The Gates of Evangeline (14 page)

I play dumb when I enter, wondering if he'll tell me about the photo, but he's closed the album. Without a word, he replaces it on the cart, spine pointed outward:
1982
.

Adrenaline surges through me. The year Gabriel vanished.

This is definitely not part of your garden renovation project, Noah.

I say nothing, although the curiosity is killing me. What exactly is he after? I need to see the picture he stole. Sooner or later he'll leave his jacket unguarded, and when he does, I expect to learn something very interesting about Noah Lauchlin.

•   •   •

I
GET MY CHANCE
when we stop for gas on the ride home. Noah goes inside to buy a pack of cigarettes, leaving his windbreaker behind. The moment he's safely inside, I reach into his pocket and remove the rolled-up photograph.

Two figures stand in front of a massive tree trunk, their smiles circumspect. The husky, middle-aged woman has her arm around a tall young man in military fatigues. He's handsome in a sort of piercing and intense way. It takes me a second to notice the tiny boy near the bottom of the frame, his head buried in the woman's legs. I read the label:
Homecoming. Maddie and Sean Lauchlin, June 1982.
I remember what Brigitte said about last seeing Sean in June.

Something moves above me, and I jump.

Noah's watching me through the passenger window.

“My God, don't creep up on me like that.” I drop the picture back onto the seat as he ducks back into the car.

“Sorry.” His hand closes around the photograph.

We face each other, embarrassed.

“I guess you're wonderin' why I took that.”

Actually, I'm feeling ridiculous for thinking he was wrapped up in the Gabriel mystery. Noah was only three back then, barely out of diapers. I point to the young man in the photo. “Is that your father?” I can see similarities in their nose, broad shoulders, and buzz cuts if I use my imagination a bit, but Sean is, objectively, far better-looking. Now I understand why Brigitte used to crush over him, why the librarian gushed at his name.

“That's him,” Noah confirms. “I know I shouldn'a run off with it, but . . . well, I don't have any pictures of him.”

“None?”

He shakes his head. “Nanny always said what's past is past. We never had pictures of anything.” He reaches for his seat belt but never actually fastens it, just plays with the buckle absently. “She didn't like to talk about sad stuff, so I never heard much about my dad. And even less about my mother.”

“What was your mother's name?”

“Violet,” he says. “Violet Johnson. I only know from my birth certificate. She died in a car accident when I was a year old, and that's pretty much all I know.” He shakes his head again. “I don't think my Nanny liked her.”

I remember all the years I spent poring over albums at my aunt Suzie's, learning who my mother was through pictures. I watched her evolve from a gawky grade-schooler to a too-cool, frizzy-haired adolescent to a sullen, pregnant teen, to a washed-out girl with a baby. I could see, in photos, her transformation while Aunt Suzie narrated it for me.
That was right after she met your dad
or
That was a few weeks before she left. Look at her, I bet she was high.
I haven't forgiven my mother for who she is—I only assume she's alive because no one's ever told me otherwise—but at least I have some idea where I came from. If I didn't know about her, how could I ever really feel sure of who
I
am?

“I don't know why I took this thing.” Noah leans back in his seat and stares at the picture of his dad. “Stupid.”

“No, that's your past,” I tell him. “It means more to you than anyone else who will ever look through that collection.”

He doesn't reply.

“Is that you, hiding behind your nanny's legs right there?”

“Nah, look at that outfit.” He gestures to the little boy, who seems to be wearing a polo shirt with the collar turned up. I squint at the kid's footwear. Are those boat shoes? On a toddler? Ultra preppy. “They wouldn'a dressed me like that,” Noah says. “It's probably Gabriel.” He tucks the picture back in his pocket.

Are we getting too emotionally charged for him?

June 1982,
the photo read. The last time Sean Lauchlin would ever visit Evangeline. Two months later, the little boy hugging Maddie's legs would also be gone. I don't place too much stock in Brigitte's opinions, but I can't help but wonder if she was onto something when she brought up Sean. He knew Gabriel. As Maddie's son, he would've had plenty of access to him, and to the house. I think of Maddie going to Gabriel's room on the morning of August 15, how she couldn't find her key and had to use the cook's. Was the key missing because her son took it?

And if Sean hurt little kids, sexually or physically or otherwise—did that mean he hurt Noah? It occurs to me that maybe Sean didn't actually skip out on his child. Maybe Maddie and Jack took their grandson from him. Maybe Sean ended up in prison. Could I blame Noah's grandparents if they'd tried to spare him the knowledge that his father was a criminal and a pervert?

I look over at the man in the seat beside me. He's gazing out the window, tapping his just-purchased pack of cigarettes against his thigh. He must have wondered about his father, Sean Lauchlin, so many times. What the man looked like, what they had in common. What Sean would think of him. I know how it feels to have a parent leave. I understand that beneath all the self-sufficiency and drive is a layer of
Who could really want me?
It's a weird experience, seeing myself in someone else, and suddenly I want to hold Noah.

I reach across the seat and take his hand. There's something in my chest, a feeling absent that whole night we spent together, that rises up now. He doesn't speak, but I feel his fingers tighten around mine, warm and rough.

He doesn't let go. I don't want him to.

F
or the next few nights, Noah sleeps in my bed. We talk when we feel like it, and we're quiet when we don't. He rubs my feet and sings half-remembered country tunes in a voice that's intentionally off-key until I hit him with a pillow. I surrender my long-held position at the center of the bed and grant him the left half. We sleep back-to-back, joined at the spine. At some point during the night he flips over on his stomach into a bizarre face-smothering posture. No, his light snores aren't romantic or sexy, but they relax me. He's like a magic talisman, there to guard me from the darkness.

The first couple of nights, we don't have sex. I get used to his shape beside me, his breathing sounds, his faintly smoky scent. I watch him wake in the morning, watch his smile fade in and out as he sees me and then drifts back to sleep. Later, I watch him brush his teeth and shave, not sure why I find these simple domestic acts so titillating. One morning, as he stands around drinking coffee in his briefs, I can't help myself.

“God, you have a nice butt.”

He grins. Strikes a
GQ
pose, coffee in hand. “For your viewin' pleasure.”

“Oh no. Don't tell me this is an eyes-only establishment.”

Noah raises an eyebrow. “Whoa. That an invitation?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think it is.”

He sets down his coffee so fast that some spills.

I'm nervous, but not
too
nervous this time. We smile as we kiss. Fall into bed laughing. We're still clumsy and fumbling and figuring it all out, but it's okay. Because I
like
him.

I stop trying to understand why. I can't explain how someone who fails to meet even the most basic requirements on my usual relationship checklist is, right now, the one I need. But he is. I can't explain how a man who I've known only days can calm me, shut down my mind, and let me rest. But he can. I certainly can't explain how my body, dead for months to even the most basic needs—hunger, thirst—can feel again, can want. But it does.

Am I happy? I don't know. My concept of happiness has changed without Keegan, but I think I'm happy now. I'm not consumed by a delirious teenage-style lust. And I'm not filled with the hopeful, heart-singing love that makes you call everyone you know to spew bliss—not that I've ever really been that type. Instead, I feel content, my days spent on the book, my nights spent with this man.

On Saturday evening, he tells me he's going to drop by to see Hettie. It's raining, a chilly January rain. He stands outside my cottage in his windbreaker, a bowl of flower bulbs in one hand.

“I'll be by a bit later tonight,” he tells me. “Just didn't want to leave you wonderin'.”

“Are those for Hettie?” I point to the bulbs.

“Yeah. Thought some paperwhites might cheer her up. Nice to have growin' things around.” He doesn't mention she might not live to see them bloom.

“Can I come with you?” I brace myself for a comment about vulture journalists, but he runs a hand across his damp head, considering it.

“You can't interview her, if that's what you're after,” he says.

“I know.” It's not the book I'm thinking of now. “I've just read so much about Hettie, it would be nice to spend some genuine time with her. To get a sense of her, you know?”

Noah touches the green shoots of the flower bulbs and shrugs. “Fine. Just behave yourself.”

I toss on a raincoat and we trudge up to Evangeline through the dark and drizzle. On the way over we pass Zeke, the security patrolman, who's outfitted in some heavy-duty rain gear. Inside, the house is still. Most of the help have gone for the weekend.

I'm sort of amazed that no one stops us when Noah and I start up the large staircase. Somehow I always had a feeling that sirens would go off and guards would come running if I went upstairs uninvited. The reality is an eerie quiet. A series of gold sconces bathe the hallway in their drowsy light. Every door is closed.

Noah stops at the end of the hallway, raps on the door. Waits. Knocks again, a bit louder.

“Must be the guy with the iPod,” he mutters. He opens the door a little and gives an exaggerated wave, trying to get the nurse's attention. Sure enough, a guilty redhead in scrubs peeks out a minute later, earbuds dangling around his neck. He seems to recognize Noah and ushers us in.

Hettie's in a standard hospital bed, sterile white sheets and all. Something about that awful bed in the middle of this beautifully decorated room hits me. I've been picturing her wasting tragically away, and the looming pieces of mahogany furniture and mauve drapes are about right. But I forgot the
ugliness
of dying. How slow it can be. How degrading. Whether you're Didi Minot or Hettie Deveau, cancer is cancer. Hettie's a sad sight: three children living, yet no one but hired help here to care for her.

“Hettie,” the nurse murmurs, “you have visitors.”

She's propped up in bed, eyes closed though she's awake, wincing. She looks even thinner than she was at last weekend's dinner. Has she stopped eating these past few days?

At the sound of the nurse's voice, Hettie's eyes flicker open, and the naked, undisguised pain on her face is quickly replaced with a strained smile. “Well, hello,” she says to Noah in a hoarse voice. “I was hoping you'd stop in, honey.”

“Promised you, didn't I?” He sets down the bowl of bulbs on a table by her bed. “Have your nurses take good care a these, okay? They're paperwhite narcissus. Should be out by Valentine's Day.”

“A Valentine gift?” Her blue eyes bulge from her gaunt face, but she's still smiling. “I'm not sure I care to make it that long.”

Noah nods, not shocked. “Nobody would fault you any for lettin' go.”

Her hand is milky white and veiny when she points a shaky index finger at him. “You're a good boy. Always were.” With some effort, she turns her head in my direction. “That your girlfriend?”

I've met her twice now, and she still doesn't remember me. Given my embarrassing performance at dinner the other night, I'm relieved.

“Yeah, that's my girl,” Noah says with a smile.

I don't read too much into that one. It's a more polite introduction than I probably merit, but simpler, too. “Good to meet you,” I tell Hettie.

“You two better start having babies soon,” she says, and I marvel at that total disregard for manners that only young children and the elderly can get away with. “You're not getting any younger.”

Noah holds up a hand. “Let's not go there.” He doesn't mention his divorce or his burning desire to avoid kids. And he doesn't even know about the baggage
I'm
carrying. “So how you feelin', Hettie? Heard you hit a rough patch this last week. I stopped by, but they told me you were restin'.”

“I wish you wouldn't call me Hettie,” she complains.

“What should I call you?”

“You used to call me Mama.”

My heart squeezes up when I see her mistake. Noah appears less disturbed.

“Hettie,” he says, taking both her hands and looking directly into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

The nurse, who has been sitting quietly in the corner with a
Men's Health
magazine, is now following their conversation carefully.
Put your iPod back in, dude,
I want to tell him.

Hettie meets Noah's gaze and her eyes fill with tears. “You're my boy.”

“No, I'm Noah,” he says firmly. “Do you remember me? Noah.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, and a tear spills onto her cheek. I wish he wouldn't argue with her, wish he'd just let Hettie believe what she needs to believe, but Noah persists.

“I'm Sean Lauchlin's boy, do you remember him? My mother's name was Violet, but she died. Remember Maddie and Jack? Those were my grandparents.”

Now she's weeping openly. “I want my baby back.” Her voice is so small and pitiful that I wish I could cradle her in my arms, tell her
shhhh
, offer Noah up as the substitute Gabriel. But she scares me, too. Will I be calling for Keegan on my deathbed, ready to turn any man who fits the part into my lost son?

Noah can't watch her anymore. He turns to the nurse, shaken. “How long has she been like this?”

The guy puts down his magazine. “I dunno. I haven't seen her get confused like that before, but it's been a hard few days. She hasn't been talkin' much.”

“Is it permanent?”

“Gotta wait and see.” There's sympathy in his voice. “She's been declinin', then fightin' back.”

They both stare at Hettie, who clutches her sheet, still crying for her son. Noah takes a deep breath and kneels beside her. Very, very quietly, he says something in her ear. I can't make out the words, but she stops her weeping and regards him with big eyes. He touches her cheek.

“I gotta go now,” he says. “I'll check on you soon.” He points at the nurse. “Give her somethin' to help her sleep. She's hurtin'.”

I hurry after him into the hallway, trying to get a sense of whether or not he wants to talk. Above us, rain falls loudly against the roof. In the distance, thunder rumbles. Noah stops walking.

“We're gonna get soaked,” he says.

“Probably. You okay?”

“I'm tired a watchin' people get old and sick.” He leans against the wall for a moment, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “My granddaddy was sick a long while, too.”

I think of my grandmother and pray that she'll die peacefully in her sleep, or else suddenly, with minimal pain. Mostly I just hope she'll be there when I get back to Stamford.

“What did you tell Hettie?” I ask. “At the end, before we left?”

He sighs. “Told her Gabriel was comin' for her. That he'd be there when she passed.”

“You believe that?” It's not just his religious views I'm feeling out with this question. I want to know if he believes in spirits. If my visions might make sense to him.

“I just wanted her to feel better,” he says wearily. “I mean, I believe in God, but I don't claim to know how He works. Although . . .” He cocks his head to the side. “Every now and then I'd swear my Daddy Jack's still keepin' an eye on things. When I'm alone sometimes, you know? I just feel him.” He gives a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry, that's weird.”

“No. It isn't.” I slide my arm around his. “Come on. Let's go get wet.”

We do. We get very, very wet. We arrive at my cottage drenched and shivering. Kick off our shoes, throw our jackets in a heap by the door. Peel articles of soaking clothing from each other, one by one. Our skin is cold and damp, but our mouths are warm. Outside, lightning flashes. Thunder rolls through. I wrap my arms around Noah's neck and enjoy the storm.

•   •   •

O
N
S
UNDAY MORNING
it all begins to unravel. We stop by Noah's cottage to get him fresh clothes, and as I'm rummaging through his sock drawer, my hand hits metal. I brush aside a pair of socks and find a handgun. Heart pounding, I turn to face him.

“What the hell is that?”

He doesn't even have the grace to be apologetic. “I told you I had a nine-millimeter. Quit worryin', it's not loaded unless I'm wearin' it.”

That hardly eases my mind. “Jesus, Noah! Why do you have a gun with you at
all
? Is that even legal?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure it's legal. I carry it with me when I go to town. Had it at the diner with us the other mornin'.”

His loose-fitting shirts become suddenly sinister.

“They let you carry a concealed weapon?”

“I got a permit in Texas,” he says. “They got reciprocity in Louisiana. We don't have all your East Coast rules out here, baby.”

Of course I've known, intellectually, about these laws. To have been out with a man I didn't even realize was armed, though—that's something else. I thought killing animals was bad, but he could kill people. Himself, if he's not careful. I try not to think of all the other widely divergent views we probably hold.
This relationship does not have a long shelf life,
I remind myself.
You've always known that.

I take a few steps back from the drawer. “Put it away. I don't want to see it.”

Noah makes a big production out of closing his sock drawer. “I'm not the only person who carries a gun in these parts,” he says. “You might as well get used to it.”

Okay,
I think, gritting my teeth.
Things are different here. I'm not on my home turf, so I'll just bite the bullet. Hopefully not literally.
In a matter of minutes, though, the morning gets much, much worse. As we're walking through the fog to my car, Noah gets a phone call. He glances at the caller ID and quickly carries his phone out of earshot. I watch him pace across the grass, patches of fog wrapping around his ankles like some detestable white cat. I can already sense that our plans to grab breakfast won't survive this conversation.

When he returns minutes later, Noah's all business. “That was my landscape designer,” he says, rubbing his neck. “She's outside Houston, on her way over. Should be here this afternoon.” He hasn't mentioned this woman much, but I don't think it's a big deal until he tells me, “I'll be really busy while she's here. I won't be able to hang out.”

“Okay,” I say, although it strikes me as a bit odd. “How long's she in town?”

“A week, maybe.” He scratches his head, clearly uncomfortable. “Don't take this the wrong way, but . . . it's probably better if you two don't meet. I don't wanna mix my personal life with work, ya know?”

What does he think I'm going to do? Try to make out with him in front of his coworker?

He takes a few steps back toward the cottages. “I better skip breakfast. I got some stuff to get ready.” He sees the skeptical look on my face and tries to smile. “Soon's I got time, I'll come see you.”