Ciji Ware (45 page)

“Oh… I’m not just angry about the public humiliation you’re causin’
us
, young lady. You are a Juilliard-trained classical harpist,” she declared icily. “We made tremendous sacrifices to send you there. You are also the daughter of a family whose Louisiana roots go back nearly two hundred years. Your mother was a Mardi Gras queen, for pity’s sake, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails. And here you go, takin’ a cheap job in a cheap bar that’s got all of New Orleans and Natchez talkin’—not to mention the damage you continue to do to Flowers by Duvallon—”

“Stop this right now, Mother!” Daphne shouted, interrupting Antoinette’s harangue. Two years of silence had unleashed a tidal wave of pent-up resentments on both sides. “What you so conveniently forget is that
I
earned the music scholarship to Tulane.
I
played about a million jobs to pay for most of Juilliard, and I’m
still
in debt because I paid you back every cent you were out from the wedding!”

By this time, Daphne was feeling as if she were the victim of an emotional hijacking. Trembling, she shredded Bitsy Worthington’s article and threw it on the floor.

“And if I want to play jazz in a
brothel
, I will! I’m thirty-one years old, Mama. What part of my decision to live my own life don’t you understand?”

“Why, you little—”

“Antoinette, forgive me,” Madeline Whitaker broke in sharply, barely in time to prevent Daphne’s mother from slapping her daughter across the face. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave if you continue to assault poor Daphne like this under my roof.”

Antoinette Kingsbury Duvallon drew herself up and shifted her ire to her first cousin by marriage. “You’re throwin’
me
out of this dump? Now, that’s a laugh, isn’t it, Waylon?” She glanced around the cluttered kitchen and laughed mirthlessly. “Madeline Whitaker’s gonna show me the door? No wonder you two have cooked up such a ridiculous scheme here. I hear you’re even rentin’ a room to some jungle bunny piano player.”

“
Althea
, Mother,” Daphne said, heartsick that her mother would deliberately speak of her friend in such a bigoted manner.

“Althea LaCroix, Madeline Whitaker, and Daphne Duvallon!” Antoinette spat. “What
is
this place? The House of the Risin’ Sun?” She turned on Maddy, and said, “It’s one slattern offerin’ shelter to another, isn’t it, Maddy? Only the problem is, cousin mine—my own daughter has practically ruined our flower business—”

“Oh… so
that’s
why you can only afford to drive that new Cadillac, is it?” Maddy retorted sweetly.

Antoinette continued, oblivious to Madeline’s interruption. “Everyone in town has said for years that you and Marcus and Clay were practically poor white trash, livin’ in this dump, and now it’s in the
newspapers
that that’s what you’re tryin’ to turn my daughter into.”

Antoinette’s expression was that of a triumphant debate captain who had finally won the battle of words. Waylon, too, exuded a satisfied air. As for Daphne, she felt sick to her stomach. She took a step backward and leaned against the kitchen sink for support. She was startled when she heard Maddy speak up.

“You have to leave now, Antoinette,” the older woman declared softly, her voice more arresting than all of her visitor’s histrionic fulminations. “You, too, Waylon.” She pointed to the back door with its top hinge falling off. “I see perfectly well how you’ve regarded Marcus and Clayton and me all these years, and I do not have to tolerate your contempt in my own house—ever again.”

“For God’s sake, Maddy, Antoinette is just tryin’ to make the point—” Waylon began.

“Leave at
once
!” the owner of Bluff House insisted, slamming her fist down on the kitchen table in a rare show of wrath.

Seething, Antoinette snatched her blue clutch bag off the table and glared at her husband, as if expecting him to defend her honor. Meanwhile, Maddy, her gentle face etched with sorrow, walked slowly to the back door and held it open.

“I learned some awfully hard lessons when Marcus and Clay were sick… and then died,” she said, her tone conversational now. “Here’s the main thing I’ve discovered: we only have
today
.” She glanced at Daphne with a reassuring smile. To the Duvallons she said, “You have a lovely, talented, hardworking daughter whom I love like I loved my husband and son. I hope for your sakes that someday you two will come to appreciate Daphne for precisely the darlin’, precious woman she is.” She shrugged her shoulders as if there were nothing more to say on the subject. “Y’all have a safe journey home.”

And without further exchange, Antoinette and Waylon Duvallon marched out of the kitchen and down the rear stairs, and swiftly backed their late model Cadillac out of the drive before Daphne leaned over the sink and was desperately sick to her stomach.

When, finally, Madeline led her to a chair and applied a damp dishcloth to the back of her neck, Daphne began to cry deep, cleansing sobs that came from a place too primal for words or explanations. The older woman pulled up another chair and eased her cousin against her narrow chest, rocking Daphne as if she were an injured child.

“I know it’s crushingly sad, darlin’!” she crooned, swaying rhythmically. “Crushingly sad.”

As if to underscore her cousin’s heartfelt sympathy, Daphne burst into another round of tears.

“Maybe th-they’re r-right!” she sobbed. “M-maybe I’m crazy t-to be doing a-all this…”

“Oh, Daphne, please…” Maddy said, holding her close. “Don’t turn this on yourself, darlin’ girl! You’ve got to
accept
things as they are, don’t you see? And if you can, try to
give
up
any notion you might nurture in that lovin’ heart of yours that your parents will ever behave any differently toward you than they did today. From what we’ve observed all these years, chances are good they won’t. ’Course, there could be a miracle,” she said, dabbing Daphne’s eyes with the dishcloth, “’cause we never rule those out, do we?”

Maddy handed Daphne a second cloth to mop the tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks.

“Th-they did the same th-thing to King.” Daphne hiccuped, pressing the cloth to her eyes. “When he f-fought all those people trying to demolish h-historic buildings in New Orleans, I mean. They disparaged every thing he did, saying he was hurting their business just for spite, when all he was doing was trying to keep New Orleans beautiful!” She dropped the cloth into her lap and stared at Maddy with tortured eyes. “But
why
? W-why wouldn’t they be
proud
that he’d help save all those wonderful places from the wrecking ball?”

“’Cause it’s more important to them what the powerful people in New Orleans want—the ones who buy their fancy flower arrangements and make money buildin’ big hotels—than what you
or
King thinks is the right thing to do,” she pointed out matter-of-factly.

“I know…” Daphne said, shudders wracking her shoulders. “That’s w-what just
gets
me. I wanted… I w-wanted…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

“You wanted them to love you, no matter
what
, didn’t you? And they should… but they don’t love
themselves
, darlin’—not one little bit—so how in the world can they love anybody else? What they did to you this afternoon is what you’re likely always to get—no matter if you’re playin’ harp in a sailor’s bar or at Carnegie Hall.”

“I know…” Daphne moaned as another wave of emotion overwhelmed her. “I know that… what you say… is true.” She shook her head slowly and took deep, steadying breaths, calmer now. “It’s just that I feel as if… someone has
died
.”

“Well… in a way, someone has. Maybe you’re grieving for the parents you wish they were. But if you can just start accepting the way they truly
are
—over time—their bad behavior won’t hurt so much, ’cause you won’t be surprised by it anymore.”

“I guess you’re right…” Daphne replied, feeling spent. “There are some things you just can’t fix.”

They remained quiet for a long moment. Finally Maddy said softly, “I think you’re very wise to see it in that light. If you understand… deeply…
truly
understand that you have no power to change your parents’ behavior… you can get rid of the poison, as you just have, and not take any more into your darlin’ soul. The way I see it,” Maddy said, giving Daphne’s hand a soft squeeze, “whatever choices Antoinette and Waylon make—or don’t make—have very little to do with you, actually, so you needn’t feel responsible for any of it.” She gently patted the younger woman’s forearm. “I know that probably leaves you feelin’ pretty cut off from the people who brought you into this world, but none of us is ever truly an orphan, Daphne, if we take the trouble to surround ourselves with kindred spirits.”

Daphne gazed at her cousin, deep in thought. “You… King and Corlis… Althea… Willis McGee… all of you have been so good to me,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears once again. A memory of Sim solicitously dabbing her mosquito bites with antiseptic nearly prompted another flood of tears.

“That’s because we all love you, darlin’,” Maddy said brightly, giving Daphne a big hug. “Just the way you are—you kindred spirit, you!”

“Thanks,” Daphne murmured gratefully, dabbing her eyes one last time.

Bone weary from her emotional outbursts, she stumbled up to bed, turned off the ringer on her phone extension, and fell into a sound, dreamless sleep. At ten o’clock the next morning, she awoke to Maddy gently shaking her shoulder.

“It’s Sim on the phone, sweetheart,” she said apologetically. “I thought you’d want to talk to him. He says it’s important.”

Daphne sat up, looked around her cozy room under the eaves, and blinked. Thirteen hours of sleep, along with a glimmer of a new understanding concerning her parents, had made a world of difference. She grinned crookedly at her cousin and declared, “I actually feel pretty good, considering.”

“Well, that’s truly a blessin’, dear,” Maddy responded, smiling broadly. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

Daphne padded in her bare feet into the room she was using as her office and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” a deep voice said. “I’ve shot about a thousand images already when I’d much rather be between the covers with you, darling.”

“Sim!” Daphne protested, laughing in spite of herself.

“Listen… a slight change of plans. Just got a call from an editor from one of the magazines I shoot for occasionally and he’s sending me to the Amazon on a story about contraband parrots. I can’t do lunch at South of the Border this week, but I’ll be back in Natchez by your next day off, on Monday.”

The man was winging to the Amazon and he considered that a
slight
change of plans?

“Wow… South America and back in a week?” Daphne murmured, her emotional elevator plunging to the basement. She despised herself for feeling this way. This was his
job.
This was the globe-trotting world Simon Hopkins had inhabited for more than a decade. It was childish of her to be waylaid by an unwarranted sense of abandonment. Yet, these were the very issues Sim said had arisen between his wife and him. How could two people conduct a sustainable relationship when one was sent to remote jungles at a moment’s notice?

“Daphne? Are you okay with this?”

“I hate it,” she declared.

“Well, there’s an honest answer.”

“But it’s what you do, Sim. It’s your job,” she said hurriedly. “I understand that… but I… well, I just had a huge fight with my parents who were lying in wait for me when I got back to Bluff House last night. So, I think, right now, I feel a bit like a kid someone forgot to pick up at school.” She laughed with embarrassment. “I’ll get over it.”

“Your folks don’t like your new career, right?” Sim asked quietly.

“Among about a million other things they don’t like. Jack got another creep journalist to write in her New Orleans newspaper column that I was a disgrace to all music lovers.”

“That bastard—”

“But actually, I’m glad everything’s on the table now,” she interrupted. “Same with you, shutterbug. I hate that you’re going away right at this particular moment, and I’ll miss you madly, but I’m trying to stay focused on how happy I’ll be when you get back. Don’t do anything dangerous, promise?”

“Oh, I promise,” Sim assured her, his deep voice soothing to her ruffled heart. “I’m going to take very, very good care of myself, because I want you to figure out a way for me to feed you those fried green tomatoes with crawfish rémoulade in bed the night I get back. Deal?”

“Deal. See you… when?” she asked.

“Let’s make it Sunday night. After your show. I’ll come to town to pick you up en route from the Jackson airport.”