Bernice scooted out from behind the desk. “Let me go check and make sure he’s ready for you. He can get so caught up in his work. Without me keeping track of his day, he’d probably lose his head.”
Lie.
Henry crossed to one of the chairs and sank into it. Chit chat was her Kryptonite. The ability to spot a lie a mile off was a curse, not a blessing. Sure, there were people that made a great living from working with law enforcement, but Henry knew she couldn’t stomach that life. Just having a simple conversation with a stranger seemed to be too much most days.
She fiddled with the strap on her watch, hoping she didn’t have long to wait. She leaned forward and peeked into the next room. Framed maps covered the mint green walls and the glass display cases gleamed. The archives were well-kept, at least on this side. It might be a disaster in the storage areas but it looked promising so far. Some collections were thrown together by well-meaning, but untrained history buffs, but since this particular one was maintained by the preeminent historian on the area’s Cane River Creole culture, she hoped it wouldn’t be chaos behind closed doors.
The front door swung open and a middle aged woman walked through, pulling along young girl in shorts and speaking in Creole. “Hurry, sha, I want to show you these pictures before they close the exhibit.”
Henry smiled, thinking of her mamere. Her grandma always called her sha because Henry would always be her “sweetie”, no matter how old she was.
The little girl rolled dark brown eyes and responded in English. “Why we gotta come here, grandma? You said we were gonna get ice cream.”
Henry watched the woman tug her granddaughter over to one of the glass cases and lean in close, trying her best to engage the little girl. “We will, just as soon as I show you some things. I loved coming here at your age.”
Lie.
Tightening her ponytail until it hurt, Henry let out a long breath. She needed to focus on herself, not on what she couldn’t control. Slipping a compact out of her purse, she checked her bright red lipstick, and nudging her glasses down a bit, examined her mascara. She never knew why a person lied. Appearances, usually. A simple need to impress or seem better than they felt they were. She wasn’t averse to making a good impression and some might even say dying her hair a honey blonde could be considered a lie. But it was depressing how often and how easily most people lied.
“Miss Byrne? He’s ready for you.”
She snapped the mirror closed and stood up.
“We’re excited to be working with y’all over there. Anything you need, just let us know.”
Lie.
Was Becket unhappy, or was Bernice just hoping she didn’t end up as the messenger between the two sites? “I’ll be spending a lot of time traveling back and forth so I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
Her expression betrayed a flicker of relief. “Welcome to Natchitoches, Henry.”
“Thank you.” She turned and followed the narrow hallway around the corner. Her heart raced uncomfortably. Her mamere always said there was no way a man standing on his own two feet could avoid trouble. Of course it was safer back in her office, or interacting with people online. If she wanted to be one of the best Cane River historians, she was going to have to take chances, including somehow convincing Gideon Becket that they would work well together.
Working with him, even unofficially, would be a real feather in her cap. She’d heard colleagues drop his name for much lesser things. A door stood half-open and she blew out a long breath before tapping lightly on the wood.
“Come on in,” a voice sounded from inside.
Her first impression was that he was a more than a few decades younger than she’d assumed. The second impression was that he was difficult to read; a neatly trimmed beard obscured his face. He stood up from his desk and walked toward her, hand outstretched. He was tall, taller than she’d expected, and as he got closer, she adjusted his age down even further.
“Gideon Becket,” he said. His accent was definitely native Louisianan, but there was something else she couldn’t quite trace, a careful formality.
“It’s wonderful to meet you.” Now that the moment had come, Henry felt her carefully prepared introduction disappear. His blue eyes met her gaze without expectation or curiosity. He was wearing a green button down shirt and dress pants, and had the build of a guy who was into weight lifting. She glanced down, realizing she’d been shaking his hand for a full five seconds, and let go.
He spoke first. “I read your article in The Journal of Southern History, the one on the need for the restoration and preservation of primitive buildings in the Cane River region. That was a fine piece of research.”
Truth.
“Thank you.” That article had taken years of research and was one of the reasons she was hired. That and perhaps being related to pillars of the Natchitoches community. She hated to think it had anything to do with Birdie and Frankie Pascal but she knew small towns too well to completely dismiss it.
She glanced at the floor to ceiling bookshelves. Long windows faced the overgrown fields outside and the morning sun filtered through the panes, highlighting a framed photo of Civil War troops on the opposite wall. The soft ticking of a large wall clock sounded like a heartbeat in the quiet room. This wasn’t what she’d imagined. From the rumors she’d heard about him, she’d thought there would be piles of papers, total disorganization, the classic forgetful academic who couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair or meet with anyone from the outside world. It all seemed so normal.
He crossed back behind his desk. “Please sit down. I’d like to hear about your plans for the Historic Park. There are what, sixty structures between the two plantation sites?”
She perched on the wooden chair across from him. “Sixty seven. I’ll be working from the offices in Oakland Plantation, of course, since Magnolia Plantation is privately owned. The park rangers on site seem like a great group. Right now we’ve got a team of masons and limewashers working on the overseer’s house at the moment but we’ll start work on the former slave quarters this week.”
“The ones to the north used by the free slaves after Emancipation? I didn’t realize they were structurally unsound.”
“No, the beams are solid and there’s no sign of rot. A pair of archeology students will be excavating under the floors. I’ve found several letters from the Creole people of color who worked and lived there on the plantation that reference hiding notes or records under the floors.”
His expression shifted from neutral. “Fascinating.”
“I don’t have solid proof anything is hidden in the buildings, but I’m very hopeful.” More than hopeful, she was downright giddy with the possibilities. She’d applied for the position with the plan to excavate those buildings and it was happening even sooner than she’d hoped.
“How can we help?”
“The excavation should be fairly straight forward. They started restoration work last spring on the cotton gin and the corn shed, but was suspended because there wasn’t enough information on the original buildings. I’m hoping the archives here and some of the county records stored in Natchitoches will have pictures and letters that will help us. Accuracy is our biggest concern.”
“As it should be.” He picked up a silver pen from his desk. “Are you hoping to look through the archives today or would you like us to look through our collection for you?”
“I’d love to take a look around this afternoon, if you have a few minutes. Of course, any assistance you could give in finding the papers would be appreciated, but there’s no need. If it’s not against your policy, I would be more than happy to search through the files myself.”
He turned his palms up for a second. “However you like. Maybe between the two of us, we can track down what you need.”
Truth.
Her initial nervousness was starting to subside, especially since he wasn’t as intimidating when seated. This might not be as painful as she’d expected. He avoided meaningless sma
ll talk, at least.
“Mr. Becket, I’ve read everything you’ve ever published. I’m a huge fan.” The moment the words left her mouth, Henry wished she could take them back. She’d never uttered the words “huge fan” in her life but for some reason her brain had thrown that into the conversation.
“Really. Were they assigned as coursework?”
“A few were. They usually started heated debates. You don’t pull any punches. And I have to say Preserving Local Narratives Through Historical Newspapers was my favorite.”
“Because you agreed with me that we shouldn’t rely so heavily on first person video accounts? That wasn’t a very popular article. It went against the current trend. Everybody loves a video of Grandpappy Joe spinning a tale about life on the farm back in the day. Nobody wants to wade through land deeds and slave sale records.” He didn’t smile. In fact, he hadn’t smiled yet.
“I agree, actually.” She had her own reasons for not liking the videos. It was terrible to know when someone was lying about the past and there was no way she was going to call out someone’s grandmother for embellishing on her family history. “But you have to admit, we’re in the minority.”
“I’ve never worried about being in the minority. You think I should soften my opinions in the interests of popularity?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Being unpopular gives your research an extra layer of credibility.”
His chin went up a bit, as if he were getting a better look at her. “Credibility is key, but I don’t go out of my way to be unpopular.”
“No? I thought… I mean, I had the impression you were…”
He waited patiently for her to finish.
“An old recluse.” The word seemed to echo in the small room. That’s not exactly what she’d meant to say but rather than take it back it seemed like a better idea to try and explain. “There’s never a photo attached to the articles and you don’t give any public talks. You co-wrote papers with Peter Rondeau and Walter Kimmelman, who are both in their seventies. You studied under Thomas LeTours but he hasn’t taught at Emory for years. So I hadn’t pictured you so…” She’d never wished for a rewind button so much.. “It doesn’t matter, of course. At all.”
“Miss Byrne, it’s true Letours was my doctoral advisor.”
“Please, call me Henry.”
He paused for a moment, and then went on. “But I wasn’t a traditional student. I received my degree long distance, through a special scholarship program. A few retired emeritus professors take on advisory roles.”
“Oh, I see. Well, some say nontraditional students like yourself are the way of the future.”
“I certainly hope not.”
Henry felt a spike of panic. Most people were like billboards to her, all their thoughts broadcast in bold type for her to read, plain as day. But with a very few people, like Gideon, it was like being forced to interpret smoke signals and she did the best with what she saw. “So you lived far away from Emory? And took classes online?”
“For such a huge fan, you know surprisingly little about me.”
“You know, I’m not sure why I said that. I’m not really a fan.” She sighed. “I mean, it’s true I’ve read everything you’ve published but I never Googled you, to see what you looked like or to find out―”
“I’m not offended. I’m that way, myself. The modern cult of personality smacks of hero worship. Enjoying the work of a writer or artist or academic should be separate from their personal lives. Most people can’t enjoy one without needing to know everything about the other, down to favorite color and whether the person prefers cats or dogs.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Of course she was curious, now that he was sitting in front of her. Maybe not about his favorite color, but about his history, his family, his likes and dislikes. She’d been secretly hoping to know a lot more about him and now it seemed as if a very clear line had been drawn between working together and any kind of friendship.
“I received my degrees while I was an inmate at Louisiana State Penitentiary,” he said.
Truth.
“I was incarcerated for fifteen years on a capital murder charge, with premeditation.” His voice was even.
Murder. The word reverberated in her mind. She could easily imagine him as a felon now, imagine him out of the office and pacing a cell. Fear inched up her spine. Henry let herself look closely for a moment, the way she never did unless she really had to, unless she needed know what someone wouldn’t tell her. She let her eyes roam over him, catching the fleeting changes in his expression, tiniest details in his posture, his clothing, his desk. Then she closed her eyes for a second and let it all settle.
She opened them again. He wasn’t dangerous. At least, not to her. “You must have been very young when you were convicted.”
“I was old enough to know better.”
The rumors made sense now. Rumors always had a seed of truth in them, just enough to keep the gossip moving from person to person. “You published your journal articles while in prison and they kept your situation private. It explains why people say you’re reclusive.”
“Maybe they’re partly true. I was released three years ago. I’m sure I could have managed a conference or two by now.”
“I’ve been to a few. They’re fun.” She pushed up her glasses. “I mean, not exactly fun. Interesting. Lots of people.” He was watching her, brows slightly raised. “Actually, I didn’t enjoy it at all, but a few of my friends had a great time so you shouldn’t take my word for it.”
“That’s not a very convincing pitch.”
“I don’t like to go out much,” she said. “Or, really, ever.”
“Do you have a social anxiety disorder?”
“Something like that.”
There was a short silence. She fiddled with the strap on her watch, wondering what to say next. She couldn’t reconcile his words with the man she’d imagined, couldn’t fathom how he’d managed to enroll in college and receive degrees.
“Well, I’m glad you came to visit us. And if you ever need me to come to Oakland Plantation, I’m happy to bring you what you need. After so many years in a six by eight foot cell, with my day strictly scheduled, maybe I understand a little of what you feel. The first years out in the regular world took some adjustment.”
She blinked. He thought she had agoraphobia, but she wasn’t quite sure how to explain that she didn’t mind leaving her office, when in fact, she did. “It was good that you had a job right away.”
“It was the opposite, actually. Nobody wants to employ a convicted murderer. Cities have bylaws about that sort of thing. Academic institutions can’t risk students or their parents protesting being taught by an ex-con. Federally supported sites like Cane River Creole National Historic Park don’t hire felons.”
“So how did you end up here?”
“My brother lives here. He invited me to stay in Natchitoches while I got on my feet. After a few months, the curator here decided to retire. There weren’t any explicit rules about not hiring felons so it was up to the board.” He moved the pen on his desk a few inches to the left. “No one has complained. Yet.”
She could tell he wouldn’t be surprised if someone did, someday. She felt a surge of sympathy, then shook it off. That’s what happened when you committed such a horrible crime. You lived with the repercussions for the rest of your life. And murder wasn’t like stealing a car. A simple apology wouldn’t ever make up for what was taken.
Something in her thoughts must have shown on her face because he stood up. “Do you still have time for a tour? Or would you like to come back another day?”
She understood the subtle question underneath his words. If she had a problem with him, she was free to say her time was up. “A tour sounds great,” she said, getting to her feet.
As they walked down the hallway, he began to describe the different areas of the building and how the archives were arranged. Henry nodded, trying to pay close attention to the details, but fighting
the overwhelming feeling of disappointment and confusion.
She’d dreamed of meeting him for years, and in the past few months she’d dreamed of the respect she’d gain from working with him. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t find her satisfactory. She’d never considered that she’d step back from the chance to work closely with Gideon Becket. All her rosy daydreams of co-written articles and speaking at conferences faded to gray. He wasn’t the man she’d imagined him to be. She hadn’t realized how much hope she’d invested in her plans until they slipped away.
As he explained how the archives were organized, she nodded along, a pert smile fixed to her lips, but inside, disappointment flooded through her. She supposed that old saying was true: never meet your heroes.
****
“This is a good example of what we’ve collected here.” Gideon opened an archival box of century old photos and stepped back to let Henry have a look. She picked up a few by the edge and exclaimed over the faded image of freed slaves standing on the top step of a rickety porch. He watched her sort through the others, careful not to leave marks or bent edges. He expected nothing less from a trained archivist employed by the parks department, of course, but there was something about her that didn’t seem to fit. It wasn’t that she was startlingly pretty. It wasn’t the polished heels, or the blond ponytail and bright lipstick combo, or the male name, or the nervous watch fiddling. It was something else entirely.
In prison, being able to read body language could mean the difference between life and death, between friend or foe. Getting a read on someone had saved his life a hundred times, and although working in the archives wasn’t dangerous, old habits die hard. Within seconds of meeting someone, he made a judgement and it never wavered. But he couldn’t get a handle on Henry Byrne and it made him deeply uneasy.
From her posture and expressions, it was clear that this woman had been more distrustful of him before he’d told her he was a murderer, than after. He wasn’t sure what could be worse than a confessed killer, but apparently she had been expecting it when she walked into his office.
Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series Page 31