Hidden Jewel (22 page)

And then I felt a hand on my cheek. It was too real to be in a dream, but I couldn't open my eyes. I moaned and struggled against the invisible bonds that bound me. I tried to open my mouth, but my jaw was locked. I gagged on my tongue and exerted all my strength to get my mouth open. Finally my lips parted and I screamed.
Jack was at my side in moments. I sat up and threw my arms around him.
"What happened? What's wrong? Pearl?" He held me tightly, and I locked my arms over his strong, secure shoulders.
"Just hold me," I pleaded. "Just hold me."
"It's all right," he said, gently brushing my hair, first with his hand and then with his lips. "You're safe. It's all right."
I tried to swallow. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure Jack felt the thump in his chest, too.
"You poor girl," he said. "Damn this bad luck. Damn it."
His lips moved to my forehead. I closed my eyes, welcoming the warm affection and comfort, bathing in his touch. He continued to kiss me, moving his lips down to my closed eyes and then my lips. I didn't resist. We kissed long, but gently. And then he pulled back.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."
"It's all right," I said and sighed as he eased his embrace. I lay back.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I felt a hand on my cheek."
"Just a dream, I suppose. I was having nightmares myself," he added. He held my hand. "You all right now?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I don't want you to think I was taking advantage of you or anything. I . ."
"I'm glad you kissed me, Jack."
"You are?"
"Yes. It was very comforting."
"Good," he said. "Well . . . should we try to sleep again?"
"I'm sorry. I know you have to get up early and work."
"I'll be fine," he said. He stared down at me a moment longer and then started to rise, but hesitated, turned, and leaned down to kiss me again. "Just to be sure," he whispered. I saw his small smile and felt the warmest tingle travel through my breasts to my heart.
I actually was sorry when he rose and returned to the settee. I heard him settle in, and then I turned to look at him. For a moment we just stared at each other through the dim light of the kerosene lamp.
"Night," he whispered.
"Good night."
I turned over and thought for a moment before I realized why I was suddenly anxious. I patted the bed and searched with my hand.
Jack heard me moving about. "What is it, Pearl?"
"Jack," I said. "The mojo." "What about it?"
"It's gone!"

12
Hatred Is as Slow
as Poison
.
If Mommy was in the house during the night,

she was gone or well hidden by morning. Jack and I searched the studio, the kitchen, and even the pantries more vigorously than we had the first time, but there was no sign of her, and she didn't respond to my continuous calling and pleading for her to show herself.

"She's just not here," Jack finally said. "She must have gone someplace else during the night. Do you have any other ideas where she might go?"

"The only people I know are my aunt Jeanne and uncle James. My mother likes Aunt Jeanne. They've stayed in touch all these years."

"Maybe she finally went there, then. We can call them," Jack suggested.
"I'll just go see them," I said. "But I do want to call Daddy first."
"And you should eat some breakfast. You're running on an empty tank."
"I'll go into town and--"
"No, you won't. Let's go to the trailer," he insisted.
Most of the other riggers had already arrived by the time we drove over to the trailer. Heads spun and eyes widened when we got out of my car.
"Pick up a new helper, Jack?" someone shouted, and the others laughed.
"Just ignore them," Jack mumbled, keeping his eyes straight ahead and his head stiff.
When we entered the trailer, Bart LaCroix, the foreman, looked up from the small kitchen table where he was having coffee and a cruller. There was another rigger with him, a man about his age, only taller with a full head of dark brown curly hair.
"What's this?" Bart asked, surprised to see me.
"Mademoiselle Andreas has returned to continue her search for her mother," Jack explained. "It looks as if her mother was here during the night."
"Don't say. During the night? This ain't a place to be wandering around during the night."
"No one's wandering around," Jack retorted.
Bart grunted, gulped some coffee, and gobbled the rest of his cruller. "Billy says we're having a problem with the pump jack on thirty-three. Stop by and give it a look-see, hear?"
"Right. How about some coffee, Pearl?" Jack asked.
"Thank you," I said. The taller man stood up and pulled a chair away from the table for me. "Thank you."
"Your father here, too?" Bart asked.
"No, monsieur."
Bart raised his eyebrows and then looked at the other man, who stood waiting for an introduction. "Oh, Lefty, this here is Mademoiselle Andreas. Pearl. Number twenty-two."
"Number twenty-two? Oh," Lefty said, impressed. I sat down.
"How about a cruller?" Bart offered. "Picked 'em up fresh on the way in today. We got a pretty good baker here. Bet he compares favorably with your Cafe du Monde."
"Thank you," I said and tried one. I smiled and nodded. "He does compare favorably," I said.
"Well, we better get shaking, Lefty. We got oil to pump," he said eyeing Jack, who pretended not to hear as he poured thick, black Cajun coffee. Bart and Lefty put on their helmets and left the trailer.
"You like a little cream with that?" Jack asked nodding at my cup.
"Please. I didn't mean to cause you any embarrassment with your fellow workers," I said.
"Don't think a second time about it," he said firmly. "Most of them are just jealous. I can make you eggs, if you like."
"This is fine for now," I said. "It really is a good cruller."
"How about some orange juice or cereal? I got some cornflakes, I think."
"I'm fine, Jack. Really. Just sit down and drink your own coffee. I don't want to keep you from going to work one more minute," I said.
He smiled and sat down. "Coffee's pretty strong, I know. The men like it that way. Bart says it keeps the hair off his tongue. He used to work with my father," he explained. "He might sound and look gruff, but he's a pussycat. Thinks he has to look .after me."
"It's nice having someone who cares about you," I said, which reminded me of what I had to do. "I have to call my father."
"Go on. Use the phone right there." Jack pointed.
Aubrey answered on the first ring, which immediately sent a chill up my spine. It was as if he'd been waiting right there for my call.
"Monsieur Andreas is asleep, mademoiselle," he said a low voice, obviously not wanting the other servants to overhear his conversation. "He had a slight accident late last night."
"What sort of accident, Aubrey? What happened?" Had Daddy come after me and cracked up his car in that torrential downpour?
"I don't know what time he started up the stairs last night, but he got dizzy and fell, and I'm afraid he broke his right leg just under the knee. It's a small fracture, but the doctor had to set it and apply a cast and give him a painkiller. That's why he's asleep, mademoiselle."
I knew Aubrey was being kind to say Daddy had gotten dizzy. Surely he had risen from the sofa in his office and, still quite drunk, started up the stairs. "Does he know where I am?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. He found the note you pinned to him. It was still on him when he fell down the stairs. I heard the commotion and found him there. We got the doctor immediately, and he decided it would be all right for monsieur to remain at home. I took the liberty of calling Mrs. Hockingheimer and she will attend to his needs. I expect her arrival at any moment."
"That's good, Aubrey. When my father wakes up, please tell him I called and I will call again later today. Tell him . . tell him my mother is still here and I hope to find her soon. Then we'll both come home."
"Very good, mademoiselle."
"Bye, Aubrey." I cradled the receiver slowly.
"More problems?" Jack asked and I told him. He shook his head. "A lot has surely fallen on you, Pearl. Sure you want to stay here?"
"I've got to find my mother," I said and then thought I should call the hospital and ask after Pierre. The nurse at the ICU nurses' station was curt. My brother was still going in and out of a comatose sleep. His last sleep had lasted eight hours, and he had been conscious for less than a half hour. The doctors hadn't seen him yet this morning. The nurse advised me to call back in the afternoon.
My face wrinkled with worry as I sat down again. "Anything else I can do for you?" Jack asked after I gave him the hospital report.
"No. You'd better get back to work. I'll go visit my aunt Jeanne and then return." I told Jack where Aunt Jeanne lived, and he gave me directions and drew a small map on a napkin. Then he gave me the trailer telephone number.
"Just call here if you get into any trouble or need anything at all," he said.
"Thank you, Jack."
"You look like you could use a good hug," he said and did it before I could protest, not that I wanted to. He held me close and I laid my head on his shoulder. "Things will get better," he promised. "You'll see. And for good, logical reasons," he added with a smile. His words brought a desperately needed smile to my own lips, and then I left to see Aunt Jeanne.
Jack's directions were perfectly clear. I arrived at Aunt Jeanne's house a little over a half hour later. Aunt Jeanne's husband, James, was a successful attorney, but her family, the Tates, were one of the wealthiest in the bayou anyway. Her home, although not as large and grand as Cypress Woods, was impressive.
I entered the grounds through an avenue of large oaks and cedars, the canopy of thick leaves and branches casting long, cool shadows over the drive and giving me the feeling I was traveling through a tunnel into another world. Acres and acres of lawns and gardens surrounded the house. A small pond lay off to my left, the water now covered with an island of lily pads. The house itself was a long one-story structure with a gallery that ran across the entire front and one side of the house. French doors connected the front rooms to the gallery.
I parked my car and stepped out slowly. I heard the whir of lawn mowers trimming the grounds behind the house and saw a gardener pruning flowers in a garden on the far right. The flower beds were abloom with hibiscus and blue and pink hydrangeas. In the middle of the garden stood a three-tier fountain. Gray squirrels scurried around the gardener, some so close he could have reached out to pet them. He gazed up at me, but went right back to pruning as if an unseen overseer were scrutinizing his work.
The morning sky was streaked with long, thin clouds resembling mist floating over the light blue background, but I could see thunderheads off toward the Gulf, and I surmised that it was raining in New Orleans. As I stepped forward, a pair of cardinals paraded across the gallery roof and paused to look my way. Aunt Jeanne's home was certainly set in an idyllic location, magical and peaceful, I thought. I moved quickly up the steps and rapped on the door with the brass knocker. A moment later the butler greeted me.
"I'm here to see Mrs. Pitot," I said.
"And who should I say is calling,
mademoiselle?" he asked. He was much younger than Aubrey, perhaps only thirty-five or forty, and had light brown hair and hazel eyes. He was slender with a pointed nose and pencil-thin lips drawn taut in anticipation of my response.
"Pearl Andreas," I said. He nodded and stepped back to permit me to entry. I paused after he closed the door behind me.
"One moment,
sil vous plait,"
he said.
I gazed around the entryway. It was a bright house with windows everywhere to let in the sunshine. It had beautiful cypress floors and eggshell white walls decorated with pastoral paintings and scenes of fishermen in the canals. A bleached oak grandfather clock stood just ahead of me, and across from it was a fan of ivory and gold leaf painted with senoritas in ball gowns.
A few moments later, in a bright pink robe and Japanese slippers, Aunt Jeanne came sweeping down the corridor, her face beaming. Her unpinned dark brown hair hung down over her shoulders.
"Pearl! What a wonderful surprise!" She held out her hands and when I took them, she drew me to her for a hug. "Is your father with you?"
"No, Aunt Jeanne," I said.
She grimaced with concern. "Your mother is still missing?" I nodded and she shook her head and sighed. "How dreadful for all of you on top of everything else that's happened. How is Pierre?"
"Not well. Very bad, in fact. It's why I'm here. I've got to find Mommy. Pierre needs her. I was hoping you might have heard from her."
"Not a word, not a syllable. I'm sorry. No one I've asked has seen or heard anything. But surely she'll turn up," she added. "Come," she said taking my hand again, "Mother and I were just having a late breakfast. Are you hungry?"
"No," I said. I hadn't expected to see Mrs. Tate. My legs began to tremble and my heart pound.
"How do you like our home?"
"It's beautiful and so peaceful," I said.
"Yes. I just love to share it with people I love. You must stay here tonight. Promise you will," she followed.
"I can't," I said. "But maybe another night," I added quickly when her smile faded.
"Well, if you promise that, I'll let you get away with not staying tonight. Come meet Mother." As she pulled me along I gazed into the first room, a pleasant sitting room done in teacup blue.
"Many of our furnishings are antique," Aunt Jeanne explained. "James loves to buy and restore things. It's his hobby. He gets more excited over a valuable find in someone's old barn than he does over his law cases. You see that sofa?" she said, pointing. "It's upholstered with material from a homespun bedspread, and that chair beside it dates from the early 1800s. In his office James has an original French Creole plantation desk made of rosewood and walnut. And his walls are covered with knives and swords and helmets that date back to the Spanish occupation of Louisiana. Ooh," she said pausing to hug me again, "I'm so happy you're finally here. Even though it's under terrible circumstances."
"Thank you, Aunt Jeanne," I said and took a deep breath as we entered the dining room.
Mrs. Tate had her back to us. She was seated at the table in a wheelchair and chewing slowly on a piece of toast. Aunt Jeanne brought me around so Mrs. Tate didn't have to turn her head.
"Look who's here, Mother."
Gladys Tate's head seemed to have sunk back in her neck because of the arthritis. Her short gray hair was so thin that her scalp was visible in spots. Her face was etched with wrinkles on her forehead, along her chin, and around her dark, watery eyes. Her pink and blue robe made her look even more shriveled and thin. It hung off her small shoulders and dangled around her. My eyes were quickly drawn to her hands. The fingers were swollen at the knuckles and curled like claws. The obvious attention given to her nails seemed bizarre, as did the rest of her makeup. Her face powder had been dabbed on so heavily, and her lipstick was too thick, giving her a clownish appearance. Overkill to detract from her pasty pallor, I thought.
She didn't smile. Her stony eyes burned into mine, and then her lips quivered into a sardonic grin. She lowered the toast to her plate, swallowed some coffee, and nodded. "It's her, is it?" she finally said.
"Isn't she beautiful, Mother?"
Gladys Tate shot a reproachful look at Aunt Jeanne and then gazed at me again, her eyes
scrutinizing me so closely, I felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"She has a nice face," she offered. "Looks more like her father than she does a Landry. Which is fortunate for you," she added, nodding at me.
"My mother is considered one of the most beautiful and talented women in New Orleans," I retorted, fixing my eyes on her as intently as she fixed hers on me. "I'd be proud and grateful to be considered like her in any way."
"Humph," she said and raised the toast to her mouth. I saw she couldn't quite close her fingers enough to keep it secure. She chewed slowly, each swallow an effort. Age looked more like a disease than a natural course of events in her case.
"Please sit down and eat something, Pearl," Aunt Jeanne insisted. I sat down and the maid quickly served a cup of coffee. "That's homemade jam," Aunt Jeanne said nodding toward the dish in the center of the table.
The small rolls beside it did look good. I thanked her and took one and dipped my butter knife into the jam. Aunt Jeanne asked more about Pierre. I explained his condition.
Mrs. Tate studied every word I said and every move I made. "How old are you now?" she snapped, obviously not interested in our tragedy.
"I'm almost eighteen, ma'am."
"She's just graduated from high school, remember, Mother? She was valedictorian, and she's going to go to college to become a doctor."
Mrs. Tate smirked, deepening the valleys of those wrinkles. "Your father was supposed to become a doctor, too," she said, and then quickly added, "Don't be surprised that I know a great deal about your parents. You were almost brought up here, you know. You should have been."
"Now, Mother, you promised not to talk about that anymore."
She glared back at Aunt Jeanne with her cold gray eyes shooting devilish electric sparks. "Promised. What good are promises? Do people keep promises? Promises are no more than elaborate lies," she declared. Perhaps she had recently had a minor stroke, I thought, noticing the way one corner of her mouth twisted while the other corner remained still. Her right eye was closed a little more than her left, too.
"I don't know what you think, Mrs. Tate," I said. "But I will become a doctor."
For a moment she seemed impressed. Then she nibbled on her toast. "You know," she said, "my son, Paul, would have been a good father to you. Of course, I didn't want him to be your father, but she put a spell on him."