Margaret would not at first believe that the baby was really coming, that Rebecca could know what was happening to her. When she was convinced, she turned hysterical and rushed around the apartment in her nightgown wringing her hands and looking for a telephone that wasn’t there. Rebecca had to tell her four times that she must get dressed and go down to the grocery store to call the doctor. Margaret balked then at going out into the street at night and in the chill rain of the New Orleans winter.
The pains were coming fast and hard. Rebecca had gotten dressed but had little strength to talk. There was something wrong. She had read the books about childbirth that Dante had brought her from the library, and she didn’t think matters should be proceeding so violently so soon. When her water broke on a grinding pain, she gasped out, “Dante, go get Dante.”
“What do you want with him?”
Margaret had no use for Dante. The two of them had disliked each other on sight, perhaps because Dante was Rebecca’s champion in all things and did not trouble to hide the fact that he considered Margaret a busybody and an interloper.
“I need him.”
“But he has nothing to do with this. Or does he?”
Rebecca, standing with her body swollen and drawn with pain and her shoes full of warm, blood-stained water, glared at her sister in sudden, consuming rage. She screamed, “Get Dante!”
Silenced, Margaret ducked out into the wet night. In a moment she could be heard downstairs pounding on his door.
It was Dante who delivered Rebecca’s child. The baby, a girl, cried with her face screwed up and red so that she looked furious with the world. Her cries were strong, however, in spite of her premature birth. Dante gave her to Margaret while he tended to Rebecca. Her sister bathed the baby with awkward and gingerly care, dressed her and wrapped her in a blanket, and brought her back into the room just as Rebecca was settling back in the bed in her nightgown.
Rebecca lay with the baby in the crook of her arm and her hair, glinting in the glow of the overhead light, spread around her on the pillow. She touched the delicate skin of her child’s face, spread the tiny hands, and marveled at the long fingers; she felt the delicate and rapid beating of the tiny heart in that small, warm body. She looked up with shining eyes at Dante, who sat beside her on the bed. His thick curls were standing on end, there were shadows of weariness under his eyes, and blood—her blood—smeared the T-shirt he wore. Still, there was satisfaction and even bright exultation on his face.
A smile of clear beauty curved her mouth, and she held out her left hand to him. “Thank you,” she said simply.
He stared at her, and tears rose in his eyes. His voice husky with reverence, he said, “Ah, chère, you look like a young madonna.”
Margaret, standing at the bed’s foot, cleared her throat. “What a sweet thing to say, Dante. I don’t know how you knew what to do, but you’ve got my thanks, too.”
He did not look away from Rebecca as he answered. “It was nothing. I used to help my grandpapa who had a little piece of farmland on the river road. He showed me what to do for the cows at calving time.”
“Ugh!” Margaret exclaimed. “It can’t be the same.”
Dante merely lifted a shoulder, as if the comment was unworthy of a reply.
Margaret went on. “Anyway, it’s a good thing. Now we won’t have to go to the hospital.”
“What are you saying?” Dante released Rebecca’s hand and came slowly to his feet to face Margaret. “We should call an ambulance right now. Both your sister and the baby should be checked. I’m not a doctor. What if something isn’t right?”
“She looks fine to me. They both do.”
“But you don’t know that!”
“If we don’t go to the hospital, we won’t have to register the baby for her birth certificate here in New Orleans. I can arrange everything later, with Mama’s doctor. He’ll do it for us, when I explain. Anything that makes this baby more mine has to be good.”
“Yours?” he said slowly. “You’re going to take Rebecca’s baby?”
Hot color rushed into Margaret’s face. She put her hands on her plump hips. “I’m not taking it! She’s giving the baby to me!”
Dante turned to Rebecca. “Is this true?”
Rebecca swallowed on the ache in her throat. “It’s the best thing to do. Don’t you see?”
“No.” The word was hard, uncompromising.
“She’ll have a normal home with two parents and lots of love, the love of three people instead of one. And I can see her whenever I want, as long as I want. This way no one will be hurt, not my mama and not the baby. It’s the best for everybody.”
“Who says so?”
“Well, Margaret, but—”
“What about you?”
Rebecca looked away with her teeth set in her bottom lip. Her voice wobbled as she answered, “It’s best for me, too. I’d have to take care of her and earn enough to keep us both. It’s just—just too much.”
“You aren’t going home, then?”
Margaret broke in, her hands gripping the foot rail of the cheap iron bed. “She can’t, not now! It would be too obvious. She would be bound to be silly over the baby, besides being weak and all that. People might get suspicious, start to talk. Mama would surely know something was wrong.”
Dante turned back to Rebecca with pain and compassion in his face. “Oh, chère.”
Tears gathered in Rebecca’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks in warm, wet paths. Her voice thick, she repeated, “I have to think of what’s best, for everybody.”
Dante didn’t answer. He clenched his hands, then let them relax, falling open at his sides. Turning, he walked out of the room. The door of the apartment closed quietly behind him.
In the bedroom at Bonne Vie, Margaret’s iced tea arrived. She drank down half of it before the maid who had brought it had left the room. Refilling her glass from the pitcher on the silver tray, she paced up and down beside the bed.
“What about this photographer, Gorsline?” she asked. “What does he want? Why is he hounding us?”
Riva spoke from where she stood at the window. “The idea seems to be that he’s interested in Erin.”
“Baloney. There’s more to it than that, there has to be. Don’t you have any idea what it could be?”
“None.” Riva could have told her sister about seeing the young man earlier that afternoon. She did not. It was unlikely that Margaret would understand the impulse that had made her take Doug Gorsline’s number to give to Erin, and she was in no mood to listen to certain condemnation for it.
“You saw him at the rally,” Margaret said, a line between her brows as she frowned. “Do you think he could be bought off?”
“Oh, please, Margaret, this isn’t a soap opera! Nothing so melodramatic as bribery is necessary. And even if the situation were different, I think it would be unwise to offer money. If he’s really after something, it would be like giving a hound a scent of blood.”
The other woman drank from her glass of tea, then wiped her mouth with her fingers. “You may be right. But I still wish I had some idea what he wanted. Do you think he’s heard something about Erin?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean! About you and Erin.”
Riva knew, of course. She acted obtuse in an effort to make Margaret speak plainly, to identify Erin correctly as hers, Riva’s own daughter. Her sister would never speak the words, had never referred to Erin as other than Riva’s niece from the moment she had left the New Orleans apartment with the baby when she was a week old. Even making her find other words to say the same thing always gave Riva a perverse kind of satisfaction. Margaret, however, never seemed to notice. Riva could not help wondering if it was because her sister lacked the imagination to understand how Riva still felt about the loss of her child, or if it was just that by some peculiar logic Margaret managed most of the time to convince herself that Erin really was her own daughter.
Returning t
o the problem at hand, Riva said, “It seems more likely it’s Edison that Gorsline is after. Edison’s the one who’s running for office, after all.”
“Pray God you’re right! The thought of this photographer with Erin makes me sick!”
“It would be preferable to Erin with Josh, don’t you think?”
Margaret moaned and stumbled to a chair of tufted velvet. “Oh, God, don’t mention it. Why? Why, of all the young men she might have met, did she have to fall in love with that one?”
Riva lifted a hand, rubbing it tiredly across her eyes. “Sheer bad luck or coincidence, or maybe even the genes, since they met in political science class. It was Josh, of course, who found the position for Erin at his father’s headquarters. But, anyway, there’s nothing to say they’re in love.”
“And nothing to say they’re not!” Margaret snapped back, then slumped with her head against the high back of the chair and her tea glass tipped at a precarious angle. “Why, in heaven’s name, couldn’t Edison agree to separate them? Why?”
“Because,” Riva explained evenly, “he doesn’t like to be told what to do, especially by a woman.”
“I knew it. You approached him all wrong.”
“If you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try.”
“I couldn’t do any worse,” Margaret said, sitting erect again and draining her glass before setting it on the tray beside the chair with a rattling crash. “Though, really, I don’t understand why he’s being obstructive. He’s the one with the most to lose.”
“He doesn’t think so. In fact, he’s so arrogant he thinks he’s safe, that I will do nothing no matter what I may say.”
“Why shouldn’t he think so? That’s exactly what you did years ago. Nothing.”
“There was nothing to be done.”
Margaret gave her an incredulous look. “But there was! He could have been made to pay support for Erin. You were entitled to that much, and I’m sure a good lawyer could have gotten it for you.”
“I didn’t know that then. In any case, I didn’t want it.”
“Well, some people are not so picky about money!” her sister said in great dudgeon. “In fact, he should still be made to pay.”
“Impossible, since Erin’s of age. Anyway, I couldn’t ask for anything without telling him Erin is his daughter, and I will never do that. Never.”
“It might be for the best to tell him. Have you thought of that? He could hardly refuse to separate Josh from her then.”
“You don’t know him if you think so.”
Margaret stared at her, her eyes wide, almost calculating. “No, I don’t, not like you do. What’s he like now? Is he still as handsome as ever?”
“I suppose.” The answer was offhand since Riva’s thoughts were still busy with Margaret’s suggestion.
“You suppose? Don’t you know? Didn’t you look at him?”
There was a thread of anger under the curiosity in Margaret’s voice, as well as a thread of envy. Riva looked at her closely. “What difference does it make?”
“Good gracious, Riva! Edison Gallant was the best-looking boy ever to set foot in our town. He used to come to our house and eat at our table, and now he’s going to be governor. You’ll probably be invited to the governor’s mansion for the inaugural ball. Why, Boots and I might even be invited, as Erin’s parents. Just think of it! Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
Riva moved to stand over her sister. Her voice even, carefully controlled, she said, “Edison Gallant is not to be trusted. If he learns about Erin, he will use it as a weapon.”
“For what? What possible use could he make of it?”
“He could use it as a means of getting to me.”
Margaret gave a scornful laugh and waved a hand around at the expensive room. “Oh, come on, Riva. How?”
“By threatening to tell Erin. I know you don’t want that.”
Margaret paled until the tracery of red veins in her cheeks stood out under the skin. “Oh, God, no. He wouldn’t do that.”
“He would, in a minute, if I didn’t do what he wanted.”
“He wants something concrete from you?” Margaret’s gaze narrowed. “You know what it is now?”
“I tried to tell you before. He has an itch to get me back in his bed.” The words were spoken ironically in an effort to make light of them.
“Oh, that,” her sister said with a dismissive gesture. “How do you know he really has any such idea?”
“He made it very plain when I asked him to send Josh away.”
“You mean, he might really do what you want, separate Erin from his son and keep them apart, all for the chance to get into your pants?”
Riva grimaced at the expression. “You could put it that way.”
“Well, for crying out loud,” Margaret said with a laugh that had a razor edge of scorn. “It isn’t as if it’s any great sacrifice for you, Riva. What are you waiting for? If that’s all he wants, let him have it!”
NINE
RIVA HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN THE CHARITY benefit ball. It was Margaret, rifling through the contents of the antique silver letter holder on Riva’s secretary-desk in her bedroom the following morning, who found the tickets. Riva had paid for more than she needed with her customary generosity toward causes that gained her approval; there were an even dozen to this gala in support of Louisiana’s valuable wetlands. The ball would take place at the old mint building at the edge of the French Quarter that evening. Margaret, with the extra tickets clutched in her hand, became pink with excitement. If Riva was going, there was no reason she and Boots could not go with her.
Riva, getting dressed, glanced doubtfully at her sister. “I suppose I should go since I promised my support and the wetlands are one of Noel’s special interests, but are you sure you want to? It will be black tie, and since you won’t know anyone, no end of boring.”
“Of course I want to go,” Margaret cried. “I can run downtown with you in the car and rent a tux for Boots. As for me, I’m sure you have something I can wear.”
Riva’s sister walked to the doors of the closet that lined one wall of the cream and old-rose bedroom and flung them open. She stared for a bemused moment at the neat rows of color-coordinated dresses and suits, evening gowns and furs, each with their matching shoes and handbags placed beneath them. Then taking a deep, ecstatic breath, she began to pull evening gowns from the array.
***
Riva watched Margaret without a word. As girls growing up, she and Margaret and Beth had always worn each other’s clothes. That Margaret should make herself free with Riva’s closet, taking whatever caught her fancy from it as if it were a clothing store, was nothing unusual; she had been doing it for years. It was not just a holdover from the past, however; it was almost as if Riva’s sister felt entitled to share whatever Riva owned.
“I do think you could increase the allowance you give me, Riva,” Margaret said. “Lord knows you can afford it, considering what you must spend on clothes.”
“I don’t know what my clothes have to do with it,” Riva answered. “The money is supposed to be for Erin’s expenses.”
“I can take care of her myself, thank you. Besides, a girl her age doesn’t need that much money for clothes and such; it’ll give her ideas above herself. But I think you should have enough consideration for your own sister to want her to look nice without having to resort to hand-me-downs.”
“You don’t have to accept the clothes I give you.”
Give was not quite the word, but it didn’t matter. In a way it was true, Riva thought. She could buy what she wanted, replace anything she particularly liked that Margaret took from her closet. That their lives had turned out so differently, hers and Margaret’s, wasn’t Margaret’s fault. The fact that it was not hers, either, crossed her mind, but was quickly dismissed.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Margaret said in haste. “At least my friends have never seen you wear them.”
Riva gave a silent sigh, then reached
for her checkbook. “How much of an increase would you like?”
Margaret had put on weight in the last few years, a few pounds here, a few there. Her tendency toward broad hips had been accentuated. She didn’t let that stop her from wearing Riva’s clothes. She sucked in her breath to fasten reluctant zippers, hooks, and snaps and postured in front of the mirror as if she could not see that the skirts were too tight, that delicate fabrics were stretched out of shape or lines ruined because of bulges they were never meant to cover.
Riva’s one consolation was that Margaret was usually attracted to her younger sister’s errors of judgment, to the clothes whose colors and fabrics Riva had discovered did not suit her. This time was the same. Margaret’s attention settled on a gown of iridescent glass beads and sequins on gold chiffon that Riva had worn once during the Mardi Gras season just past, then decided was too flashy for anything else. As little as she cared about it, however, she hated to see Margaret wear something so unsuitable for her shape and pinkish-red complexion or so heavy for the hot weather.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit much for summer?” she asked. “There’s an Italian silk, an Armani, over there. I had intended to wear it, but it would suit you very well since it has a full skirt.”
“Are you suggesting I need a fuller skirt?” Margaret demanded.
“I’m just saying it would look good on you.”
“I bet you really wanted to wear this glitzy number yourself. You were spectacular in it in all the papers.”
“I showed you the one I’m going to wear.”
Margaret gave the dress Riva indicated a scathing glance. “You can have those wimpy colors. I like something with a little more life to it.” She took the heavy, close-fitting beaded dress from its padded hanger and began to wriggle into it.
By the time they were all ready to leave for the gala, Margaret had also appropriated a pair of Riva’s evening shoes, her beaded bag that matched the dress, the services of her hairdresser, and several generous splashes of Riva’s special perfume, one of ancient vintage but delectable scent called Paradise that was made exclusively by the Bourbon French Perfume Company on St. Ann Street in the Quarter. She swept into the limousine as if it belonged to her, pushing ahead of Constance as well as Riva and taking the center of the front-facing seat.
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