Postmark Bayou Chene (26 page)

“Fifty-two,” said Roseanne's voice, as if in a hurry.

Loyce chortled and slapped the arm of her chair in delight.

Mary Ann said, “You let that gray hair fool you. I've seen him out there pulling up nets full of fish.”

Adam laughed. “I'll be forty-six next month.”

Mary Ann, striding around the table for a piece of fruitcake, didn't notice Roseanne's eyes open wide as she quickly took in Adam's entire frame again from the top of his head down the length of his body, but Val did. He smiled to himself and went back to work.

Val also had been watching Loyce follow Roseanne's assessment of Adam. He admired the graceful, attentive postures that gleaned information overlooked by sighted people. He settled another spoke into the back of the little chair—compact and elegant like Loyce herself because he was building it with her in mind. He even designed it without arms so it wouldn't impede her playing music or knitting nets.

Maybe Christmas Day would be the time to talk to her. Maybe by next Christmas they would have a home of their own. The chair was a start,
enh
? It was going to be the best Christmas ever.

Christmas Day dawned blue and gold. The sun promised warmth, but the wind was brisk. Winter birds flitted in bare branches, and squirrels raced up tree trunks as the little group walked the path from the post office to the old Bertram house.

Everyone carried something for the dinner. Adam had the pork haunch, stuffed with garlic and red pepper, then roasted in the cast iron Dutch oven until it was dark crusty brown on the outside and dripping with juice inside. Roseanne carried the baked hen nestled in a pan of cornbread dressing. Val had the raisin bread pudding and the jar of eggnog sauce to pour over each serving. Mame held the bundle of baked sweet potatoes against her bony chest, enjoying their warmth. Loyce carried a basket of rolls over one arm, while she linked Val's elbow with her other. Drifter, tail wagging in anticipation, followed her nose in and out among the savory smells.

Mary Ann threw open the door as soon as they started up the back steps.

“Well, it's about time you got here!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn't just seen them the night before. “Much longer, and I would have had to try to make York talk to me!”

“Wouldn't want him to strain himself,” Adam said, his easy grin splitting the drooping mustache. “A good Christmas to you.” He kissed her proffered cheek and extended a hand to York.

York shook the hand and held out a glass of wine with the other. “That's elderberry from three years ago,” he said, by way of greeting.

Adam inhaled deeply before taking the first sip. In his opinion what York produced in spirits made up for what he lacked in goodwill. How was it possible to capture April in a bottle, hold it there, and then release it three years later? A slight nod from York told Adam his taciturn neighbor recognized his appreciation.

The family wasted no time settling in around the long table. Dishes were passed; silver clinked on old china. Another bottle of wine added to the flow of conversation.

“I see you framed that old letter,” Adam said at one point. “Does that mean it brings back more good memories than bad?”

“I guess that's close to the truth!” Mary Ann grinned. “Gotta admit, we're both more likely to bring something up for talking before we fly off the handle like we used to.”

“You know, I found out where it's been for the past forty years,” Adam added. “Sitting in a dead letter bin in the regional post office in Kentucky. Seems all the United States postmasters along the Confederate border states had to confiscate any mail trying to get out of the South. See, that postage was paid for with Confederate money. Most postmasters just threw those southern letters away, but the one in Lexington felt obliged to keep them. Not only that, but he made a special stamp to show why they got stopped. It was that little blue circle you saw on Mame's letter and the words
SOUTHERN LETTER UNPAID.
The letters and packages stayed in that bin until he died. When he died, the assistant postmaster who took over his job left the whole caboodle right where they were. But last year a new postmaster came on the job and decided the right thing to do would be to return them, just in case the senders were still alive.”

“What do you know about that!” Mary Ann chortled and slapped her hand on the table. “I wonder if any of the other letters exploded a still?”

Everyone laughed, except York, who concentrated on dishing out another helping of buttered turnips.

Mary Ann went on. “Fate's been scarce ever since that day. Christmas don't seem right without him. Anyone know where he's at? We ain't seen him since he picked up that boat he had York work on. What'd you do on that boat for him, anyways?”

“Boxed off some bulkheads for ice and packed them with moss to hold in the cold,” York replied.

“Oh,
mais cher!
Don't it feel off-kilter without him?” Val chimed in. “I finally make it here for Christmas, but Fate, he's missing. The last time I saw him wasn't even on the Chene. It was up around Baton Rouge right before my last trip—must have been late August. All dressed up, don't you know, having coffee at a café on the dock with three men in suits. Give me a big wave, yeh. Later, when I got off my boat and pass by there, the men—all gone, don't you know? Fate said they were investors in his new business. They loan him money to outfit his boat and buy his first round of fish and ice. He paid them back already and was trying to borrow again to buy that icehouse. I ain't heard nothing since.”

“I wonder if he's making any money with those schemes,” York mused.

“Of course that's what you care about,” Mary Ann replied. “I'm more worried about what kind of company he's keeping. There's some rough customers up there.”

“Speaking of rough customers, doesn't he have Sam Stockett from over on Graveyard working with him?” Roseanne's tone suggested she knew Sam was working for Fate, but she just needed to express her disapproval. “I've never felt right about that pair, and now that she's tried to drown that baby I don't have any use for them at all.”

“Now, Mrs. Barclay, we don't have any way of knowing what happened that day.” Adam's voice was light, a feature that rankled Roseanne. He didn't give enough weight to her suspicions.

“You might not know for sure, Mr. Snellgrove,” she said with a sniff, “but I'll bet you I'm right. I'm still of a mind to write the sheriff of St. Martin Parish and have him just come on out here and investigate what happened. He could get the truth out of her. And I'd tell him that she was looking to buy those French female pills the very first day she got here.”

“Mrs. Barclay, there's no need to do that,” Mary Ann joined in the argument, which had grown old with Adam and Roseanne. “Look at how good she is to that baby now, like a mother hen with just the one chick. She wouldn't do anything to hurt that boy.”

“Me, I think Mary Ann is right about that,” Val said. Then, taking a new tack, “Let me grab that squeeze-box and Loyce's fiddle for some music to help this good dinner settle,
enh
?”

In less time than it takes to tell it, the mood lifted with the music, working its magic the way Val knew it would. They moved to the sitting room, where Roseanne and Adam waltzed and chatted, carefully avoiding any mention of C.B. Mary Ann and York danced through the afternoon and evening. The warring couple did seem to be fighting less in general, Val noticed. Maybe they had learned something from the incident of the letter and the battle of wills that could have killed York.

When they played a waltz as closure, Mame took a turn with York around her old parlor. Just like she may have done with Michaud so many years ago, Val thought. He nodded a greeting to the blue paper with the girlish handwriting, now displayed in a neat frame beside the window. Mame's old letter to Fate's grandpa, its mission interrupted by the Great War that nearly brought down the country.

Loyce played her fiddle alongside Val and also thought about the letter. If the return of that piece of paper had drawn the Bertrams closer, it seemed to have driven Fate away. This was the first time she had been in the old Bertram house since she found out she wasn't blood kin to the family that built it. Everything was the same as she remembered. The horsehair sofa that prickled if her bare skin touched it. The smooth dining table that smelled like lemon oil. The lamps whose crystal teardrops Mame had taught her to tap for the tinkling sound they made. All of the textures and fragrances that belonged to the Bertram family—Fate's family—people to whom she was no longer linked except through her grandfather Elder Landry's marriage of convenience to Mame.

Walking home in the cool shadows, the little group was drowsy with food and fun. Even Loyce, who was still feeling adrift with the changes the year had wrought, was comforted by Val's arm around her waist and the warm weight of Drifter bumping against her leg now and then. If she had lost her oldest friend, at least she had found another in Drifter and, perhaps, had gained a sweetheart as well.

22

“Watch your step, Loyce, it's slippery.”

Val guided her by a simple touch on her back until they reached the end of the plank walk. The wind whipped the heavy skirt of Roseanne's traveling dress around her ankles. She pulled the cloak farther down over her face before giving her free hand to Val. The other hand held her fiddle case. The boat rocked gently with their weight. Tapping her foot around for purchase, she settled on the plank seat and let go of Val's hand.

Adam and Roseanne had left earlier to help move furniture in the schoolhouse, but Val and Loyce had stayed behind to practice new ways of playing the tunes they'd performed as a trio with Fate for so many years. She could feel the pull of Val's shoulders in the stroke of the paddle as they rowed toward the schoolhouse. It was good to be out, even on a stormy night. Even without Fate.

The trip around the island took less than a half-hour, but her cloak was heavy with rain by the time they bumped against the schoolhouse dock. Once again, Val helped her navigate stepping out of the boat and safely onto the plank walk. They leaned into the wind-driven rain all the way to the steps.

Loyce shook her cloak at the door, and Val took it from her. After hanging it on one of the wall hooks, he escorted her toward the front of the room, where the teacher would stand next Monday. Loyce had played dances here since her fingers were barely long enough to reach around the neck of the same fiddle she carried tonight.

“Hey, Loyce, you and Val look like twins!” Alcide Verret ruffled her curls.

She laughed and swatted in his direction. Val grabbed her hand in the air and twirled her around for the merry crowd to admire.

“
Mais non, cher!
” he exclaimed. “I'd never look so good in this fine dress, me!”

Others joined in the greetings, complimenting Loyce on her new look and boosting her spirits. As the two musicians settled themselves and their instruments on the wooden dais, Loyce reveled in being part of a couple on this momentous evening. Together she and Val would ring in a brand new year for the community. A year brimming with unforeseen joys and heartaches.