These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  “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.

  “― but that’s my opinion.”

  He blinked. She seemed to be waiting for a response. Glancing at the photos, he tried to guess what she’d been saying. “Hm.”

  “Do you agree?” Her eyes widened a little. She tapped the photo on the top of the pile. “It’s obvious.”

  Gideon considered asking her to repeat the question and then said, “You’re probably right.”

  It seemed to satisfy her and she turned back to the pictures, carefully replacing the lid and sliding it back onto the shelf. “Thank you for showing me around. I�
�ll gather a list of outbuildings I’d like to research. Could I come in Friday morning?”

  “Of course. My archives are your archives.” He cringed inwardly. What a ridiculous thing to say.

  To his surprise she laughed. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard from a historian.” They stood there for a moment, and he had the urge to ask if she needed anyone to show her around town. Then he realized he was standing in front of the door and she was waiting to be let out of the room. He turned and opened it, waving her through.

  “Thank you, again. I do appreciate your time,” she said as she passed.

  “Of course. That’s what we’re here for.” He followed her down the hallway and out into the foyer. “I’ll let Bernice know you’re coming back on Friday.”

  She turned just as he opened the door. The heat and humidity hit like a wall. “You won’t be here?”

  “No, but if you have any problem, just leave me a note and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  An emotion crossed her face that he didn’t quite catch. “Thank you, again.” She held out a hand and he took it. A second later she was out the door, striding across the parking lot.

  It had been so many years since he’d felt regret that at first he didn’t recognize the emotion. As he watched her get into her car and reverse out of the parking space, it solidified in the pit of his stomach. If only he hadn’t sought revenge. If only he had known the whole truth.

  “Well, I never.”

  Bernice’s voice brought him back to the present. The past was done. There was no wishing it away for a life he couldn’t have.

  “I wonder why Birdie never mentioned Henry coming back to town.” She peered past him. “I get the impression she doesn’t get along with her family, ya know? Just an inkling.”

  Gideon nodded without commenting. Family drama and gossip held no fascination for him whatsoever. If he could make it back to his desk without hearing about every person in Henry’s whole family tree, he’d be happy.

  “Sure is pretty, though. I can see the resemblance in those green eyes, but it’s her smile that really gives it away. Just like Kimberly Gray, that’s for sure.” Bernice touched her hair, a self-conscious gesture.

  Fine, he’d bite. “Who?”

  “The actress. She was in some big movies, but I haven’t seen her as much lately. Yes, sir, it’s probably hard to get a decent role when you’re over forty, even as pretty as she is. Anyway, you know Birdie and Frank Pascal? Those are Kimberly Gray’s parents. They don’t brag on her much, since she’s livin’ a worldly life in Hollywood, and all. Lisette, their other daughter, is Henry’s mom. I heard her daddy walked away when she was real little, something about a waitress in―”

  “I see.” Gideon tried to cut off the litany of family issues. The only thing worse than having an ugly family background and dealing with gossip must be also having a famous relative. He felt a surge of sympathy for Henry Byrne. He knew what it was like to navigate a small town with your past clinging to you, like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “Well, she seems like she’s serious about renovations over at Cane River and that’s the good news.”

  Bernice adjusted her necklace. “I just hope Kimberly Gray comes to visit soon. The last time she was here, I didn’t get to see her. My friend Margie texted me that she was down in the Pastime Café, but by the time I got my hair done and got down there, she was gone again.” She sighed. “Margie got her signature on her pocketbook and she waves that thing at me every time we go out together. She’ll never let me live it down.”

  Gideon flashed back to how Henry had agreed with him on hero worship and the distasteful habit of delving into personal details, how she hadn’t bothered to research him at all, other than his professional papers. Fame and infamy were two sides of the same coin. Henry probably dealt with invasion of her privacy on a daily basis. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t like to go out.

  “Do you need something?” Bernice was giving him a quizzical look.

  “No,” he said, turning back toward his office. “Just thinking.”

  Gideon sat down at his desk and picked up the silver pen Tom had given him when he’d first arrived in Natchitoches. It had been a gift to symbolize his new beginning, a new start. Most of the locals thought they were the oddest of friends, even though they were brothers, but they were more alike than anyone knew.

  Maybe it was just that time of year, where everything reminded him of the choices he’d made. Maybe he needed to spend more time at the river with Tom and old Bix. Maybe he needed to take a few days off and work in his garden. For years he’d been satisfied with his life. Now he’d lost his equilibrium faster than a spinning top knocked off its axis.

  Standing up, he walked to the window and stared out at the meadow. The water in the shallow creek glinted in the sunlight. A red tailed hawk circled lazily in the sky, hoping to snag a field mouse. Something about Henry Byrne reminded him he wasn’t dead yet. He wasn’t even that old. But hoping for a different kind of life was an exercise in futility. He had set his future the moment he’d strangled Mark Daniels to death on that cold November night.

  He needed to put the whole situation out of his head. Tell the truth, ruin the party. That old Cajun saying was true. The moment he’d explained where he’d been for the past fifteen years, cold reality had arrived.

  Gideon straightened his back. There was still so much to be grateful for. There had been a time when his future was only darkness and revenge. He’d fought for this well-ordered, quiet existence in Cane River. It was a better life than he could have hoped for. Certainly better than he deserved.

  Chapter Two

  “We are all sentenced to solitary confinement in our own skins, for life.”

  Tennessee Williams

  Henry pulled into the long driveway of Oakland Plantation and let out a sigh. This new position was everything she’d ever wanted but here it was, the second week, and already dissatisfaction had settled over her.

  She parked, leaning her forehead against the wheel for a moment and letting the cool air from the AC ruffle her hair. The stereo pumped out an upbeat pop song, the bass thumping in time to the ache behind her eyes.

  Being linked to Kimberly Gray was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill day in Natchitoches. Hearing people lie with every other word wasn’t out of the norm, either, but her visit to the archives that morning had rattled her. All she wanted to do was go home, let down her hair, crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and not come out until tomorrow. Or next week.

  She wasn’t a quitter. Tightening her ponytail, she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. On the outside, she looked fine. Confident, polished, and with a deliberately academic air, thanks to her glasses. She flashed a smile. She was used to having the upper hand in a conversation, whether she wanted it or not, but today she’d been flying blind.

  Gideon hadn’t tried to impress her, hadn’t uttered a word that was even a slight exaggeration. There was no false cheerfulness, no social nicety, no careful shading in his tones. Whether or not someone wanted to make friends, there was always a little kernel of pride that prompted them to put their best foot forward. It had been a very long time since she’d met anyone who didn’t lie. Everybody lied.

  Shutting off the car, she headed for the front porch. Not having a close working relationship with Gideon Becket wasn’t a total disaster. She wasn’t sure how much she would see him, but she could still say they worked together. Plus, this was her dream job and the position carried a lot of weight.

  Oakland Plantation, originally known as the Jean Pierre Emmanuel Prud’homme, Plantation, wasn’t one the most beautiful antebellum plantation homes. Visitors who came expecting long rows of white pillars and a third floor ballroom would be sorely disappointed. But for those people who treasured Cane River’s rich Creole history of free slave industries and farming, Oakland was a jewel in the crown of the historic park. Meticulously preserved and staffed year round, Henry had set her sights on working
at the small plantation before she’d even finished her undergraduate degree.

  She could hear hammering from the small row house to the north. With a full time staff of five, and a part time construction crew of another ten, she had plenty of workers. Her previous jobs had been relatively solitary except for an assistant or two and she’d been worried about being seen as too young or inexperienced. But, aside from a few small bumps, the staff had made her feel nothing but welcome. She was intensely grateful for that.

  The screen door squealed as she swung it open and she made a mental note to check the hinges. They wanted to preserve everything, including the original hardware, but one good windstorm and the door might blow clean off, never to be found again.

  As she walked into the main foyer, the first thing she noticed was the smell of stale wood smoke. The next was the body of the main house caretaker near the wood stove, awkwardly placed on the wide plank oak floor. Her heart seized in her chest.

  “Miss Byrne, you back already?” Clark Thompson sat up slowly from his position near the old woodstove. He grimaced a little and rubbed his back. “They must not a-had what you needed.”

  She took a moment to calm herself before answering. The eighty year old handy man had spent his whole life working on the grounds of the historic park and he would die here, one day. But not today.

  “Mr. Thompson, I’m happy to report that they’ll help us in any way they can.”

  “And how did you find Gideon Becket?” He put a hand on a nearby chair and heaved himself to his feet. “He seems standoffish, but he’s a good man.”

  Henry paused. She wasn’t sure how many people knew about Gideon’s stint in prison.

  “Oh, I can tell what you’re thinkin’. I know about what he done.” He pulled out a blue hankie and wiped the sweat from his face. “But I believe a person can change. I believe in grace.”

  Truth.

  Henry felt a twinge of shame. She couldn’t deny that knowing about his past had changed her view of him. “Of course. I’m sure he’s a very nice person and I’ll see him around. We’ll be working together,” she said, more to herself that to Clark.