Acadian Waltz (22 page)

His eyes
curiously explored my face. “You were…there. You saw. I re…member.”

“I thought you
told the doctors you couldn’t remember, Henri?”

He kept his
black eyes on me. “Silly…Nora. I’m sm…smart.” He nodded slowly to the parlor
doors. “They…know about…me? The…family?”

“Yes, your
mother and Jean Marc know. The police know as well, Henri.”

He grinned,
looking thoroughly amused. “My…brother must…be…pi….” With a grunt of
frustration, he punched his left hand into his left thigh. “Pi…pissed about
every…thing.”

I placed my hand
over his fist. “No, Henri. Jean Marc is worried about you.”

Henri shook his
head slightly. “Not him. He…hates me. I…hate him…ever since….” His voice faded.

I glimpsed the
long scar down his right cheek. “Jean Marc is your brother. You should not say
such things, Henri. He does not hate you.”

“Old…habits…die
hard.”

Not wanting to
pursue the subject further, I stood from the bed and returned to the chest of
drawers.

“Let’s get you
changed and then see what your mother has made for you in the kitchen. She’s
glad to have you home, Henri. Everyone is glad you’re here.”

Henri just
snickered, but said nothing else to me the remainder of the morning.

*     *     *

My first day at
Gaspard House was spent getting Henri settled and meeting with the physical
therapist who was sent to evaluate him for the home health portion of his
recovery.

Ms. Marie
wandered in and out of the bedroom, helping me dress and feed Henri as best she
could. But the sight of her son so debilitated took its toll. She could not
spend much time in his room before her eyes began brimming with the tears, and
I would have to shoo her away to find some other project about the house to
occupy her mind.

Uncle Jack was
much more help to me, especially when it came to getting Henri’s tall body in
and out of the bed. But I could tell by the discomfort in his blue eyes that
such duties were reawakening painful memories, so I tried to do as much as I
could on my own.

Jean Marc, on
the other hand, never made an appearance in his brother’s bedroom. By the time
nightfall came and Ms. Marie brought Henri’s supper to the room, I decided to
inquire about the missing member of the Gaspard family.

“He’s been at
the business all day, child,” Ms. Marie explained as she fed Henri small
spoonfuls of jambalaya. “Dealin’ with budgets or some such thing. I’ve never
had a head for the family business.”

“Yes, I’m sure
he’s been too busy to visit,” I reasoned, feeling slightly disappointed that
Jean Marc had not come to see me.

“Why don’t you
take a break and get some fresh air?” Ms. Marie proposed. “I’ll sit with him a
while.”

“You’re sure?” I
asked, remembering her crying bouts throughout the day.

“I’m all right
now.” She nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your fiancé called the house earlier.
He said your cell phone was off and wants you to call him.” She turned back and
gently stroked her son’s cheek. “You run on, Nora T. We’ll be fine.”

I left Ms. Marie
with Henri and went upstairs to my bedroom to unpack. While climbing the steps
on the wide oak staircase, I decided I would call John after Henri was asleep,
wanting to postpone the inevitable argument that I was sure would take place.

My spacious second-floor
bedroom had three long windows situated in the east corner of the house,
ready-made for taking in the early morning sun. The room was also filled with a
slew of antiques. There was a hand carved praying stool in one corner and a
dark oak dresser set next to the bathroom door. On the wall were assorted
portraits of people long since dead. Men with thin moustaches and ladies in
high lace collars stared back at me.

My suitcase was
sitting on the antique four-poster bed where I assumed Jean Marc had left it,
but when I opened it, I discovered all my clothes were gone. I went to the
intricately carved oak armoire next to my bed and found that all my shirts,
jeans and a pair of black casual pants had been ironed and were hanging on
linen-wrapped hangers. My extra pair of tennis shoes was on the bottom of the
armoire. Across the room in the oak dresser, all my T-shirts, socks and
underwear had also been neatly put away.

“She spent the
mornin’ doin’ that,” a familiar voice said from the doorway of my room.

I saw Uncle Jack
standing by the door, dressed in his worn blue jean overalls with his blue cap
on his head.

“She wanted to
make sure your things were hung up proper.” He waved at the open armoire. “I
think she was just preparin’ herself to go spend time with her son.”

“She seemed
awfully upset earlier today,” I commented as I closed the dresser drawer.

“Yeah, she cried
like a bébé this mornin’, but then I think her instincts took over.” Uncle Jack
moved inside the doorway. “I saw her down there feedin’ him. She’ll be fine.”

“I guess she
just needed some time to adjust.”

“What about you,
Nora T? Are you adjusted yet? ‘Bout gettin’ married and all?”

I glanced down
at the ring on my left hand and my emotions gushed to the surface. “Oh, I don’t
know what I’m going to do, Uncle Jack.”

“That be the
first step, girl. At least you’re admittin’ that you don’t know.” He nodded to
the windows in my room. “Perhaps you should go and take a walk outside in the
evenin’ air. You could go see Jean Marc’s place right down the path. He could
use some company.” He stepped back through the doorway.

I smiled at my
uncle’s suggestion. “That sounds like a great idea.”

Chapter 18

The path to Jean
Marc’s cottage was located between clumps of trees and green brush that led to
Owl Bayou. I had not been down that path since I was a little girl, but somehow
I remembered places along the way as I walked. There was a tree where I had
swung from an old rope or the spot where I had caught my first turtle. Memories
came pouring into my head, like water from a long dried-up spring. I was six
years old again and the world was one big playground.

Over the trees,
the roof of the caretaker’s cottage came quickly into view. The faded terra
cotta tiles, just like the ones on the main house, glowed in the light from the
setting sun. Around me buzzed dragonflies, mosquitoes, and assorted black bugs
the swamp seemed to produce in abundance. I quickened my step, not wanting to
be a tasty morsel for the man-eating insects that were quickly swarming about
my flesh. I was jogging by the time I reached the clearing in front of the
house, and then I stopped, overtaken by the beauty of the cottage I remembered
only as a run down hovel.

It had been
built as a smaller replica of Gaspard House, but it did not have the thick
columns in front, and there was a screen-covered porch that wrapped around the
entire first floor. Long, white french windows decorated the façade, while a
red-bricked chimney rose from the side of the home. Bald cypress trees dotted
the surrounding property, and their unique feather-like branches cast eerie
shadows along the plaster-covered walls of the two-story structure. Owl Bayou
flowed behind the raised cottage, and a small pier could be seen connecting the
back porch with the dark water.

The sting of a
mosquito on my arm quickly distracted me. I slapped the pesky bug away and took
off at a run for the safety of the screened porch.

After I darted
inside, the screen door smacked shut behind me while the old porch planks
moaned beneath my feet.

“Who’s there?” I
heard Jean Marc brusquely demand from behind the white cypress front door.

Instantly, he
was standing in the doorway, wearing only a pair of faded jeans. His bare chest
glistened with sweat in the late afternoon light and his dark hair was tossed
about his head as if he had just tumbled out of bed. Then, I spotted the .9mm
pistol in his hand.

“Is something
wrong?” he asked, his intense brown eyes filled with alarm.

I stared at the
gun in his hand. “No, everything is fine. I left your mother with Henri.”

He glanced down
at the gun. “Sorry.” He placed the pistol on a table near the front door. “Sometimes
you have to be a little cautious out here.”

I set my eyes on
the planks beneath me, wanting to avoid staring at his naked chest. “I just
thought I would get out and stretch my legs.”

He came closer.
“Picked a fine time. You know better than to go traipsing around the swamp at
sunset. You would have been eaten alive out there.”

“Very nearly
was.” I scratched my arm where the mosquito had bitten me.

He stepped back
against the open front door and waved me inside. “Come in. I’ll see if I have
something for that bite.”

I walked in the
door, making sure to keep enough space between his bare chest and my body as I
passed him.

Once inside the
cottage, the rough planks on the porch turned into fine, highly buffed wood
floors. A red Oriental rug covered the floor in an expansive living area just
beyond the entrance. Atop the rug, a deep red leather couch and a rustic oak
coffee table faced a massive red-bricked fireplace with a thick cypress mantle.
Along the wall next to the fireplace was an entertainment center with a flat
screen television, satellite receiver, and DVD player. Behind the living area,
a straight polished oak staircase led to the second story.

To the left of
the stairs I could see into a wide gourmet kitchen with a built-in
refrigerator, gas cooktop, and double ovens. In front of the kitchen was a
small dining area with a walnut dining table and four high back, intricately
carved walnut chairs. Another blue Oriental rug sat beneath the dining table,
while a brass chandelier hung from the cypress-paneled ceiling above.

“This is
exquisite, Jean Marc. You really have turned this place around. I remember how
it was falling apart when I was a little girl.”

Jean Marc shut
the front door with a bang. “Yeah, I put enough money into it. Cost me a small
fortune to get this place into shape.” He walked past me to the oak coffee
table. Spread out on the table were several stacks of papers and an array of
manila folders. Jean Marc sat down on the couch and picked up a beer that had
been sitting on the coffee table.

“I’ve got a lot
of work to do, Nora. Feel free to browse around on your own.” He took a sip
from his beer.

“Mighty
neighborly of you,” I said, sarcastically.

He motioned to
the papers in front of him. “You would feel the same staring at this mess all
day.”

I ambled over to
the fireplace and inspected the flowers, roses, and long intertwining vines
carved into the mantle. Above the mantle were assorted pictures in silver
frames. One caught my eye right away.

In the picture a
tall, older man held a small girl with pigtails in his arms, and beside the
pair, a young man with black, wavy hair stood watching them. The older man was
my father, happy and healthy years before his diagnosis of cancer. I could not
have been more than six or seven at the time the photograph was taken.

“That’s my
favorite,” Jean Marc declared behind me. “We were on Jack’s boat. Jack took the
picture. I remember watching you and your father and feeling so lucky just to
be around the two of you.”

I gazed at my
father holding me in the photograph. “I cut off my pigtails when I turned
twelve, thinking them childish. Now I wish I hadn’t.”

Jean Marc
chuckled. “Yeah, I still miss those pigtails.”

I turned to him,
holding the picture in my hands. “You used to always tease me about my
pigtails. You were either pulling at them, or threatening to cut them off with
your big knife.”

Jean Marc sat
back on the couch with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You remember that?”

“I remember that
you were always mean to me.”

“Not mean. I was
just trying to make sure you didn’t turn into one of those sissy girls I hated
from school.” He took another swig from his beer. “I wanted to make you tough.
I’d say I was pretty successful.”

I returned the
picture to the mantle. “Maybe too successful.”

“Why do you say
that?”

I turned back to
Jean Marc. “Nothing.” I pointed at the beer in his hand. “Can I have one of
those?”

“No. You’re on
duty.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, then,
you’re too young.”

“Jean Marc, I’m
thirty.”

He raised his
dark eyebrows at me. “You’re that old!”

“Just give me
the damn beer.”

“My God, you’re
still bossy.” He waved to the kitchen. “In the fridge, top shelf.”

I went to the
kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. To my surprise, the entire top shelf
was stocked with Heineken Beer. I grabbed one of the green longnecks, found the
opener hanging from a rope on the refrigerator door handle, and opened the
bottle. I walked back to the couch and sat down next to Jean Marc.

“You must really
like beer,” I commented.

He put his beer
down and picked up a folder from the table. “I relax at night with a beer.”

“How many?” I
took a sip from my beer.

He gave me a
perturbed side-glance. “You’re very nosy all of a sudden.”

“Haven’t seen
that much beer in one fridge since college. I think you have more than one.”

“Enough about
the beer.” He directed his attention to the yellow manila folder in his hands.

I noticed the
word “Crawfish” scribbled across the top of the folder. “What’s that?” I asked,
nodding to the folder in his hands.

“Nora, you’re
being a pest.”

“All right. I
could go back to talking about the obscene amount of beer you have in that
refrigerator.”

He sighed and
shook his head. “It’s a quarterly report on the crawfish farm. Happy?”