granddaughter. She looks about five or six.

  “You want somethin’ while you wait, ma’am?” Officer Kinney asks.

  “No thanks.” I sit down, expecting him to leave, but he lingers.

  “So you writin’ a book?” It’s a good-natured question; not suspicious, just curious.

  “Hopefully.” I go into journalist mode. The guy clearly wants to chat. “Do you know much about the Deveau case?”

  He chuckles, running a finger across his mustache. “I know that case ain’t gonna get solved.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No evidence.” He shrugs. “Been thirty years. I don’t see things goin’ anywhere unless someone walks in one day an’ confesses. Or if a body turns up, I guess that’d be a start.”

  “Why did they reopen the case if it’s so hopeless?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Those Deveau sisters started makin’ a fuss some months back, after they found out Old Missus had cancer. Said she gone die without peace a mind and it’s time to start runnin’ DNA tests. Like somebody got DNA just settin’ around a drawer someplace.” He shakes his head. “The FBI and state police, they got better things to do than chase their own tails, I promise you. So they sent the case our way.”

  “What about the ransom note? Wouldn’t that have DNA?” It’s been bugging me.

  “At this point you prob’ly got DNA from thirty people on that note. Won’t prove a thing. And there’s no sayin’ for sure it was the kidnapper even wrote that.”

  “But the case was still reopened?”

  “Politics,” he says. “Those folks own this town. I bet halfa Chicory’s worked for that family at some time or other.” He looks about to say more when a tall, lean man approaches.