“Are you sure you’re up to driving?” Sam asked.
“I think so.”
She wasn’t sure, but she needed to get away from Sam. Her father sat in the passenger seat holding the cat and, white-faced and still shaking, she backed the car out of the driveway and headed toward the animal hospital.
“Nice work, on Sam’s part,” her father said after a few minutes. “But how on earth did he learn to shoot like that, so fast, and with such precision?”
“He learned on the shooting team at Yale and trained there for the biathlon,” Anne said.
“That may explain it, but why was he carrying a gun while running around the neighborhood here?” François asked.
“I have no idea, but I guess we’re lucky he was,” she said soberly.
François cradled the cat and gave her an occasional reassuring pat on the head.
“You had a close call, little one,” he said. “That’s the end of exploring outside for you for a while.”
The minutes clicked by slowly at the animal hospital while they awaited their turn, but after they entered the examination room, the vet soon cleaned and stitched the cat’s hurt leg.
“Here’s an antibiotic salve to apply to the wound. She’ll have to wear a cone for a week or two so she doesn’t lick it and loosen the stitches, and she won’t like that, but you can see it’s necessary.”
“I can. Thank you,” François said, and paid the bill.
In the car he said, “Thank you for driving, my dear. It’s already past noon. I think we’d best forget about Thanksgiving dinner for today. How about pasta? I can make a tomato-based sauce and a salad. We can have the turkey tomorrow.”
“Pasta is fine with me,” Anne said. “I’ve lost my appetite for a big meal today, and I’d like to go for a run when we get home. Guess you’ll be dealing with the police and so on. We’ll need to clean up the mess inside, too.”
François nodded. They parked the car in the driveway and entered the house. There was no sign of the dog or any blood, and Sam, dressed in clean khaki pants and a short-sleeved shirt, sat in the living room, reading.
“What did you do with the dog? Did you call the police?” Anne asked.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s all taken care of,” he replied.
“What did the police say? Does Ms. Hiller know about her dog?” François asked.
“I didn’t call the police. There’s no need to say anything. Much better to say nothing.”
Anne and her father exchanged glances.
“I’m not sure about that . . . we ought to inform the authorities,” François said.
“Believe me, we should leave them out of it. I’ve been in situations like this before. It’ll be okay.”
“You are a cool customer,” Anne said. She looked at Sam and noticed that his eyes were steel gray.
“Actually, I can appreciate the sense in what you’re saying,” François said to him. “The house is large, surrounded by the garden on all sides, and even though the gunfire sounded loud to us here, our neighbors won’t have heard it. If someone passing by on the street had overheard the noise, we’d have had a visit from the police by now.”
“Exactly,” Sam said.
“Anyway, I’d as soon not face Ms. Hiller.”
He carried the cat to her bed in the corner, and she settled down, after shaking her head in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge the plastic cone.
“I need to go for a run to clear my mind,” Anne muttered. “Back in an hour.”
François took a seat near Sam in the living room.
“Would you like a drink or something? We’ve decided against making the turkey today, but you’re welcome to eat something to tide you over until dinner—a simpler dinner,” François said.
“A beer would be great, if you have one.”
“I’ll join you,” François said, as he left for the kitchen to fetch the drinks. He handed one to Sam.
“I suppose the appropriate toast is Happy Thanksgiving,” Sam said.
“Yes. Cheers!”
They both took swigs of the cold amber liquid and sat still for a few minutes.
“I understand your field is entomology,” Sam said.
“It is. I’ve always liked bugs of one kind or another. Do you know anything about insects?”
“Not much. I’ve seen beautiful butterflies in the rain forest and wish I’d studied more about those.”
“Yes, they’re spectacular, but they’re not misunderstood. Most people like them. I find the outliers more interesting.”
“Such as?”
“Rare cannibalistic ants. Gypsy moths. Dung beetles.”
“Dung beetles?”
“Sometimes known as scarabs. Fascinating.”
“Yeah, I guess there’s more to learn about those and their nasty habits,” Sam said, smiling.
“Speaking of habits, you seem to have developed some skill using a gun. That was quite a performance there this morning. How did you learn to shoot so well?”
“Anne may have told you I attended Yale. They had a shooting team, and I trained for the biathlon. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Sure, but what you did had the mark of a true marksman, excuse the pun.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had advanced training since college.”
“You mean, professionally?”
“Look, sir, I really can’t talk about this. Can we leave it at that?”
“I see. I suppose that explains your decision to keep quiet about the dog.”
Sam made no reply and took another swig of his beer. François stood up.
“Anne mentioned you wanted to look at a painting she owns. Perhaps you’d like to do that when she gets back. I’ll have a bite to eat. Are you hungry?”
“No, thanks. I’ll enjoy the beer, and perhaps another, if I may.”
That evening François made pasta for dinner, as promised. They devoured it, drinking plenty of red wine to wash it down. They talked about insects; François did most of the talking.
“Tell me to stop when you’ve had enough,” he said. “I can talk forever about this subject, and frequently do. It’s a bad habit among people in my profession.”
Sam and Anne, sitting upright, their heads propped on their hands, had both fallen asleep.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. My apologies,” he said loudly.
Sam woke up, startled. “I’ll turn in now. Thanks for dinner. See you tomorrow,” he said, looking at François.
Anne woke up, also. “I’ll do the dishes, Dad,” she said.
“Thanks. Let’s do them together. I want to talk to you.”
They carried the plates to the kitchen and Anne put on a pair of rubber gloves. She filled the sink with soapy water and got to work. Her father dried each washed item with a dishtowel.
“Anne, I don’t want to overstep boundaries here, but I have a few thoughts about Sam.”
“I’ve many thoughts myself, especially after today. Go on,” Anne said.
“All right. He has charm and he’s polite. However, I’m fairly sure he has an agenda we don’t know much about. He’s well trained with weapons and didn’t want to talk about it when I asked him. He may work for the FBI, using the museum job as a cover. Those people don’t usually talk about their special skills. I only mention this because of the possibility that he won’t ever make a long-term commitment to you.”
Anne stopped scrubbing a pot. “Are you saying he’d never marry me, not that I necessarily want him to,” she said.
“I don’t know, but marriage rarely mixes well with that kind of work.”
“All right, I hear you. Thanks,” she said.
“Another thing. As you’re aware, I try not to interfere in your life, but I have to say that the course you’ve chosen will make it more difficult for you. If you choose not to marry, it’s essential that you find work that’s meaningful.”
“I know that, Dad.”
They finished the dishes, and he gave her a
hug before going upstairs to bed. Anne sat for a long time on the couch after he left, going through the events of the day in her mind until she fell asleep.
The next day Anne got up early. She hadn’t slept well on the couch. She took a shower, leaving the bathroom damp and smelling of soap and the light cologne that she usually splashed on her neck, and threw on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. When Sam came down an hour later, she was standing in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee and staring out of the window. A mockingbird trilled from the big magnolia tree outside, and late-season blooms shone white in the early morning sun. They evoked in her a sense of nostalgia, a longing for lost childhood.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, drifting over and giving her a kiss on the back of her neck. “You smell like flowers. Want to come back to bed?”
“No. I didn’t go to bed. I fell asleep on the couch. Guess you didn’t notice. I’m up now and need to get on with the day. Today we’re having Thanksgiving dinner, remember?”
“I do, and I look forward to it.”
She moved away from him.
“Aren’t you going for another run?” she asked. “Don’t forget to take your gun.”
“Not this morning. Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, Sam. I don’t understand you. Dad talked to me last night after you went to bed. He suspects you work for the FBI. Is that true?”
Sam put his arms round her waist. “Well, if it is, do you really expect me to tell you?”
“I guess not, but it makes me wonder if I should trust you,” she said, twisting herself out of his grip.
“Why not? If anything, you should feel safe, since I can protect you.”
“I’m not in need of protection. I don’t involve myself in risky endeavors.”
“No, but you can never tell who might turn out to be an evil person, out to harm you or anyone else, for no particular reason,” he said.
“Guess I’ll worry about that when I have to. I’ve realized that there’s a lot I don’t know about you, and that bothers me.”
“Well, give us time. As you saw yesterday, it’s useful to have someone around who knows how to shoot well.”
“True. Dad is very grateful.”
“To change the subject, how about showing me that painting?” he said.
“All right. I’ll find it after breakfast. You do want breakfast, don’t you?”
“Sure. I’ll run up and take a shower and be right back.”
He left the room, and Anne poured herself another cup of coffee. The strengthening sun streamed through the window spreading warmth through her body, and she again experienced the pleasure of being home, and of being secure. It was true that she had always felt safe around Sam, and despite her misgivings about his secrecy, she liked his calm confidence. It was all rather confusing and she remained alarmed about his apparent ease with a gun. Still, she didn’t want the incident about the dog and the questions that had arisen to spoil the weekend. She would continue to enjoy the time with her father and put off the decision about whether she wanted to keep seeing Sam until later. As he’d reminded her, she had time. What was it her father had said? To make a good decision, you have to face the truth. Yes, those were his words.
Chapter 18
December 1872
The baby, named Jeanne, was born on December twentieth. Christmas was all but forgotten in the household amid all the excitement. René arranged for the christening to take place in early January, and Edgar announced his intention of leaving soon afterward. Estelle, relieved to be no longer pregnant, spent a few days in bed following the birth and soon involved herself in domestic routines again.
Friends stopped by to welcome the baby and congratulate the parents. Sophie Fontenot arrived, one of the first visitors.
“Estelle, it’s so nice to meet Jeanne,” she said one cold day. “She’s a lovely baby. Too bad it’s raining all the time. I’d love to take her out for a stroll. It has been a long time since I had my babies, and I’d like to help with this one.”
Estelle patted her friend on the arm.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you for hosting Edgar so often recently,” she said. “He was becoming tired of the intense domesticity of family life here, I think.”
“We’ve been glad to have him. He and Philippe have spent many hours painting together. Edgar says the light in Philippe’s studio is better for his eyes. He has done some sketches of Marguerite.”
“Has he? Well, she’s a very pretty girl, so I’m sure he enjoys that. He says he’s leaving after the christening. I had hoped he would stay longer, but he has already booked his passage on the ship.”
“Oh. Let’s have a farewell party for him,” Sophie said.
“That’s a good idea. He might attend one or two Mardi Gras balls before he leaves, too. Those should amuse him.”
“You’re right. Laissez les bons temps rouler; let the good times roll. What does Jo think of her new sister? She’s back from school for the holidays, isn’t she?” Sophie asked.
“Yes. She’s always been a helpful older sister, and she loves the baby. I’m treating her to a pedicure as a late Christmas present this week.”
“What a luxury,” Sophie said.
Estelle nodded. “It is a luxury, but she’s a good girl and deserves a little pampering. That school she attends is not sympathetic to us Creoles.”
“It’s true. The Americans are different, stricter, and not fun-loving, like we are. No sense of style, either.”
“That’s what René says, too. But they’re very good businessmen and take risks, which we tend not to do. He complains that they’re fierce competitors.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, but they’ve definitely made their presence known in the city. Their mansions on St. Charles Avenue are overly grand,” Sophie said, making a face.
“They are,” Estelle agreed. “Are you acquainted with any American families?”
“Can’t say I am, now that you mention it. We don’t invite them to our Mardi Gras celebrations, and they don’t attend the Catholic churches. Speaking of Mardi Gras, the first ball of the season is next week. Are you going?”
“I expect so. I’ll talk to René. Is Philippe wearing a costume?”
“Yes. Well, a mask anyway. Marguerite is excited. It will be her first.”
“I can imagine. I remember my first one well; don’t you?”
“Yes. I wore a white dress, all floaty,” Sophie said, smiling. “I felt so grown-up. The men were hard to recognize because they wore masks, and I danced with several people without ever knowing who they were.”
Estelle laughed. “Me, too. Silly, isn’t it? But fun.”
“Yes. Well, I must go now. I’m glad to find you looking so well, my friend.”
Sophie went out of the house, and Estelle sat for a minute, looking after her. Sophie was a good friend, a sensible woman with a fine family. Estelle wasn’t familiar with her husband, Philippe, but Edgar had told her he was an accomplished painter, and they had developed a friendship. That he had found a companion pleased her, although she wished that he considered his brothers’ company more satisfying. She also wished he had spent more time with Désirée. While grateful, she couldn’t stop her remorse. Her sister had helped care for her, perhaps giving up all hope for a relationship with Edgar, as a result. She sighed. She knew she couldn’t arrange the lives of all the people she loved.
René came in, back from work. He stooped and gave her a quick kiss.
“How was your day?” he asked. “I saw Sophie Fontenot on the way out.”
“Yes, she came to see the baby, and we talked about the ball next week. She’s going with Philippe and Marguerite. Is your costume ready yet?”
“Yes, and it’s spectacular. I got many in Paris, and mine is of a cockroach. The mask is magnificent. It has antennae and jaws. Very realistic.”
“Sounds creepy to me. Have you talked to Edgar about his costume?”
“He doesn’t want to wear one, but I�
��ve convinced him to wear a mask, at least. He says he doesn’t dance.”
“Doesn’t dance? Good heavens, where has he been all his life?”
“In Paris, I believe,” René said, grinning.
“We must show him how to have a good time here. He loves the theater and tells me he has painted dancers often. How could he not enjoy our masked balls?”
“He will. Don’t worry. Just wondering . . . has America come by to offer her congratulations?”
Estelle’s pulse quickened and she drew a sharp breath.
“No. Why should she?”
“Well, she’s a neighbor and a friend. She told me she would stop by.”
“She did? When did she tell you that?” Estelle asked, frowning.
“Uh, not sure, but as you’re aware, she’s always pleased to have a new child in the neighborhood, someone else for her children to play with.”
Estelle said nothing. Some of her and Mathilde’s children were the same age as America’s, and they played well together. But when had America told René she would come to offer congratulations? Had they seen each other in private? Her heart heavy, Estelle decided not to think about that. Not yet, anyway.
Chapter 19
November 1970
Anne took the painting out of the closet for Sam to examine. She unwrapped the brown paper and set the painting on the floor. The oil portrait depicted a young woman in a black gown resting her chin on one hand and holding a fan in the other. The faraway expression in her eyes suggested regret, as though she had returned from a ball and hadn’t enjoyed it.
Sam studied it closely.
“Amazing resemblance! This attractive relative of yours looks exactly like you—no question now about where you inherited your looks,” he said, looking back and forth between Anne and the picture. “She has your hair, your brown eyes. It’s a fine painting, Impressionist. You said your great-great-grandfather Philippe painted it, and it’s his wife, right? What was her name again?”
“Sophie. I gathered this because Marguerite mentioned the painting in her journal. It’s not signed, but the name Sophie is written on the back.”
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