The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  I watch Leeann, the lump in my throat growing bigger and bigger.

  “All right,” Leeann says, ending her call, “you tell T-man I gone be home soon. Lâche pas la patate. Hang in dere, beb. Love you.” She stuffs her phone back into her pants, too anxious to see how shaken I am.

  “Do you need to be with your little boy?”

  “I dunno.” Leeann chews on her lip. “He’s cryin’ for me, sayin’ he sick. I haven’t seen Jules today, but if he comes by and I’m gone . . .” She doesn’t have to finish that sentence. We’ve both seen the mood Jules has been in lately. “I mean, Mike’s there, but . . .” She trails off, consumed by motherly guilt. I get it. Mommy’s boyfriend, however good he may be with kids, is no substitute for Mommy.

  “Don’t worry about Jules,” I urge her. “We can feed ourselves for a night. You go be with him.”

  “You think?”

  It’s not that I’m afraid Leeann’s kid will drop dead of a brain aneurysm before she makes it home. That sort of thing doesn’t happen to other people. But one day, probably soon, she won’t have this job anymore and she’ll have to remember every pointless sacrifice she made for it at her child’s expense.

  “Trust me,” I say, “your son is more important than dinner.”

  I don’t have to tell her twice. She’s off, ready to administer whatever hugs and kisses and cuddles her child requires.

  Now alone in the kitchen, I feel a quiet depression creeping up on me. I remove an apple from a fruit bowl on the counter and rotate it absently in my hand. Through the kitchen window, I can see Noah taking measurements of some kind. I don’t know how he stays so focused on this whole garden job. He’s the only one who cares about the project anymore. But I suppose it’s his way of honoring Hettie: leaving something beautiful behind that others can enjoy.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there toying with the apple, but when I turn away from the kitchen window, there’s a man in the doorway.

  Andre Deveau.

  He wears a navy suit and his short gray hair is parted and brushed back at an angle, the grown-up version of prep school fashion. I’m not sure whether he recognizes me from the dinner party or is just used to seeing strangers in his kitchen, but Andre makes no attempt at establishing my identity. “Has Jules been in today?” he asks, frowning at his phone. “I didn’t see his car.”

  Of course. He’s here to settle their lovers’ quarrel. Or maybe fire Jules, which would make my life a lot easier.

  “I haven’t seen him, sorry.”

  Andre nods, about to leave, and then changes his mind. “I should eat. A snack, something low fat, please.”

  He thinks I work here. I hesitate. I could tell him I’m not the cook, but I don’t want Leeann to get in trouble for skipping out early. “Uhh . . .” I pluck something from the air. “How about a parfait?” It’s the only quasi-healthy thing I’ve ever seen Leeann serve and will require no cooking on my part.

  “Sure. I’ll be in the study.”

  He leaves without a thank-you, not bothering to learn my name.

  It takes fifteen minutes to locate and combine the items necessary for a parfait, and the final product dismays me with its blobs and lumps and lopsided layers. Maybe Andre won’t notice? I find the study door ajar, a fire crackling in the fireplace. Andre, now reclining on the love seat and glued to his iPad, wears a look that conveys murderous intent.

  “Your parfait.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” He peers at my sad rendition of a parfait and then at me, suddenly registering something’s amiss. “I’m sorry, are you new? I should’ve introduced myself before. I’m Andre.”

  “Charlotte,” I tell him. “We met at your mother’s dinner party a few weeks ago.”

  He stares at me a second before making the connection. “Oh God, that book thing Syd and Bridgie are doing. I’m sorry, you look different without the blue dress.” His forehead creases. “But—why are you making me snacks? Aren’t you a guest?”

  “The cook had to leave unexpectedly. Her son was sick, and Jules wasn’t around . . . I just didn’t want you to get upset.”

  He puts a hand up. “Despite all appearances, Charlotte, I’m not a complete asshole.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I mistook you for the cook. You must think I’m so spoiled, marching into the kitchen and barking out orders at whoever happens to be there.” He stands up and heads for the liquor cabinet on the opposite wall, his hand hovering over two bottles of amber-colored liquid. “Please. Have a drink with me and tell me about your book—not that plantation-home nonsense Bridgie’s been feeding my mother.”

  Andre selects one of the bottles and pours us each half a glass. Brandy? Scotch, maybe. Whatever he’s got, it’s bound to make him talkative. I recall the mojito he bought me when I interviewed him for Sophisticate years ago—not that he’d remember—and figure I can make a strategic exception to my no-alcohol policy.

  “Thank you.” I accept the proffered glass and have a seat. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “I take it my sisters haven’t been fountains of useful information? Well, no surprise there. They barely knew Gabriel.” He gives me a crooked smile. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven him for overshadowing their birthday party.”

  “I’m sure it was inconvenient for them,” I say carefully.

  “Quite. They were expecting a nice little article in the society pages and he took the front page of every paper. They sulked about it for a few decades, and now thirty years later they’re converting my mother’s pain into a source of revenue. A bit mercenary, don’t you think?”

  Good, I think. He’s under no illusions about who his sisters are. If this is Andre pre-alcohol, I can’t wait to chat when he’s knocked a few back.

  “I didn’t intend to step on any toes with this book,” I tell him. “I took the assignment under the impression that your whole family supported the project.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t waste my time telling Syd and Bridgie what to do. Let them have their book.” He settles back down on the love seat and kicks his feet up on the ottoman. “So . . .” He shifts the conversation to me. “You’ve been here a few weeks. Are you enjoying the train wreck that is my family?”

  I smile. “All things considered, yes. Your family’s quite . . . interesting.”

  “To train wrecks, then.” He holds out his glass in a wry toast.

  I raise mine in return and force down a sip of whatever’s in there. My throat burns and it’s all I can do not to gag. Andre, on the other hand, takes a long, unflinching drink. He leans back and stares at the ceiling like the weight of it all—the struggling hotel business, his crazy family, the secret of his homosexuality, the drama with Jules—is dangling precipitously above him.

  “All right,” he murmurs, “ask me anything. I might even give you an honest answer.”

  I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “Honesty? I hadn’t dared to hope.”

  “I said ‘might.’” He flashes me a tired smile. “It all depends on what you ask.”

  • • •

  ANDRE CAN TALK, and he can talk well. His voice is rich and expressive, his words well chosen. His faint Southern accent sounds intelligent and gentlemanly without suggesting snobbishness. Somewhere in the course of our conversation, I realize that the CEO of Deveau Hotels does not entirely owe his position to nepotism. He knows how to work a listener. As he relates countless stories of his family to me—some cringe-worthy, some heartbreaking, some funny—I find myself drawn in, sympathetic toward this younger, more vulnerable version of him.

  When he tells me his happiest memory of his father, I can picture it: Andre at age ten, his hair windblown after a ride in the convertible, attending the racetrack with his dad for the first time. Neville wasn’t much for gambling—“he respected money too much to just throw it away,” Andre explains�
�but he wanted his son to admire the horses, and he let Andre place a few small bets. “I won eighty-six dollars,” Andre says, pride still lighting up his face.

  I wish I had my tape recorder to capture each detail, but that would ruin the intimacy, destroy the charade that we are two equals engaged in friendly conversation, acquaintances by choice and not circumstance.

  “I can’t imagine being Neville Deveau’s son,” I say. “I used to be so embarrassed by my father. I thought everyone was looking at him, judging anything he said or did or wore in public. I was being a paranoid teenager, but in your case . . . well, it was probably a legitimate fear.”

  Andre considers this. “He wasn’t the most visible figure in the circles we ran in. I’d say he was much better in public than private, actually.”

  “You didn’t get along at home?”

  He shakes his head. “My father was a blowhard with a bad temper. I avoided him when possible. You could probably count our positive interactions on one hand.” He rises to refill his glass and realizes that mine is nearly untouched. “You don’t like it?” he says, part disbelieving, part crestfallen, like a parent who has just received a negative report about his child.

  “Just pacing myself.”

  “This is good stuff, I promise you. Glenlivet Twenty-Five. A twenty-five-year-old single-malt whiskey with two years of finishing in sherry casks.” He takes a sip and closes his eyes, savoring it.

  I make some agreeable reply and take a few more sips, but this is strictly social drinking. I want to minimize the alcohol, maximize the schmoozing, and remain as clearheaded as possible. Already, I can feel my book sprouting up around Andre’s stories, feel the sad portrait of this family that I need to paint.

  I ask him about family holidays, and he tells me about the lavish Mardi Gras parties his parents used to throw. Maddie Lauchlin—Nanny, he calls her—would spend a full month decorating the house. She erected a huge tree in the foyer and draped it in green, purple, and gold. She set up elaborate displays on every mantelpiece, decked out the front door with masks and beads and sparkling ribbons. She had doubloons made with Evangeline’s image imprinted on them. I know little about Mardi Gras traditions, despite the fact that it’s only about three weeks away, but the idea of Noah’s grandmother pimping out the home in all kinds of tacky makes me smile.

  “When did they stop with the parties?” I ask.

  “After we lost Gabriel,” he says. “My father didn’t feel we could maintain proper security with so many people around. I never cared. I’d rather spend Mardi Gras in the city, anyway.”

  “Is that where you live now?”

  Andre nods. “I have a condo in the French Quarter. But I’m not home much. Our family owns a place on St. Charles, though, right along several parade routes. Bridgie and her husband are planning quite the party there this year. Have you been to Mardi Gras?”

  I shake my head, a little self-conscious.

  “It’s like spring break for kids and grown-ups. Hard to beat if you like alcohol.” He glances at my half-full glass. “Although maybe you don’t.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I admit. “Shirley Temples are probably more my speed. Just plain old ginger ale and grenadine.”

  He chuckles. “That’s not the Louisiana way, honey. We work a little, play a lot, and don’t stop drinking ’til we’re unconscious.”

  “Even your mother?”

  “My mother’s not from Louisiana. But I hear she had a good time back in the day.”

  “Were you closer to her than your dad?” His mother has been a shadowy figure in his family stories thus far. Andre has no problem with portraying his father as a bastard, his sisters as superficial airheads, or himself as clueless and bewildered. But Hettie—she’s largely absent.

  Andre must sense my curiosity because he stares at the fire for a moment. “She’s my mother,” he says at last, “so it’s complicated, isn’t it? I love her more than anyone on this earth. She’s made her share of mistakes, but she’d do anything for me.”

  Someday, like Hettie, I will be old and near the end. But my son will not be there to tell people about our complicated relationship, to reflect on what I did right and how I screwed up. I wonder if the stinging injustice of this will ever go away.

  “Your mother’s entitled to a few mistakes, right?” I say lightly. “But lay it on me. Where’d she go wrong?”

  “Well, marrying my father comes to mind. And you can put that in your book, I don’t care who knows it.”

  “She was unhappy?”

  Andre shrugs. “She wanted love. He wanted a uterus. You see the mismatch.” He gets up to stoke the fire. “My father mellowed out some toward the end, but it was a hard road for her. When he died, I thought she might finally get a few good years without him. She deserved that. But then they found the cancer. Which reminds me . . . I haven’t been to see her since I got in today.”

  Evidently Andre’s visit was more about Jules. I wait for him to excuse himself, but he doesn’t budge.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Charlotte. Sick people scare the bejeezus out of me.” Andre shudders. “I don’t want to see her . . . wasting away.”

  I nod, but inside I’m raging. Your mother is dying . . . Who cares what you want? Of course I’m hardly qualified to join the “honor thy father and thy mother” police. If I learned that my own mother was dying, I wouldn’t visit, wouldn’t call, wouldn’t care.

  “Have you seen her recently?” Andre asks me. “How bad is it?”

  “She’s very thin,” I tell him. “And the last time I spoke with her she seemed . . . confused.”

  “How so?”

  “She was talking about Gabriel a lot. She didn’t seem to know that he was gone.”

  He frowns. “She never talks about him. What did she say?”

  “She was just talking like he was alive and all grown up. Like he never went missing.”

  He exhales. “Oh God. This isn’t—she’s not well.” Andre presses a hand to his temple. “Someone should’ve told me. I had no idea she’d declined to that point.” He downs the last of his Glenlivet and sets his glass on the table so hard I’m afraid it will break. “I’ve got to go see her.”

  Southern hospitality and good manners prevail.

  “Charlotte.” He takes my right hand in both of his and gives me his best sincere CEO smile. “It’s been a pleasure. Next time I’ll have that Shirley Temple for you.”

  20.

  The chat with Andre gets me writing. I record the stories he told me as faithfully as possible, then work these anecdotes into the existing structure of my book. Noah pops in at some point, but I wave him off, too engrossed to offer any explanation beyond furious typing. He nods like he gets it and quietly retreats. By the time I have the new material down and reach a stopping point, it’s half past one in the morning.

  Entirely awake and alert, I find myself unable—or maybe unwilling—to go to bed. I try to resume working, but the spell is broken, my focus and drive dissipated. Two a.m. What to do? It occurs to me that I’m not the only one up at this hour. Deacon should be working security tonight, and I haven’t spoken much with him since he helped me track down Dr. Pinaro.

  I throw on a coat and step into the chilly night air, using the light of my cell phone to guide me. I’ll walk to the house, I decide, and if I don’t see Deacon, I’ll come straight back. Yet as many times as I’ve made this trek, there’s something especially nerve-racking about doing it alone at this hour. The light of my phone telegraphs my whereabouts and renders me blind to anything outside its small, glowing sphere. Beyond this dim circle, there’s a blackness deeper than I’ve ever seen.

  Thankfully, as soon as I near the house, Deacon intercepts me. All that high-tech security must’ve alerted him to the presence of some bumbling stranger. He examines me warily from behind the beam of his high-powered flashlight, m
uch less friendly than he was our last encounter. Understandable. At this hour, criminal intent or mental illness are the only sensible explanations.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him, doing my best to look both sane and apologetic. “I was just trying to clear my head. Sorry for setting off the cameras.”

  Having realized I am not an armed intruder, Deacon is magnanimous. “Aw, dat’s awright. Ah had a few of dose nights maself. Sometimes yuh mind just gets da best of yuh . . .” He is peering at me.

  “Charlotte,” I remind him.

  “Well, now, Shalit, Ah’d be real careful ramblin’ ’round at night when yuh dis close to da bayou. Neva know when a cocodrie’s gone go fo’ a ramble of ’is own.”

  “You mean a gator?” I glance around the ground by my feet, but Deacon remains cheerful.

  “You stain in a guest ’ohm? I’ll walk you ovadaddy.”

  I can’t go back, not if I’m going to pick his brain. “Please. I’m going a little stir-crazy. Is there somewhere I could go sit a bit? To calm down?”

  He scratches his frizzy white head and then makes the offer I’m looking for. “Guess you could come back wit me to da carriage house if you lak. Nuttin goin’ on, just me keepin’ an eye on da cam’ras. But Ah got a pot of coffee an’ some doughnuts, if you hungry.”

  I wonder if it’s the smartest move to be following some old man I don’t even know to a place no one would ever think to look for me if I went missing. And at two a.m.! Remnants of my former self—clearly a much more responsible Charlie—berate me for my stupidity. But I do it anyway.

  From the outside, the carriage house resembles a four-car garage, but as Deacon leads me through the side door, I see only one car parked here. The rest of the structure houses a variety of tools, bicycles, fitness equipment, and other odds and ends. This is probably all the storage space Evangeline has, I realize. With all the homes in Chicory standing just a dozen feet or so above sea level, I’d wager basements are unheard of.

  The carriage-house clutter is actually a reassuring contrast to Evangeline’s immaculate interior until I spot the desk and panel of TV screens in the corner. A series of green night-vision images flicker on and off. Cameras blink on at the movement of scurrying animals, tracking them in the dark. It gives me the willies to think of all the times I’ve appeared on these screens while someone sat bored, observing me.