As for Paul, he didn't come into my room at night again, nor did either of us mention the night he had. It soon began to feel like something I had only really dreamed. With the planning of the wedding ceremony, with the satisfaction I was having painting, life at Cypress Woods continued to be fulfilling and exciting. It seemed a day didn't pass without Paul announcing some grand new purchase or development.
One evening after one of our family dinners, I found myself alone with Gladys on the patio having an after- dinner cordial. Paul and his father were still in the house talking, and his sisters had gone to meet some friends. At dinner Octavious revealed he and Gladys had political ambitions for Paul. When I questioned it on the patio, Gladys widened her eyes with surprise.
'People in high places are getting to know about the Tates,' she said. 'Legislators are already courting Paul. He has all the qualities that could make him governor someday, if he wants.'
'Do you think he wants that?' I asked, surprised.
'Why not?' Gladys said. 'Of course, he won't do anything if you don't want him to do it,' she said with disgust.
'I wouldn't stand in Paul's way if he really wanted something,' I said. 'I just wonder if it's what he wants or what you want.'
'Of course it's what he wants,' she fired back. Then she smiled coldly. 'What's the matter, can't you see yourself as the first lady of Louisiana? We've got no reason to feel inferior to anyone. Don't you forget it,' she added.
Before I could reply, Paul and his father came out and Gladys complained about a headache and asked Octavious to take her home. Nevertheless, I had to smile to myself imagining how my sister would react to such a possibility: me, the first lady of Louisiana? Gisselle would burst with envy.
It had been some time since Gisselle's visit, and I always felt as if a second shoe was going to drop. It came in the form of a postcard she sent to me from France. There was a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front. I didn't know it then, but I was going to receive one, even two, a week from my darling twin sister, each like a pin stuck into a voodoo doll, each describing the fun she was having with Beau in Paris.
The tears that filled my eyes after reading one of Gisselle's postcards from France lingered for hours, clouding my vision, making drawing and painting difficult, if not impossible. It got so I regretted sorting through the mail and finding one of those picture cards. She would describe the nightclubs they frequented, the cafes, the fine restaurants. With each postcard, the suggestion that more was going on between her and Beau than simply the reunion of school friends grew stronger and stronger.
'Today Beau told me that I have really matured,' she wrote. 'He said whatever differences there were between you and me have diminished. Isn't that sweet?'
She described the jewelry he bought her and the way they held hands when they walked and talked softly at the banks of the Seine in the evening after one of their wonderful dinners at some romantic cafe. Always, other lovers walking nearby looked at them enviously.
'I know Beau thinks he can have you by having me and I should be annoyed, but then I think, why not use his love for you to win him back? It's fun.'
On the next card, however, she wrote:
'I think I can say with some certainty now that Beau is falling in love with me, not just because I look like you, but because . . . it's me! Isn't that nice?'
A week later she wrote specifically to tell me that Beau no longer asked her questions about me.
I never showed Paul any of these postcards. After reading them, despite my reluctance to read them, I tore them up and threw them away. It always took me hours to recover.
But as the date of Jeanne's wedding grew closer, I had much to occupy my mind anyway. Three hundred guests had been invited. People were coming from as far away as New York and California. Anyone who was important to the cannery and the oil businesses, of course, as well as friends and relatives, was invited.
We had a beautiful day for the wedding. It was warm with bearable humidity and a sky of deep blue with clouds that looked scrubbed clean. Cypress Woods was buzzing with activity from the crack of dawn. I felt like I was queen of the anthill; there were that many people scurrying about, arranging this and that.
Father Rush and the choir arrived early. Most people had not seen Cypress Woods and were very impressed. Paul was beaming with pride and happiness. We all got dressed and began greeting the guests, many of whom arrived in limousines. Before long, our long driveway was lined with automobiles and drivers. The men were dressed in tuxedos, and the women wore gowns of every fashionable design. I thought we might all go blind from the glitter of diamonds and gold in the midday sun.
I gave Jeanne my bedroom suite to use, and Paul gave James his. Of course, the traditions were observed and James did not see his bride until she emerged from the French doors to the patio at the start of 'Here Comes the Bride.' Before the actual wedding ceremony, Father Rush conducted a service and the choir sang hymns. Under the flower-laden canopy, Jeanne and James took their vows.
How different this ceremony was from mine, I thought sadly. They could take their oaths in the light of day in front of hundreds of people without shame, without fear, without guilt. When they turned and were showered with
