I directed Beau to the Tate residence. It was one of the larger homes in the Houma area, a two-and-a-half- story Greek Revival with six fluted Ionic columns set on pilastered bases a little out from the edge of the gallery. It had fourteen rooms and a large drawing room. Gladys Tate was proud of the decor in her home and her art, and until Paul had built the mansion for me, she had the finest house in our area.
By the time we drove up, the sky had turned ashen and the air was so thick with humidity, I thought I could see droplets forming before my eyes. The bayou was still, almost as still as it could be in the eye of a storm. Leaves hung limply on the branches of trees, and even the birds were depressed and settled in some shadowy corners.
The windows were bleak with their curtains drawn closed or their shades down. The glass reflected the oppressive darkness that loomed over the swamps. Nothing stirred. It was a house draped in mourning, its inhabitants well cloistered in their private misery. My heart felt so heavy; my fingers trembled as I opened the car door. Beau reached over to squeeze my arm with reassurance.
'Let's be calm,' he advised. I nodded and tried to swallow, but a lump stuck in my throat like swamp mud on a shoe. We walked up the stairs and Beau dropped the brass knocker against the plate. The hollow thump seemed to be directed into my chest rather than into the house. A few moments later, the door was thrust open with such an angry force, it was as if a wind had blown it. Toby stood before us. She was dressed in black and had her hair pinned back severely. Her face was wan and pale.
'What do you want?' she demanded.
'We've come to speak with your mother and father,' Beau said.
'They're not exactly in the mood to talk to you,' she spit back at us. 'In the midst of our mourning, you two had to make problems.'
'There are some terrible misunderstandings we must try to fix,' Beau insisted, and then added, 'for the sake of the baby more than anyone.'
Toby gazed at me. Something in my face confused her and she relaxed her shoulders.
'How's Pearl?' I asked quickly.
'Fine. She's doing just fine. She's with Jeanne,' she added.
'She's not here?'
'No, but she will be here,' she said firmly.
'Please,' Beau pleaded. 'We must have a few minutes with your parents.'
Toby considered a moment and then stepped back. 'I'll go see if they want to talk to you. Wait in the study,' she ordered, and marched down the hallway to the stairs.
Beau and I entered the study. There was only a single lamp lit in a corner, and with the dismal sky, the room reeked of gloom. I snapped on a Tiffany lamp beside the settee and sat quickly, for fear my legs would give out from under me.
'Let me begin our conversation with Madame Tate,' Beau advised. He stood to the side, his hands behind his back, and we both waited and listened, our eyes glued to the entrance. Nothing happened for so long, I let my eyes wander and my gaze stopped dead on the portrait above the mantel. It was a portrait I had done of Paul some time ago. Gladys Tate had hung it in place of the portrait of herself and Octavious. I had done too good a job, I thought. Paul looked so lifelike, his blue eyes animated, that soft smile captured around his mouth. Now he looked like he was smiling with impish satisfaction, defiant, vengeful. I couldn't look at the picture without my heart pounding.
We heard footsteps and a moment later Toby appeared alone. My hope sunk. Gladys wasn't going to give us an audience.
'Mother will be down,' she said, 'but my father is not able to see anyone at the moment. You might as well sit,' she told Beau. 'It will be a while. She's not exactly prepared for visitors right now,' she added bitterly. Beau took a seat beside me obediently. Toby stared at us a moment.
'Why were you so obstinate? If there was ever a time my mother needed the baby around her, it was now. How cruel of you two to make it difficult and force us to go to a judge.' She glared at me and then turned directly to Beau. 'I might have expected something like this from her, but I thought you were more compassionate, more mature.'
'Toby,' I said. 'I'm not who you think I am.'
She smirked. 'I know exactly who you are. Don't you think we have people like you here, selfish, vain people who couldn't care less about anyone else?'
'But . . .'
Beau put his hand on my arm. I looked at him and saw him plead for silence with his eyes. I swallowed back my words and closed my eyes. Toby turned and left us.
'She'll understand afterward,' Beau said softly. A good ten minutes later, we heard Gladys Tate's heels clicking down the stairway, each click like a gunshot aimed at my heart. Our eyes fixed with anticipation on the doorway until she appeared. She loomed before us, taller, darker in her black mourning dress, her hair pinned back as severely as Toby's. Her lips were pale, her cheeks pallid, but her eyes were bright and feverish.
'What do you want?' she demanded, shooting me a stabbing glance.
Beau rose. 'Madame Tate, we've come to try to reason with you, to get you to understand why we did what we did,' he said.
'Humph,' she retorted. 'Understand?' She smiled coldly with ridicule. 'It's simple to understand. You're the type who care only about themselves, and if you inflict terrible pain and suffering on someone in your pursuit of happiness, so what?' She whipped her eyes to me and flared them with hate before she turned to sit in the high- back chair like a queen, her hands clasped on her lap, her neck and shoulders stiff.
'Much of this is my fault, not Ruby's,' Beau continued. 'You see,' he said, turning to me, 'a few years ago we . . . I made Ruby pregnant with Pearl, but I was cowardly and permitted my parents to send me to Europe. Ruby's stepmother tried to have the baby aborted in a run-down clinic so it would all be kept secret, but Ruby ran off and returned to the bayou.'
