'Maybe they fell into some swamp,' she said, and laughed. Then she got up and put her arm through Paul's. 'Why don't you show me around your grounds and your oil fields,' she said.
'Of course.'
'Are you staying for dinner, Gisselle?' I asked.
'How do I know? If I'm bored, leave. If not, I'll stay,' she said, winking. 'Come along, Mr. Oil Baron.'
Paul looked at me helplessly. 'You know what I think you would really enjoy, Gisselle, a ride through the swamps. She can get a better view of things that way anyway, can't she, Ruby?'
'What? Oh yes,' I said in an empty voice. My mind was still fixed on poor Uncle Jean.
'Not me. I'm not going into the swamps. Where are those idiots?' she said, gazing over the grounds. We saw them walking back from the pool. 'Darby, Henry,' she shouted. 'Get back here.'
They broke out in a jog as if she held them on a long, invisible leash. When they arrived, she introduced them to Paul and the three of them started to talk about the oil wells, Paul explaining how one is drilled and capped. Gisselle grew bored quickly.
'Aren't there any places to go around here . . . you know, for dancing or something?'
'There's a lounge nearby that has a great zydeco band,' Paul said. 'Ruby and I go often to listen.'
'I don't think that's for us,' Gisselle complained.
'How about a clean restaurant?'
'We have a wonderful cook. You're all welcome to stay for dinner,' Paul said.
'I don't mind,' Henry said.
'Me neither,' Darby followed.
'Well, I do. I want to get back to New Orleans so we can go to some nightclubs,' Gisselle said. 'It's too quiet around here and I can't get that sour smell out of my nose.'
'Sour smell?' Paul looked at me, but I just closed and opened my eyes.
'The swamp stench,' Gisselle said.
'I don't smell it,' Darby said.
'You wouldn't know a skunk if it crawled into bed with you,' she snapped. Henry laughed.
'Oh yes he would. He's slept with a few before.' Gisselle laughed and released Paul's arm to take Henry's.
'To the car, James. I've visited my sister and have seen her wealth. Don't worry,' she said, 'I'll double everything when I describe it to Daphne.'
'I don't care what you tell her, Gisselle. She doesn't matter to me anymore,' I said.
Disappointed, Gisselle led her boyfriends back to the house, with Paul and me following. At the patio door, Gisselle suddenly turned on me.
'I would like to see . . . what do you call her . . . Pearl, before I go.'
'We can look in on her. She's napping,' I said. I took Gisselle upstairs to the nursery. Mrs. Flemming was dozing in the easy chair by the crib. Her eyes snapped open with surprise when she looked upon our duplicate faces.
'My twin sister, Gisselle,' I whispered. 'Gisselle, Mrs. Flemming.'
'How do you do, dear,' Mrs. Flemming said, rising. 'My, you two are the mirror image of one another. I bet you're often mistaken for each other.'
'Not as often as you might think,' Gisselle replied sharply. Mrs. Flemming just nodded and then stepped out to go to the bathroom. Gisselle moved to the crib and looked down at Pearl, who slept with her little hand curled under her chin.
'She has Beau's nose and mouth,' she said. 'And Beau's hair, of course. You know, I'm thinking of spending the remainder of my summer in Europe. I'll see Beau and spend some time with him. Now I'll be able to describe his child to him,' she said with a mean little laugh.
Her wide smile of self-satisfaction cut into my heart. I swallowed back my sadness and turned away from her as she marched out of the room. For a moment I stood there gazing at Pearl and thinking of Beau, my heart feeling like a hollowed-out drum. Every beat echoed through my thoughts.
A short while later, it was as if a cool breeze of relief had come blowing through the bayou when Gisselle and her two male friends got back into their car and went tearing away down the drive. I could hear her shrill laughter lingering for a moment after they disappeared around a turn.
Then I charged up the stairs and went to my room to throw myself on my bed, where I sobbed uncontrollably for a few moments. I was so depressed with the news of Uncle Jean's tragic death and Beau, I couldn't keep the tears from streaming down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. Paul knocked softly on my door and came hurrying in when he saw me crying. I felt his hand on my shoulder.
'Ruby,' he said softly, and I turned and threw myself into his arms. From the day we were married, we were afraid to touch each other, afraid of what every kiss, every embrace, even holding each other's hand, would mean in light of who and what we were, but when we made promises to each other, we forgot that we would need each other's intimate contact from time to time.
I needed to feel his arms around me; I needed to sense him close and have him hold me and soothe me with his petting my hair and kissing my forehead and cheeks, kissing away the tears and whispering words of solace. I sobbed harder, my shoulders shaking, as he stroked my hair and rocked me softly in his arms.
'It's all right,' he said. 'It'll be all right.'
'Oh, Paul, why did she have to come and bring me all the bad news? I hate her. I do. I hate her,' I said.
