“No inspiration? Come on, you did some amazing paintings in college and won awards. You can’t suddenly lose your talent.”
“It takes more than talent. Many artists struggle.”
“I have confidence in you. You’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks. Work isn’t bad, but the museum staff aren’t artists. They love art, but most have little understanding of the people who make it.”
“I’m not sure anyone understands artists. You’ve always been independent, Annie. It’s one of the things I admire about you. You sure resisted your father’s influence while we were in college. He hoped you would get married.”
“Yes, he wanted to see me settled and financially secure, but that was before I became an heiress.” She chuckled. “Enough about me. I also recall how hard it was for you. Your mother wouldn’t allow you to live your life as you wished at all. She wanted you to marry and practically had your wedding planned before you were out of high school.”
Isabelle laughed. “You’re right. Well, she almost got her wish. I held out until I finished college. But unlike you, I always wanted to get married. Guess I’m traditional.”
Anne nodded. The transition from college to adulthood had been easy for her friend.
“Thanks for the great meal,” she said. “It’s good to taste home cooking for a change.”
“You’re welcome. Come more often,” Isabelle replied.
Addressing Paul, Anne asked, “How do you like your classes at the law school?”
He grimaced. “If you consider case histories worthy of intense study, fine.”
Isabelle picked up the plates. “There’s no dessert—I thought you’d prefer to skip the calories, Annie—but I can offer coffee,” she said.
“No coffee, but I would like another glass of wine,” Anne replied. “Need help with the dishes?”
“No, thanks, y’all should visit,” Isabelle said, getting up from the table.
Paul and Anne ambled into the living room carrying their wine glasses and sat down. Paul stretched his long legs out from the chair.
“How are things going with Sam?” he asked.
“Okay. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious, as I consider you one of my oldest—and dearest—friends.”
“I hoped he would come tonight, but he had to work.” Anne said.
“Did he give you a reason, other than that? Is he working on some special project, or deadline, or something?”
“No. Why?”
“I can’t help wondering what he does for a living that keeps him busy on a Saturday night.”
Anne flushed. “He works at the museum as a curator. He often works on weekends. Look, we’re only dating. I don’t know what he does all day.”
“Why not, when you work at the same place?”
“He has a different job, a higher-level one than mine, and it involves a lot of meetings and travel. He’s away a lot . . . wait a minute, what are you trying to get at? I’m beginning to sense this is an inquisition.”
“Sorry. It’s not meant to be, but Isabelle and I want to be sure you’re not getting into any trouble,” he said.
Anne quelled her annoyance and attempted to remain calm, reminding herself that Isabelle always had her best interests at heart. She did not want to alienate Paul either, her oldest friend. She took another sip of her drink. After a few minutes Paul spoke again.
“Does Sam like fishing?”
Anne again wondered what he was getting at, and paused before answering, in thinly disguised irritation.
“Not that I’m aware of. Why all the questions?”
“I saw someone running down the levee north of the city in the middle of the night carrying a big package that someone threw to him from a barge in the river. It looked like Sam.”
“Only looked like Sam? Weren’t you sure? How could you tell, if it was dark? What were you doing at night on the levee, anyway? Did you talk to him?”
“I called out, but he didn’t answer. There was a full moon. I was out fishing, and my car broke down.”
“Oh. Well, why even mention this, if you’re not even sure it was Sam?” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve only met him once before, and that was months ago when you saw us together on campus.”
“Anne, I’m not trying to scare you. Izzy and I agreed that we should talk to you about this and ask if you know anything or can explain it.”
“I appreciate your concern, truly.” She gulped her wine, and clenched the arm of her chair. “When was this, anyway?”
“On a Thursday night. October fifteenth.”
“That doesn’t help much. I don’t keep track of all Sam’s movements, any more than he does mine.”
“All right. I’m only bringing this up because, although I’ve only met him once, the man really did look like Sam. This guy impressed me by his unusual speed when he ran away. I run regularly myself, and I know when someone is fast—and he was very fast, like a professional runner. Has Sam had experience in track?”
“Yes, in college,” Anne said.
“Okay. What else has he told you about his athletic skills?”
Anne didn’t reply, but remembered he had trained for the biathlon, and was an expert at skiing and shooting.
“Have you ever been to his house?” Paul asked.
“No.”
Paul pulled his feet back against his chair and sat up, locking her eyes.
“How well do you know this man, Annie? You might want to ask him more questions about his time away from the office. Look, I don’t want to harass you, and I’m not going to pursue this any further. It’s up to you. But please be careful.”
For the rest of the evening, Anne kept up polite but cool conversation with her friends. Relieved when it was over, she climbed into her car and drove home. She would never have tolerated the pointed questioning if Paul hadn’t been such a strong supporter over the years. They had remained friends after they stopped dating in high school. Her head ached. It was too bad that so soon after she’d had her first serious argument with Sam, she now had another reason to distrust him. Paul had correctly assessed that she knew very little about the man. He never gave her a detailed accounting of his time away from the office, and his behavior the previous weekend had been odd, even if he had more or less explained it away. All the same, Paul had seen a man in the middle of the night who only resembled Sam. It could have been anyone, or if it had been Sam, there might be a good reason. She would ask him.
The phone rang early on Sunday morning.
“Morning, sweetheart. It’s a lovely day. Want to go for a drive? We’ll have a long, lazy lunch on the way,” Sam said.
“Sounds great.”
“Pick you up at ten o’clock.”
His call was like a breath of cool, fall air. Anne got up, took a shower, and dressed in a pair of slacks, a white blouse, and a long necklace. It was indeed a lovely day, sunny, breezy, and comfortable; not hot, not humid. She peered through the window at the gently waving palm trees above and the green foliage lower down punctuated by red and white Cajun hibiscus flowers. They reminded her of Degas’s picture of Estelle standing behind a vase of flowers in similar colors. Thinking back to Marguerite’s journal, Anne wondered if Estelle had been pregnant when Degas completed that painting. Sam might know. She would ask him about that. As she saw his car pull up, she gathered a light jacket and ran out to meet him. She opened the passenger door and slipped onto the seat.
He gave her a brief kiss. “I decided we should go along the River Road and take a picnic,” he said.
“Great idea. It’ll be good to get out of town for a change.”
As she saw him look approvingly at her, she noticed that his eyes matched his shirt and were a shade of pure blue, rather than their usual steel gray. A rush of attraction surged through her. They drove across the Huey P. Long Bridge and turned north along the River Road. She wound down the window and enjoyed the sensation of the wind blowing her hair. He rolled up his sl
eeves and touched her shoulder.
“Didn’t see you this week. Where have you been hiding?” he asked.
“Not hiding. I might ask the same of you,” she said.
This would be the time to ask him more about his whereabouts, she thought, but she was enjoying herself and him and didn’t want to spoil the day. The serious talk could wait.
They passed several plantation houses. Some had tall pillars in front and long driveways bordered by oak trees leading to the river, while others with more informal entrances stood farther back from the water. A few of the houses appeared in good repair, displaying fresh white paint and tended lawns; others had fallen into ruin, reminders of times gone by, abandoned since the Civil War.
“Have you ever been on a plantation house tour?” Anne asked.
“No, I haven’t. You?”
She shook her head. “Somehow it seems the wrong thing to do, when you consider that those places only thrived because of slavery.”
“Not only the plantations, but the whole South, and New Orleans in particular, owed their financial success to slavery,” he replied. “Once the war ended, the way of life in Southern cities changed, and many families whose livelihood depended on the cotton industry went bankrupt.”
“I know. It must have been a terrible time. I know that during Reconstruction laws were passed to grant rights to former slaves, but these were not enforced. Though everyone struggled, from what I’m learning through Marguerite’s journal, the Creoles lived a life of incredible luxury for a while after the war.”
“Yes, but as you say, only for a while. Their way of life broke down. Everything was in chaos, with carpetbaggers exploiting everyone, blacks and whites alike, while Southerners adjusted to the new way of life. The Creoles couldn’t compete with the Americans who moved into the city around that time. They had a better business sense, and they managed to survive more successfully.”
“I guess so; their houses tell the story. The American-built ones on St. Charles Avenue are better preserved compared with the Creole places on Esplanade like mine.”
“Exactly.”
After they had driven farther along the river, Anne said, “Sam, tell me more about the painting of Estelle. We haven’t had a chance to talk much about it.”
“Okay. I told you the story of how the museum raised funds to buy it. Well, it had been in France until then. Degas took all the paintings he completed in New Orleans back to France. Critics think he valued the family portraits because they were all he had as reminders of his American relatives. Almost all of them remained in his studio until he died. Now only a few, including the one of Estelle, who was pregnant, by the way, are owned by museums in this country. He came from a wealthy family, but it looks as though after arriving in New Orleans, he came to consider his paintings as potential sources of income. Not famous in 1872, critics think he reached a turning point here. He gained confidence and believed that his reputation would improve when he returned to Paris.”
“And obviously it did,” Anne said.
“Yes, partly because of some family portraits he completed here, but mostly because of the masterpiece he called A Cotton Office in New Orleans. You know the one?”
“From art history courses, yes. Marguerite hasn’t mentioned it so far in her journal, but because of her, I’m learning more about Degas’s connection with my great-great-grandfather, Philippe Fontenot, who was himself an artist. Do you suppose he achieved any recognition?”
“Not that I’m aware of. The American Impressionists were never as highly regarded as the French ones. Did you know that Degas was the only French Impressionist painter to work in America?”
“No, I didn’t. Makes his visit here even more significant. Thanks for the history lesson. Speaking of history, the termites in the house have gone,” she said.
“Good, so what’s next?”
“Woodwork. The doors, doorframes, floors, stairs, and windows need repairing along with the bathroom fixtures. Then I get to decide about the really interesting stuff, the finishes.”
“In other words, everything. Sounds as if you’re making progress, though.”
“I think so.”
“I’m getting hungry,” Anne said. “Is there somewhere we can stop for that picnic?”
“Soon. I know a place on the levee with a good view of the river.”
She glanced at him. Now would be the time to ask.
“Oh. Do you come here often?” she said.
“You’re sounding like a cliché, Anne. You can do better than that,” he said, teasingly.
“No, seriously. Do you fish?”
“No. Do you?”
“You know I don’t. But how are you familiar with the river, and places to stop, if not for fishing?” she persisted.
He took a sideways glance at her.
“Do you really want to hear the answer? Remember I’m thirty-two, and you’re not my first girlfriend,” he replied.
“All right, enough said,” she sighed.
He was not going to make it easy for her. She needed to ask him whether he had been there at night, but why bother? He would simply say no, or give some answer that she didn’t want to hear, just as he’d implied.
He stopped the car, retrieved a blanket and basket from the trunk, and bounded up the levee. Anne followed at a slower pace. He laid out cheese, fruit, figs, crusty loaves of bread, and a bottle of red wine. He twisted the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses.
“To you and your Creole ancestors,” he said.
“Thanks. We should invite them. What a nice way to spend a Sunday,” she said with a smile.
From their blanket at the top of the levee, they watched the water swirling below. An occasional silvery fish jumped, making a faint splash as it dove back in. Rusty barges passed, creating waves and wakes in the muddy water, while white clouds raced across the sky. Anne lay back, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Sam sat forward, resting his hands on his raised knees. They finished the bottle of wine and most of the food.
“It’ll be Thanksgiving soon. What are you doing?” he asked.
“Spending it with my father in Oxford. I go every year. Perhaps you’d like to come and meet him.”
“I’d love to, if I’m free, but I may have to go away again. I’ll know soon.”
“No rush. I won’t need to tell him until the week before. Where are you traveling to?”
“New York. We’re negotiating the purchase of a new painting. It’s not well known, but it would fill a hole in our collection.”
“You do an awful lot of traveling,” Anne said. “Don’t you tire of it?”
“No. I hate routines, and this gives me a break.”
He checked his watch.
“Time to get going,” he said.
They gathered up the picnic items and headed back to the car. As they went, she realized that she had still not learned any answers to her questions; he had evaded them all. She took a deep breath and braced herself.
“Sam, what were you doing here on the levee after ten o’clock on October fifteenth?”
He took off fast, bounding down the levee, swinging the picnic basket like a weapon.
“What are you talking about? What goddamned nonsense is someone telling you? Must have been someone else, because it wasn’t me,” he shouted over his shoulder.
They drove back to New Orleans in silence. Once home, Anne suddenly felt tired, and her head buzzed. She needed to lie down for a while. She couldn’t bear to think any more about the possibility that something was seriously wrong with Sam. Her mind ran over his virtues. She enjoyed his companionship. Her first serious boyfriend, she found him irresistible. He was good to her: he treated her to meals in good restaurants, encouraged her career at the museum, respected her, and made her feel special. Besides, it thrilled her to be dating such an attractive man who shared her passion for art. She wasn’t sure he had behaved badly enough for her to give up on him, and the man on the levee that Paul had told her a
bout might have been anyone. She had accused him without any evidence, and she couldn’t blame him for saying that others had been talking nonsense. The purpose of dating was to get to know a person, and how would she do that if she broke up with him?
Chapter 14
November 1872
The morning after the recital Estelle dressed in her usual black clothes. She found Edgar sitting in the front room reading the newspaper.
“Bonjour, what a fine morning,” he greeted her. “How are you today, ma cousine? It was a pleasure to listen to music again. I can’t thank you enough for arranging everything and singing so beautifully.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. New Orleans is not Paris, but we do love music here,” she said stiffly, shutting the image of America’s shocking performance out of her mind. “What are your plans for the day? Are you going to the office?”
“No. The music inspired me, and I will paint today. I still have almost all the family to paint, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“I’m pleased to hear this, Edgar,” she said, her face softening. “Désirée might sit for you, or Mathilde.”
“Yes, they would be good subjects. And you, what are you doing today?”
“Me? Nothing much. I plan to relax, now that the recital is over.”
At that minute, Beulah bustled into the room carrying a large bouquet.
“Madame, these flowers arrived, a present to you from your husband, I believe,” she said.
“What a surprise! I love flowers. Please put them here on the table and bring a vase. I’ll arrange them right away.”
Beulah nodded and went into the kitchen. She came back moments later carrying a container. Estelle reached for the red gladioli and white camellia stems. Edgar took up his notebook and a pencil. He sketched her quickly as she viewed the flowers, holding the flowers delicately as she placed them in the glass vessel one by one.
Estelle, glancing sideways, saw that Edgar was drawing her. “I hope you’re focusing on the flowers in your picture,” she said. “I’m not nearly as pleasing, or as colorful. Anyway, I can’t pose for you now.”
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