son?”
“Only that he has the same taste for Gautreaux women as your husband, that he has the same wisdom in his soul yet chooses to keep such choices from you. It all seems so familiar-the lies and carrying on, candlelight and warm air, the smell of young lovers-”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I enjoy many things.” Caravel rolled the words off her tongue. “Men and smoke and warm, red meat.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“The pleasures of your company when you’re in disarray…”
“Damn it, Caravel.”
The smile fell off, and her voice hardened. “Victorine’s not here.”
“Then I’ll come back when she is.”
“You don’t understand. She’s been gone a week. Might not be coming back at all.”
“Ah, the girl finally wised up.”
“What?”
“Wised up. Moved on.”
“The girl is mine,” Caravel said.
“Not anymore, it seems.”
A weight of anger settled in Caravel’s eyes, deep lines at her mouth. “You take that back.”
“Just keep your daughter away from my son. You do that and we’ll have no problems. Keep her off the estate, away from the house.”
Caravel came off the porch, one shoulder lifted and a sudden, crazy light in her eyes. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
Abigail took a step back. “I wouldn’t be here if I had.”
Caravel pointed a finger. “Where’s my baby?”
“I told you-”
“You tell her Momma Gautreaux’s not mad anymore. You tell her all’s forgiven if she comes home.”
“You just stay away from us.”
“You’ll tell her what I said?”
“First of all, I don’t know where your crazy daughter is. I’ve told you that a few times already. And second, the best thing that child could do is keep far away from you. I’ll tell her that if I see her.”
Gautreaux flicked her cigarette into the dirt, a sudden, wild hate in her voice. “You come between me and my daughter? You come between?” She came closer, her sanity gone as if a switch had dropped. “That child is mine! You understand? I won’t have you and your boy tellin’ some kind of lies to drive us apart. I see it, now.” She reached out to touch Abigail. “I see it.”
“Stay away from me.” Abigail stumbled backward.
“Distance makes no never-mind, richness. I can hurt you from a world away.”
Abigail reached the truck, got her hand on the door. “Just stay away from my son.”
“Two feet away or the whole damn world.” Gautreaux sat on the porch step, laughing. “No never-mind at all.”
Abigail got in the truck and fired the engine, wheels chewing dust as she turned a tight circle. Her window was down and she saw Gautreaux watching.
“All roads lead back to Momma Gautreaux,” she called.
The house swung into the rearview mirror. Trees rose and Abigail heard last words, faint beneath the engine. “You tell my baby girl…”
Abigail drove fast.
“Ever’ damn road…”
Five minutes into the woods, Abigail finally slowed the truck. She was rattled and shaken, her heart running like a small animal as she took deep breaths and confronted the fact that Caravel Gautreaux scared her on some deep, fundamental level. Abigail was forty-seven years old, a rational woman; but evil, she knew, was as real as she. It had the same beating heart, the same blood. Call it sin or corruption, call it whatever you like, but that woman was evil. It was in the lines of her skin and in the history of that place, in the smell of dust and the weakness of men. All Abigail really knew was that she’d panicked at the look in Caravel’s eyes. The madness was too familiar, the cold, hard look.
Abigail knew women like that.
Had reason to fear them.
A final shudder rolled under her skin, then she collected herself as she always did. She crushed the weakness and the doubt, drove home to tall, stone walls and mirrors that failed to see so deep. She reminded herself that she was iron on the inside, and harder than any woman alive.
Ten minutes later, she parked the Land Rover. Jessup Falls waited at the back door. “Where have you been?”
She considered the red flush in his face, the tension in his frame. “I went to see Caravel Gautreaux.”
“Why? The woman’s insane.”
“I think Julian’s involved with her daughter.”
“Victorine Gautreaux is only nineteen.”
“So was her mother when she cut a ninety-mile swath through the married men of Chatham County. Age is irrelevant to Gautreaux women. Caravel started when she was fourteen. High school boys. Farm hands. Drifters.”
“That’s a rumor…”
“Anyone with five dollars and an erection.”
“I don’t like it when you get like this.”
Abigail let a breath escape, and with it went much of her tension, the memory of her fear. “Maybe. Perhaps. Tell me what’s happened.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“I’ve known you a long time, Jessup.”
“Walk with me.” He turned and Abigail fell in beside him. They moved along the drive, then off and into shaded grass. “There’s someone at the gate.”
“There’s always someone at the gate. This is a senator’s house. That’s what the gate is for.”
“You’ll want to see this person.”
“For God’s sake-”
“He’s Julian’s brother.”
“That’s not possible.”
Abigail looked into Jessup’s eyes; she saw certitude and worry, the steady flow of a deep current.
“It’s him.”
“It can’t be…”
The voice was not hers. It was too small, too young.
“Abigail…”
She bent as her vision grayed at the edges.
“Abigail…”
She bent farther, no breath. She saw a boy in sideways snow: one glimpse as he ran, the night that stole him away. He was so small, so lost. She tried to straighten, but the weight of twenty-three years settled on her neck.
“Breathe,” a voice said.
