Rising Tides (18 page)

She glanced at Hugh and saw that he was watching her again. She had noted his relative youth. Now she noted something deep in his eyes that wasn’t youthful at all. She didn’t smile, but her gaze didn’t move from his. Something stirred inside her that had been dormant for so long that she had forgotten its existence.

At the first break in the conversation, she stood and excused herself, making it clear to Phillip that he was to follow. The men got to their feet.

“I hope you’ll come some night and hear me sing. It’s quiet
now, but after nine it gets crowded. Be sure you reserve a table.” She smiled her goodbyes; then, with Phillip firmly in tow, she started toward the kitchen.

She knew that those blue eyes followed her, although she didn’t turn to check her suspicion. She was going to see more of Hap Gerritsen. She knew that, too. She wasn’t sure why or when, but she was sure that his scrutiny hadn’t been casual, and his questions, and those of the other men, hadn’t been casual, either.

“She’s way too outspoken.”

Hugh combed his hair before he set his hat in place. “Nicky Valentine knew we were Americans. You don’t think she talks to the Nazis like that, do you?”

“I wouldn’t make bets on anything. She lived in Paris longer than she lived in the States. It’s different there for the coloreds. The French think they’re exotic. They treat them like pets. She’s spoiled.”

Hugh turned. His roommate and fellow vice-consul Arthur Flynn was generally good-natured. But in Arthur’s view, the world was strictly two-dimensional: those who were exactly like him, and those who weren’t.

“She’s spoiled because she says what she thinks?” Hugh asked. “I thought the word for that was
free.
”

“Call it what you want, but she’s not going to be any help to us.”

“Even if she talks to the Germans the way she talked to us, they might tell her something. She might provoke them into it.”

Arthur nibbled on his index finger, a habit that had already begun to annoy Hugh. “She would be good at that.”

“I’m going to pursue it.”

“You just want to hear her sing.”

“Don’t you?”

Arthur shrugged. “She may be almost as light-skinned as you are, but she’s dark meat all the way to the bone.”

Hugh didn’t smile. “Be careful your prejudices don’t keep you from getting useful information. In Casa, the people who look the most like you are wearing the uniform of the Third Reich.”

Arthur nibbled on. Hugh crossed the room to the door. He was increasingly glad that his living situation was only temporary. The vice-consuls assigned to Casablanca had been told to fan out through the city. They would be coming and going at odd hours, traveling back alleys and deserted roads. The more territory they covered, the more they could discover. He had already made inquiries about a building near the new medina.

Outside, he decided to walk. The distance to Palm Court was less than a mile, and he had been cooped up in meetings all day. He had jumped at the chance to serve his country here, picturing a different life, one that tested him and honed him, body and soul. Instead, he was still a bureaucrat, just as he had been at Gulf Coast. At least here his work had meaning.

Jasmine bloomed nearby, and the pungent odors of Casablancan dinners drifted through doorways as he passed. He thought of the city and family he hadn’t seen in years. When the war started in Europe, he had refused his parents’ summons home. Fluent in French and German, with a smattering of Portuguese, he had taken a clerk’s position with the American consulate in Paris. When France fell, he’d gone on to Lisbon to help process papers for the refugees trying to flee to America, where he refused to go.

He had considered fighting with the British or offering his
services to the Free French. But as he debated and waited for the right moment to do either, he had been asked to come to Morocco. It seemed that from some corner of the modest résumé of one Hugh “Hap” Gerritsen, the profile of a spy had emerged.

By the time he arrived at Palm Court, others were streaming in ahead of him. A man in a dark suit and fez escorted a woman draped in exotic silks. A European couple in the formal dress of the previous decade pre ceded him.

He gave his name to Robert Gascon, who was greeting his guests, and Robert assured him that he wouldn’t have to give it again. Two visits and Hugh was a regular.

His table looked over a bare patch of tiled floor flanked by an upright piano and a raised platform with four chairs for the club’s orchestra. After their meeting that afternoon, he had learned that Nicky Valentine was a gifted entertainer. She had made a name for herself in the Paris clubs, fighting her way from the basest to Gascon’s own. She had been his featured entertainer for some years before coming to Morocco, successfully displaying a sensitivity to French tastes, a flair for American swing and a languid sensuality that wove them together. He was looking forward to making his own evaluation.

He ordered a drink and dinner. He was fond of Moroccan food, with its spices and blend of flavors, and even though the menu offered a variety of French dishes, he ordered a beef
tajin.
His waiter brought an earthen ware bowl topped with a conical straw cover. The bowl was filled with a stew so tender and thick that he finished his meal by scooping up the remainder with wedges of round bread. He was reminded of gumbo, and of other nights, other flavors and scents. The drink and a full stomach made him mellow, and, as he had on the walk over, he thought of home.

Ferris Lee was twenty-two now, and in his second year of law school. Hugh only had photographs to tell him about the man Ferris had grown into. His mother’s letters—those that got through—were long on detail and short on the things Hugh really wanted to know. He wondered if she was happier than she had been before he left New Orleans. Growing up, he had often felt as if he were Aurore’s whole world. Even Ferris had not intruded on that intimacy. They had understood each other without words, felt the same emotions, cherished the same values. He wondered how hurt she was that he had decided to stay in Europe.

He wondered about his father, too. He despised Henry Gerritsen. He regularly confessed the sin, and he expected to have to do the same again every week for the rest of his life. But Hugh hoped his father had mellowed in the years he had been away and turned his considerable talents and energy to something productive.

A tall, thin man sat down at the piano and began a Cole Porter medley. While he waited for Nicky Valentine to appear, Hugh sipped mint tea and feasted on plump dates and figs. The room was packed, and he examined the tables one by one, evaluating the people who rimmed them.

His training for this job had been nearly nonexistent. Some of the other vice-consuls had been pulled from the hallowed halls of academia or straight from the business world. He had been living in Europe and knew the political situation firsthand, but the only thing all the men had in common was that they spoke fluent French. None of them had ever been spies. They—and, he suspected, their government—were writing a how-to manual.

By examining those sitting nearby, he could make intelligent guesses about their reasons for being in Casa. Some, he knew,
were officials with the German and Italian armistice commissions. Some were refugees. Some—in and out of uniform—were part of the expanded French military and police forces. And some, like him, were simply there to gather information.

Palm Court was an ideal place to see them all together. It seethed with politics and fanatical political sympathies. There were men here who would cheerfully cut each other’s throats, yet they sat side by side, dining and drinking. Without exception, everyone was listening for something, some slip of the tongue, some word of encouragement or discouragement. Some were seeking specifics. He was one of the luckier ones. On the surface, his country had no need of anything he could learn here. But someday, anything and everything he heard might benefit his countrymen.

The applause began before Nicky walked in. For a moment, Hugh didn’t recognize her. She was not the exotic creature in the Moroccan caftan and hood that he had met that afternoon. Tonight she wore a long scarlet dress that clung to every inch of her shapely body. Sequins flashed in cleverly clustered designs that drew attention—no accident, he was sure—to her breasts and hips. Her hair waved back where it was held by two clips. He thought they were rhinestones, but he couldn’t be sure. The way she looked, they could be diamonds, gifts from a wealthy admirer.

She leaned against the piano, stretching lithely; then, with a smile to her accompanist, she began to sing.

He was entranced. The song was French and, despite his years in Marseilles, unfamiliar. The voice was un familiar, too, but like the spicy food of Morocco, the scents and silky Atlantic air, it brought back memories of home. There were touches of New Orleans in her voice, whispers of Basin Street and steamy after-hours bars. He heard the sensual decay of French
Quarter courtyards, the Mississippi spilling destruction over carefully constructed levees. He shut his eyes, and the sounds rolled over him in waves of homesickness.

He stayed the entire night. She sang in French; she sang in German. Her English was still tinged with the accent of the city of her birth. He liked her rendition of “Basin Street Blues,” but most of all he liked the fact that, with a slow, sensuous smile, she had dedicated it to him.

Between sets, he watched her work the crowd. She sat with anyone who asked, smiled and made conversation. She was petted and baited, and she didn’t seem to care. She was the queen of Palm Court, utterly secure in her power. Once, when a man in French uniform got too forward, she inclined her head toward a tall Moroccan who hovered near the doorway. When she left the Frenchman’s table, the Moroccan appeared, and in less than a minute the man had been ushered outside without fuss.

At the end of her last set, she joined Hugh at his table. He hadn’t asked for her company, but she had met his eyes throughout the night, and he knew she had guessed his feelings. His heart felt too tight in his chest as she lowered herself to the chair beside his and ordered a glass of champagne.

“So, Hap,” she said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“You sound like home.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been a long time since I lived in New Orleans.”

He knew exactly how long. He knew when she had left, and where she had gone. “Do you have family there still?” That, he hadn’t been able to discover.

“No. Phillip is my family.”

He knew there was no husband. “And Phillip’s father?”

“Dead. He fought the fascists in Spain with the Lincoln
Brigade.” She accepted her glass and smiled a thank-you to the waiter. “Did you know that was the first time colored and white fought side by side? Usually they segregate us when we’re dying, too.”

“You’re bitter.”

“Realistic.”

“But you made a name for yourself in Paris….”

“So you’ve been checking?”

“It’s a habit. You can’t work with paper as much as I do and not look up someone who interests you.”

If she registered the last part, she didn’t show it. “A man named Adolf reminded me that white people are God’s chosen.”

“He’ll be defeated.”

Her knee brushed his thigh as she leaned forward. “I’m ashamed to be an American. My own people sit across that ocean out there and say this is none of their business. And you know why? Because they aren’t that upset by what Hitler’s saying.”

“You’re wrong. We’ll be in this war. We can’t stay out.”

“I don’t know. Right now, Hitler’s mainly preaching death to the Jews and Communists. Wait till he starts in on the Negroes. Think how many Americans will stand up and cheer.”

He put his hand on her arm. She had made her statement in the same flippant way she said everything. He knew she didn’t fully believe it, but he also knew she was frustrated. “I’ve been living in Europe. I know how you feel. But not everybody knows what we do. Nobody wants to sacrifice their sons without reason. People still remember the last war.”

“Do you know there are more than thirty internment camps in unoccupied France right now? There are thou sands of people
there, women and children, whose only crime is that they’re Jewish or refugees from Franco. There are more in Algeria. Phillip and I could have ended up in a camp like that if Robby hadn’t helped us. We still could.” She sat back, and his hand fell from her arm. “If I know about the camps, our government knows, too.”

“What are you doing about it?”

Her green eyes were steady. “Staying alive.”

“You could be doing more.”

“Oh?”

“But maybe you’d rather just complain.”

“Do you think so?”

“No.” He sat back, too.

“How many drinks have you had tonight?”

“More than my share.”

“You’d be surprised at the things men say when they’ve had that many.”

“I haven’t been here long enough to do much exploring. I thought I’d drive to Rabat tomorrow to see the sights. Would you and Phillip like to come with me?”

She didn’t answer for a long time. They sat in silence and listened to the pianist, who had gotten progressively bluesier as the crowds departed. When he had risen to take a break, she turned. “What exactly are you asking from me?”

“I think you know.”

“Do you want a lover? Or something else?”

“I think I want whatever you’ll give me.”

H
er name was Catherine Robillard, Cappy to all those privileged enough to be on a first-name basis with her. With a cloud of pale gold hair swirling back from a thin oval face and blue eyes that never quite seemed to focus, she looked deceptively fragile. Ferris understood the deception, because he made it his business to look beneath the surface of everything that interested him. And Cappy did.

On Christmas Eve, those dark-lashed, unfocused eyes swept the mistletoe-adorned ballroom of Carol Bennett’s Saint Charles mansion with the precision of a battlefield medic sorting casualties. Ferris was about to see if he had made Cappy’s final cut.

Ferris was considered a good catch for this year’s debutante crop. His bloodlines—thanks to his mother—passed most of society’s tests. He was Catholic enough to suit a girl of Creole descent and indifferent enough to his religion to suit most Protestants. His father be longed to one of the best carnival organizations, and Ferris was slated to join. He studied law at Tulane University, where he was well into his second year.

But even if he graduated at the bottom of his class, Ferris’s financial prospects were excellent. Gulf Coast had been back
on its feet since the government began stockpiling raw materials under threat of war. And now that the Japs had tipped their hand at Pearl Harbor, Gulf Coast was sure to flourish.

Most of the young women in the Bennetts’ ballroom would have been happy to have Ferris pay them special attention tonight. They were hungry for reassurance that life—and New Orleans society—would continue as usual, despite the procession of young men leaving the city for military training camps. Not only was Ferris one of the more eligible men in the room, if he took a position at Gulf Coast, the selective service board wouldn’t touch him. He would certainly survive the war, and that was no small thing.

Cappy was a different item entirely. She was a thou sand acres of River Road sugarcane, as protected and pampered as her parents’ cash crop. Her foundations sank as deep into Louisiana’s alluvial soil as those of the family plantation house. No rogues, no poor white trash, had bred with the Robillards of River Road. They traced their heritage to French royalty and their fanaticism about its purity to the War between the States, when so many of their class had been forced to make compromises.

Ferris knew that the Robillards’ vision of the perfect mate for Cappy was a man possessing all his own at tributes, along with a family name so unsullied that it had never been whispered behind newspapers at the Pickwick or Boston clubs. Ferris couldn’t meet that test. His father was a man of uncertain background, as well as notorious business and political maneuvers. Henry had groveled before Huey Long, a man who had huffed and puffed against the New Orleans aristocracy and all it stood for. Then, after Huey’s death, Henry had made an ungentlemanly grab for power under the new Leche administration.

Had he succeeded, the vulgarity of his power play might
have been overlooked. But in 1939, the Leche house of cards had come crashing to the ground in scandals that shook a state nearly immune to them. Without the help of Earl Long—who had somehow survived with his reputation intact—Henry might have gone to jail. As it was, he had survived the disgrace, but only just. Now Henry might be good enough to rub shoulders with elite society, but he would certainly never be part of its charmed inner circle.

As he skirted the room, Ferris didn’t give a damn about society’s inner circle any more than he cared about society itself. He only cared about Cappy Robillard and whether he could get to home plate with her in the back seat of his car before he went off to kill Nazis and Japs.

Cappy had moved to the edge of a group of girls, all of whom were pretending to admire Carol Bennett’s brand-new engagement ring. At first she pretended not to notice him. But she knew he was there; he could tell from the way she positioned herself. She had her best side turned in his direction, a perfect profile unsullied by the small mole at the other corner of her mouth. As the group drifted apart, she turned and found his eyes immediately. He stood his ground, waiting for her to approach.

“I didn’t know you were here, Ferris Lee.” She moved closer, but not enough to seem forward. “Taking a break from your books?”

The orchestra, ten hepcats, each whiter than the one before him, struck up the first song. Ferris held out his arms, and she allowed him a smile, moving slowly closer until she was his.

She rested one gloved hand on his shoulder. The dance was a slow one. The music would really start to swing when the elder Bennetts and their friends retired to a room down the hall to play cards for the night. “I haven’t been studying today,” he said.

“No? You don’t exactly sound like a model student.”

“I’m not a model anything.” He pulled her closer, and she gave in easily. He could hear her petticoats rustle.

“Well, you know what they say about you. You’re supposed to be a bad, bad boy.”

“What they mean is that I plan to do something with my life other than dance at these stupid parties.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Kill a thousand Krauts, for starters.”

She stopped and pushed him away. “Ferris Lee! Don’t tell me.”

“Yeah. Swell, isn’t it? I enlisted today. Ensign Gerritsen. The navy seemed like the right place to be.” He grinned. “I know a thing or two about ships.”

“I can’t believe it. When do you leave?”

“Why can’t you believe it?”

“Because you have a perfect excuse not to serve.”

“What makes you think I want to be excused?”

Her eyes narrowed in calculation. “It just never occurred to me that you’d be the kind who wanted to fight.”

He pulled her back into his arms and resumed the dance. “Are you sorry I’m leaving?”

“I’m sorry for all you boys. I think it’s a terrible crime that those dirty old Japs pushed us into this war.”

“Are you sorry
I’m
leaving?”

“Sure. I’ll miss you as much as I’ll miss all the others.”

He pulled her closer. “But I’m not all the others, Cappy. I’m so far above them that you’ll have to miss me that much more.”

“Oh? In just what way are you above them?”

He noted that she hadn’t pulled away, and that her body
was still kitten-soft against his. “Easy. I’m the one who wants you the most.”

She didn’t say another word for the rest of their dance, but she didn’t pull away, either. She just followed his lead and finished the dance with flawless grace.

The moment she entered the front door, Aurore could always tell whether Henry was home. If he was, none of the comforting sounds of everyday life welcomed her. No voices murmured, no dishes clattered in the kitchen. The household routine went on, but silently. Since his fall from political grace, no one wanted to attract Henry’s attention. He had always been difficult to work for; now he was an impossible taskmaster. With the exception of Ti’ Boo, the household staff had changed as frequently as Henry’s moods. Aurore paid higher wages than anyone she knew and received less loyalty.

Tonight the soft strains of Glenn Miller sounded from an upstairs radio. In the dining room, silverware clanked as the table was set for her supper. Henry had either gone to a meeting or off to drink with his cronies. The scandals of 1939 had seriously narrowed his political prospects, but having once tasted power, he couldn’t seem to live without it. His days in state politics might be over, but he still angled for local success. He was often gone in the evenings, and she usually worked late at Gulf Coast just to be sure she would miss him.

She wished that she could spend a few quiet minutes chatting with Ti’ Boo, but her old friend was down on Lafourche with her family for the holidays. Ti’ Boo’s oldest son had been drafted into the army months ago. Now Val, and Jules’s two sons by his first marriage, had enlisted.

In the parlor she poured herself a glass of sherry and shuffled through the mail. Outside, a full moon shone. She would have
liked to look out on her garden, but someone was experimenting with the new blackout curtains, and the house was sealed tight. No light could escape to guide enemies of the United States to the Gerritsens’ front door.

The declaration of war had brought more than black outs, long hours at Gulf Coast and sad goodbyes for Ti’ Boo. Aurore worried constantly. Hugh was never far from her thoughts, Hugh who was in Morocco doing a job she didn’t understand. After she made certain there was no letter from him, she lifted his photograph from the piano. Years had passed since she had seen him. His letters were infrequent, and there was little substance to the ones she did receive.

She had always known that she loved Hugh too much, that she had tried too hard to keep him at her side. Now she wished she had held on tighter. Instead, she had stood by and watched Henry manipulate his future. She had convinced herself that Hugh needed to see the world before he made a decision as binding as the priest hood. And even after war broke out in Europe, she had refused to plead with him to return.

Her reward for stepping back was constant dread that she would lose him forever. Hugh, with the war at his doorstep, could die in far-off Africa, and she might never see him again.

She placed the photograph in front of a Christmas arrangement of shining magnolia leaves and started up the stairs. As she followed the incongruously cheerful sounds of “Chattanooga Choo-choo,” she reminded her self that she had another son, and there was still time to intervene in his life.

She knocked on Ferris’s door, and he called a welcome. She opened it but remained in the doorway. De spite a maid who cleaned it daily, Ferris’s room was always in disarray. He had no regard for neatness and little regard for the people who
cleaned up after him. His room was a place to sleep, and he did little enough of that. He passed through the house as if it were a railway station on a cross-country journey.

Ferris flashed a smile as he lifted a blue jacket off the back of a chair and slipped it over his shoulders. Aurore knew he must be preparing for a date with the Robillard girl. She had known Cappy’s parents for years, but she had met Cappy for the first time only last week. She had always prayed Ferris would find a woman who would soften his sharp edges, someone who would light a spark of humanity inside him and give his life depth and meaning. Cappy was not the answer to her prayers.

“Where are you going tonight?” she asked.

“Nowhere in particular.” Ferris straightened his tie, then straightened it again until it fell exactly between the lapels of his jacket. He picked up his hat, a soft dark felt with a snap brim.

“Is Cappy in town at her uncle’s?”

“For the next two weeks.”

“You’ll be at camp by the time she goes back home,” she said wistfully.

“If you’re worrying about me, don’t. I’ll be fine.”

Aurore had been distressed at Ferris’s enlistment, but every day she told herself that she didn’t have to worry about him. Ferris would find a way to stay safe in the coming months. Like Henry, he wasn’t a man to hedge his bets. But even if she wasn’t frantic about his safety, she was worried about something else.

“A lot of young men are making rash decisions these days,” she said.

“What? Like me joining the navy? These are hard times. Somebody’s got to go.”

“I was thinking about Cappy. A lot of young men are getting married in a hurry because they’re afraid they might not be coming back.”

“Don’t you want me to get married?” He turned back to his mirror and set the hat on his head at a cocky angle. “You aren’t going to get any grandchildren from Hugh. I’m the only chance you’ve got left.”

“I just don’t want you to make a mistake.”

“And you think Cappy’s a mistake?”

“Not Cappy. Getting married now, when you’re feeling pressured.”

“I don’t feel any pressure. I just know a good thing when I see it.”

Her heart quickened. “Ferris, you’re not saying you
are
going to marry her, are you?”

“I hadn’t planned to at first. But I don’t see why I shouldn’t make it official. Do you know anyone who would be as big an asset to a political career as Cappy Robillard?”

“Politics?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“But you’ve never said anything about a political career.”

“You’ve never asked.”

His expression didn’t change, but she was stunned by everything his words implied. “It never occurred to me that you’d want anything to do with politics. You’ve watched the way it’s consumed your father. I thought that would be enough of a deterrent.”

“You thought.” He faced her. “But you never bothered to check with me.”

“I just assumed…”

“Something you’ve been good at for a long time, Mother.” He smiled. “Pop’s got it all over you there. He never assumes anything. He always wants to know what I’m thinking.”

Aurore moved closer. “How can you compare me to your father?”

“There really isn’t any comparison.” He stopped smiling. “I know who Pop is, and I know who you are. And I know my relative importance to both of you.”

“Ferris, you’re wrong. You’re my son. I love you.”

“Your son’s in Morocco.” He looked at his watch, then back at her. “But just for the record, here’s my plan. I’m going to serve in the navy and come back a hero. But before I go, I’m going to marry Cappy Robillard and try like hell to get her pregnant so she won’t be able to change her mind once I’m gone. When I come back, I’m going to finish law school and practice for a year or two. And while I’m making a name for myself in legal circles, I’m going to work my way into the party. Then, when the time’s right, I’ll run for office. From there? Who knows? But in a couple of decades it’ll be just about time for someone from Louisiana to sit in the Oval Office.”

“Someone, maybe, but not someone who’s doing it for personal gain. We’ve had enough of that in this state. Didn’t you learn anything from your father’s defeat?” She stretched out her hand, but she didn’t quite touch him. “I know I’ve made mistakes. Your father kept you at his side, and I didn’t always fight him hard enough. But it was never because I didn’t love you. I’ve always loved you as much as I love Hugh. I just couldn’t get to you. I thought it would be worse for you if Henry and I fought over you like you were the prize at a child’s birthday party. I’ve always tried to show you how important you were to me.”