“Doesn’t want you bothering her,” Corlis corrected him. “Your mama and I want you two boys to learn to speak proper English.”
“Right, Miz McCullough,” Julien agreed emphatically. “Grandmama Althea… she say ‘y’all run along and play.’ So, we’s playin’.”
And with that the two boisterous youths raced out the shop’s back entrance, slamming the door behind them.
Corlis sighed once more. Over the years she had grown very fond of Martine, although her mother, Althea, had proved to be as cold and as calculating a woman as Corlis had ever known. Martine Fouché LaCroix remained just as kindhearted and beautiful as ever, blessed with a voluptuousness that graces some women as they mature. She was now a woman of at least forty years old, although Corlis didn’t know her exact age. The stunning-looking quadroon was as much sought after as ever—both by Free Men of Color and by white Creoles. However, Martine had removed herself from the Salle d’Orleans and the Quadroon Balls to look after her two children, Lisette and Julien, and to supervise her holdings on Canal Street.
Corlis rose from her chair and drifted, cup in hand, to the shop window. A shining black carriage was pulling up alongside the banquette. Its pair of sleek roan horses pawed the ground and shook their handsome heads, jangling their polished harnesses. The cab door opened, and out stepped a tall, extraordinarily elegant man, impeccably dressed in white tie, black broadcloth tail coat and trousers, top hat, and a magnificent black cape.
“My stars,” Corlis exclaimed, looking back over her shoulder at the Dumases. “That’s Lafayette Marchand, isn’t it? The late Adelaide LaCroix’s brother.” Marchand had received quite a fine inheritance from his sister—as well as his brother-in-law—when poor Adelaide had fallen from her horse the same day her husband had died, struck down by yellow fever before she could ever reach sanctuary with Lafayette in New Orleans.
Young Edgar Dumas stepped behind a screen in order to don his normal working attire.
“Is Mr. Marchand expected here for a fitting?” she inquired. “Though why the man would be outfitted so formally on such an errand is a mystery.”
Joseph Dumas nervously peered into his appointment book and declared in a relieved tone of voice, “Mais, non… he’s not scheduled. Ah! Look! He’s headed for a door down the block.”
Corlis’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she watched the dashing Lafayette Marchand saunter toward the back entrance to Martine’s flat above her sister Annette’s dressmaker’s shop.
“Why would he enter by the back door to Martine’s?” Corlis wondered aloud.
But the answer was obvious, she surmised with a start. The young lawyer who had inherited Julien LaCroix’s first-rate stable of horseflesh and won several rich purses this year at Metairie Race Course was probably secretly courting his brother-in-law’s former paramour. If Martine’s mother had anything to say about it, this blossoming liaison would cost the man a pretty picayune.
Would Martine Fouché LaCroix accept a steady patron for the third time in her life? Did she need or want a man to support her in a sumptuous fashion, in exchange for her… favors? Corlis was fully aware—as per Julien’s stated wishes in his will—that her friend was planning to host the finest wedding for her daughter, Lisette, and Edgar Dumas that the Free People of Color in New Orleans had ever witnessed. It was to be an expensive affair, an extravagance heaped on top of the cost of recently sending Lisette to France for a year of schooling—not to mention the price of outfitting her golden-skinned daughter in the best clothes Paris had to offer.
And now there was young Julien’s future for Martine to consider. The boy, whom Julien LaCroix had named heir to his Canal Street holdings, must be properly educated to be able to take over from his mother the running of this residential and commercial block of buildings. Martine was, to be sure, a woman of substance. However, considering her recent expenses, the upkeep of the slaves she owned, and her sumptuous manner of living, Corlis knew only too well that her friend was relatively cash poor.
But would it be prudent for Martine to replenish her coffers through a relationship with Lafayette Marchand, of all people—a man infamous for wagering on horseflesh? And people still whispered about the shocking revelation that the notorious Mademoiselle Fouché had had intimate relations with the LaCroixs—father and son—and had borne a child by each of them. What a time the gossips would have had if the beautiful quadroon, with her pressing financial responsibilities, accepted Julien’s despised brother-in-law as her new patron.
Ah… these Frenchies! Corlis thought, wondering what her strict, Scots-Presbyterian banker father would say if he knew the company she kept down here in the swamps of Louisiana. Who could fathom the mysterious ways of these native New Orleanians?
“Well… thank you for the coffee,” Corlis said cordially, setting her cup on the table where the latest fashion journals were laid out for the perusal of the Dumases’ customers. “I’ve put your week’s accounts on the desk in your office, Joseph. I hope you will find them satisfactory.”
“As always,” Joseph said with a slight bow, “I’m sure I will, Mrs. Mac. Good day to you.”
Corlis stepped outside the shop and felt the full force of the rising heat. Just then Lafayette Marchand turned from Martine’s door, and their eyes met. Corlis recalled the day, so many years ago, when they had witnessed, together, Julien’s torturous demise in the second-floor bedchamber of her house on Julia Street—that same, terrible week André Duvallon fired a bullet into his brain.
She paused to open her ruffled parasol beside the busy thoroughfare as an omnibus rolled past, its team of horses kicking up clods of dirt in the dusty street.
“Good day to you, Mrs. McCullough,” Marchand said.
“And to you,” Corlis replied, prepared to resume her passage down the street. Martine’s slave Elfie, stooped now with arthritis, opened the door. As Lafayette inclined his head politely, the man at least had the grace to flush with embarrassment. “Enjoy the ball, Monsieur Marchand,” Corlis couldn’t resist adding.
And who knew? she reflected with a suppressed smile, continuing down the street. Perhaps one day there would be a child of Martine and Lafayette’s who would bear the name Marchand. Then again, Monsieur Marchand might well marry among his own set, and those children would be the progeny to carry on his line. With these Frenchies, who could predict what would happen?
My stars, she thought, chuckling to herself as she rounded the corner to Canal Street, and her gaze glided from granite column to column along the grand block of buildings that came as close to a Greek temple as anything that Corlis Bell McCullough was likely to see. There was certainly one thing she had learned during her eighteen years in the Crescent City.
In New Orleans everybody who was anybody was related to everyone else!
In California, she prayed, life was bound to be different.
Chapter 32
June 2
Dylan and King peered cautiously into the deserted commercial space and called out, “Hello! Anyone in here?”
An eerie silence greeted them, along with the sight of light illuminating the rear of the empty office. The pair slowly moved farther into the room, sweeping the beam of their flashlight across the walls. Then Dylan said in a whisper, “Uh… oh… there she is. In the back… see?”
Corlis sat slumped over an old desk. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow.
“Well, what do we do now?” King asked worriedly.
“Shhh… Let’s wait a few minutes, and see if she comes out of it.”
“Out of it?” King demanded in a hoarse whisper. “What’s it?”
“A self-induced trance.”
A half hour earlier, Corlis’s great-aunt and her escort, Dylan Fouché, had grown alarmed when they hadn’t spotted her among the noisy, rambunctious throng celebrating at Café LaCroix. Dylan hailed King, who walked into the smoke-wreathed music club with Lafayette Marchand. King had immediately introduced the visiting Californian to his older
companion.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Marchand,” Margery said, extending her good arm in a firm handshake. The elderly lady was still attired in her tight-waisted suit and matching velvet turban. She peered through the café’s dim lighting to scrutinize Kingsbury Duvallon and asked abruptly, “Where do you suppose my niece could be, Mr. Duvallon—and why aren’t you two celebrating this victory together? The story’s over now. Where do you suppose that girl’s got to?”
King had glanced briefly at Lafayette and explained with a pained expression, “Well, it’s kinda a long story, Miss McCullough.” Then he shot a glance at Dylan and asked, “You got any ideas where Corlis could be?”
Dylan paused, scanning the darkened club, hoping to catch sight of her. “Yeah,” he drawled. “I ’spect I do.”
Leaving Margery in Lafayette’s care, the two men then set out to find Corlis. Dylan immediately suggested they head straight for the Selwyn buildings. Once they arrived at the 600 block of Canal Street, they made several wrong guesses before they spotted Corlis’s car and an unlocked door. Advancing toward the rear of the building, they found her with her head cradled in her arms. She appeared fast asleep. A piece of blue chalk rested in her right hand, and her ubiquitous shoulder bag lay at her left elbow. Dylan put two fingers at the pulse point on her neck.
“It’s steady,” he pronounced.
“Well, that’s something, at least,” King said worriedly. “What do you think? Maybe we should call a doctor.”
Dylan remained silent, staring down at the woman whose countenance in repose was so unlike her animated appearance on television. Then he said abruptly, “I think you should kiss her.”
“Do what?”
Dylan flashed a sly grin. “Ask her permission to kiss her,” he repeated. “Tell her that if she’s ready, she will begin to become aware of her surroundings… the sounds on the street… the temperature of the room, and so on. Then say that you and I are here waitin’ for her to come back to normal consciousness… and that you love her very much and want to show her so by kissin’ her.”
“Dylan!” King exclaimed. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?” He glanced down at Corlis with a troubled frown. “Look, you’re supposed to be the expert. What if I hurt her in some way? I want you to bring her out of this.”
“No… you should,” Dylan considered with a thoughtful expression. “She’ll respond better to you. Now do as I say.”
“But—”
“This is serious stuff, King,” he said. “Corlis wanted to find out the fate of her namesake. She didn’t give me any details, but I also think she was extremely upset about whatever happened between you two earlier today. I don’t know what that was, mind you, but I sensed when I spoke with her on the phone tonight that she felt terribly conflicted… because she cares about you, boy!”
“But that can’t be the reason she won’t wake up,” King protested.
“Ah… but I think she may be stayin’ in the trance because she’s exhausted by everything that’s happened. It’s a form of escape.”
“What if I can’t bring her out of it?” King asked soberly.
Dylan turned toward the shop door with an impatient wave.
“Look, now. Gimme your car keys. I’m gonna risk my life and go sit in that hideous claptrap of yours parked out front. Why you never drive that Jaguar of yours round town is beyond lil’ ol’ me.” He pointed at his watch. “If you two don’t come out in ten minutes, I’ll call a doctor I know to meet us here.”
King nodded in agreement and cast the flashlight’s beam toward the door that opened onto the street, providing a pathway for Dylan’s departure. Then he devoted his full attention to Corlis, who remained motionless, her head still cradled in her arms.
He bent forward, his hands resting on the desk. “Darlin’?” he ventured awkwardly, feeling both foolish and afraid. “Corlis…? Dylan says it’s time to become aware of where you are, sugar.”
He waited. Nothing happened.
He bent closer and whispered, “Take your time, baby, but… I want you to know that you’re safe here with us. Start to become aware of the room… the temperature in here. The sounds of traffic outside.”
Corlis didn’t respond.
“Sweetheart,” he urged, attempting to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I’m here baby. Wake up. Please.”
King thought he detected the slightest flicker beneath her closed eyes. There! He definitely saw a movement.
“I’m here, darlin’,” he whispered. “When you’re ready… you can open your eyes. Please open your eyes… so I know you’re all right. We have to talk… Please, Corlis… come back…”
A lump had suddenly grown in his throat. What if he couldn’t rouse her? What if he’d hurt her so much this afternoon that—?
Just at that moment she inhaled deeply and allowed her breath to escape in a long, even exhalation.
“That’s right, baby…” he pleaded. “You gotta know how sorry I am for the way I acted toward you today. You behaved honorably in every way. You were right to wait till Marchand—” His words suddenly stuck in his throat. It was his turn to inhale deeply. Then he continued. “To wait till my father finally told me the truth. He trusted you to help him get me out of that crypt. He said tonight that he’d known from the very first that you were a woman of integrity, just like I did. That you were a person he could count on to do the right thing.”
Very gently he covered one of her hands lying on the desk with his own and was reassured to feel its warmth. He bent even closer and whispered into her ear, “I am so sorry that my tunnel vision made me so blind. I should have trusted that you only had my best interests at heart. But you see… it’s been so long since I felt that anyone did. Have my interests at heart, I mean.”
Corlis seemed to have settled back into complete unconsciousness. He stared at her immobile features and felt the beginning of panic.
“You have to wake up, Corlis,” he demanded roughly. “I’m here. It’s King. It’s truly me… maybe for the first time in my life.”
Instead of kissing her cheek gently, as he knew Dylan would have advised, he impulsively scooped Corlis into his arms, sat down on the chair himself, and cradled her in his lap.
“Please, baby… please be here with me,” he crooned, rocking her gently in his arms. “Please! I want you to be part of my life… for the rest of my life!” he whispered fiercely, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her closed eyes. “I’ve known it for a long, long time. Long before I took you to the fishin’ cabin and we made love. But then the fight to save the buildings got in the middle of everything. You didn’t agree with me ’bout some things… or see everything my way, so I… I got frustrated, you know?” He was kissing her hair now, brushing a tendril away from her brow. “I’m not used to being round a woman like you. Smart. Sassy. Real uppity. Too many magnolias in my past, I guess. I pushed away what I wanted for myself and focused everything on just trying to keep those buildings from being bulldozed. You were right ’bout me seeing everything as either black or white.”
Corlis heaved another sigh… as if she agreed with his self-assessment, but still she remained inert in his arms.
“I’m glad they’re saved… those buildings… but I’ve spent most of my life rescuing ruins. Now I’ve got to start building something, and I want it to be something that you and I—”
“King?”
Corlis’s eyes were now open, and she peered up at him sleepily.
“I’m baaa-ck,” she whispered with a crooked smile.
He pulled her hard against his chest, fighting a swell of emotion.
“Well, it’s about time!” he whispered hoarsely. Then in a more normal voice he added, “You had me scared half to death, sugar.”
“Say that part again,” she murmured.
“What part? That I was scared?”
“No… the ‘please be with me… I want you to be part of my life’ part.”
“You heard that, h
uh, baby?” he said, hugging her close.
“And the part about too many magnolias in your life.” She stared up at him, her gaze troubled. “Is that really true?”
“You mean like Cindy Lou?” He brushed his lips against hers and murmured, “You may be a helluva feminist, but, boy, do you get jealous for no reason. I was happy the Mallorys supported the cause and wrote a few checks, but you should know by now that I’m a lot like you. Cross me once, and you’re off my list.”
“Well… I crossed you,” Corlis said quietly. “I wouldn’t give you information that you felt was due you. I certainly felt scratched off your list today.”
He seized her right hand and brought it to his lips. “I had no right to judge you at all.” He gently stroked the backs of her fingers against his chin. “I am really sorry for what I said earlier today… and for going off in a huff. Can you forgive me for that?”
She closed her eyes briefly, as if warding off the memory.
At length she said in a husky voice, “It’s all right, King. Believe me, I’ve done the same thing myself, many a time. All my life, in fact. I’ve been the queen of getting mad and then taking a powder.”
“Well, you’ve got company there, Ace,” he said, kissing her on the nose.
“Making judgments is a big part of my job,” she said thoughtfully, gazing up at him, “but sometimes I’d do a lot better if I’d just keep the focus on my own behavior and made sure to keep my side of the street clean.”
“Your behavior has been just fine,” he reassured her. “But like those lady marines told me, I still need a little attitude adjustment.”
“Not too much,” she said smiling. “As long as you show up when I conk out like this, and then tell me you need me around for the rest of your life.”
“Were you playing possum just now?” he demanded, chucking her lightly on the cheek.
“Sort of. I was in such a relaxed state… I wanted to stay like that forever and just listen to the sound of your voice.”
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