The Gates of Evangeline (30 page)

“You mean the landscaper? I didn't realize you two were friends.” There's something nasty in his face now, and it's plain as day: Andre hates Noah. Hates him.

Admitting an alliance with Noah could be a profound misstep. And I want to know why Andre is gunning for him, if only to warn Noah. “I don't know him that well,” I say slowly. “He was supposed to give me a ride somewhere.”

Andre wags a finger at me. “I don't know who that man is, but he's a lying, manipulative son of a bitch. If I see him in this house again, I'll—”

“You'll do what?” Jules appears in the office doorway, his smile mocking. Perhaps he's the reason Andre chose to stay at Evangeline for the weekend. “What will you do, Andre? Please tell.”

Andre looks flustered. “I thought you'd gone. It's late.”

“I'm reviewing last year's books so I can pass them on to the accountant. I figured I'd spend the night here.”

Andre's flush deepens. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand but makes no comment. Why is he so ill at ease? I already know about their relationship.

Jules's eyes pass quickly around the room. “Have you seen my pills? I thought I left them on the desk last night. It might be nice to actually sleep for once.” He casts Andre a long look, but Andre doesn't dare meet his gaze.

“Sorry. Haven't seen them.”

Either Jules knows I'm privy to their relationship and isn't trying to be discreet about it, or he's deliberately flaunting their involvement to piss off Andre. I don't know if they've been fighting or if Jules is just in one of his notorious moods, but there's a tension in the room I can't quite pinpoint.

Andre clears his throat. “Perhaps you'd like a drink, Jules? Some tequila? You're the only one who drinks the stuff.” He turns to me. “Jules is quite the bartender. Tequila Collins, Tequila Sour, Tequila Sunrise, Tequila Manhattan . . . you name it, he makes it. With tequila.”

Jules yawns. “The last thing in the world I want to do tonight is watch you drink yourself into oblivion, Andre. God knows I've seen that enough times.”

“You're hardly a teetotaler yourself, my friend.”

“I'm not your friend,” Jules says softly. “I'm many things to you, but I am not your friend.”

Andre glances at his liquor stash and then at Jules. His desire to flee whatever weirdness exists between them outweighs his desire to drink. “On that note,” he says, “I'm going to my room. Good night, Charlotte. We'll chat tomorrow. And I'll make you that Shirley Temple.”

Finally. A chance to extricate myself. I'm ready to bolt, but before I can make my getaway, Noah comes down the staircase.

Andre's face clouds over, and I know we're in for more drama. “Were you talking to my mother?” he demands.

Oh no. It's on.

Noah's mind is elsewhere. He glances at Andre with mild distaste, the kind of look you might give an insect that ventured into your home, but he doesn't acknowledge Andre's question. I can see how this would rub Andre the wrong way.

“My sisters have explicitly told you to stay away from her,” Andre says, moving into Noah's path. “Any conversations about your project should be with Mr. Sicard.”

Andre's the taller of the two, but Noah is obviously stronger. I doubt this fact is lost on either one as Noah clenches his fists and says, barely able to maintain civility, “It wasn't a business conversation, it was personal.”

“Personal?” Andre puffs up. “We're done with this charade. Whatever lies you've been telling my mother end here. There is
nothing
personal about your relationship with my family.” He's halfway up the staircase when he delivers the final cowardly blow. “Jules. Please handle this.”

And Jules does. He swoops in with his chiseled jaw and manicured fingers and swiftly disposes of Noah. “I'm afraid the family has elected to cancel your contract,” he states. “Step into the office, and I'll write you a check for services rendered.”

“You can't cancel my contract.” I've never seen Noah's face turn this particular shade of pink. “That contract is with Hettie. She's the one who signed it, not you.”

Jules doesn't look up from the check he's writing. “Given Hettie's condition, that contract will never hold up in court. Especially with its highly unusual terms.” He shakes his head. “Unlimited funding for your project even in the event of Hettie's death? It looks . . . how shall I put this? Greedy.”

“Those are the terms she chose.”

“I can't imagine a woman on her deathbed is competent to make any important financial decisions. She's in a vulnerable position. Fortunately, as the estate manager I have power of attorney.” Jules tears off a check and holds it out to Noah with a pleasant smile. “That should cover your time and expenses. If you disagree, you are of course free to take it up with us in court. Now I'll have to ask you to leave the premises. Please pack your belongings. I'll tell security to expect you in half an hour.”

Noah looks poised to punch him in the face, and while part of me would enjoy the vicarious thrill of a Jules beat-down, I understand that standing idly by is not the noble, caring thing to do.

“He isn't worth it,” I whisper, nudging Noah toward the door. “Come on. Let's get you out of here.”

Jules follows us to the door, and there's a lightness in his step that makes it clear he's enjoying this. He slips the check into my hand as I leave. “Your friend will want this later,” he says, smirking. “Trust me.”

•   •   •

B
ACK AT HIS COTTAGE
, Noah storms around pulling clothes out of drawers and cramming toiletries into a suitcase. I've never seen him like this before, so I stay out of his way. I'm freaking out, too. Everything has changed. He's leaving Evangeline. Noah and I can exist as a couple now only through actual effort, conscious choice. And we have less than half an hour to make this decision.

It doesn't take long to empty his place. He travels light. Wallet, watch, loose change, a handful of condoms purchased weeks ago—he distributes these items quickly amongst his pockets. The last thing he takes is his handgun. I'm uncomfortable with his toting that thing around any day, but knowing that he's packing when he's this angry scares me.

Even scarier: he's said nothing about us. In fact, I'm not convinced he's thought about me at all. Is he leaving, then? Just—going back to Texas? Is this it? I find myself panicky at the thought. It's too soon. And with no notice. I'm not good with good-byes.

“You better pack a bag, too,” Noah says, prompting another internal freak-out.

Does he think I'm going to just run off with him? Where would we go? This decision is too big to make so quickly; doesn't he know that? I stand, mouth agape, as he regards me impatiently. “Would you come on? I'm not goin' to miss out on Mardi Gras just 'cause Hettie's kid has a bug up his ass.”

Oh. Our trip. Right.
Relief, disappointment, and dread all mix together in a confounding fashion. We're in a holding pattern, for now.

“Okay,” I say, but then hesitate. He's halfway out the door and I don't trust his grim look of purpose. “Noah?” I jog after him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the house,” he says. “I left my phone up there.”

This might be one of the worst ideas I've ever heard. “I'll go,” I volunteer. “You don't want to deal with those two again.”

But he brushes by me. “I don't give a shit about them. I want my phone.”

Please don't let Andre and Jules see him,
I think as he strides off into the night.
Let them be holed up in Andre's bedroom or rendezvousing in the study.

I don't know exactly how long he's gone, but it's too long. I start running through every awful scenario in my mind. If Noah lays a hand on Andre or Jules, he'll be arrested for assault. And we're in Louisiana. I'm fairly sure that if he does something threatening on Andre's property, Andre can shoot him with impunity. I gather some clothing, but our Mardi Gras vacation no longer excites me.

When Noah does finally return, he seems moody, not fired up. He's silent, barely noticing me as I drag my suitcase up to his truck and climb into the passenger seat. I don't know what he's thinking about as we take our leave with security, but when I look back at the immense house, I feel oblivion. I can never come back here with him. I feel the huge, gaping uncertainties of the future.

This is what we're left with: four final days of carefree abandon. And then, Ash Wednesday. Lent. Forty days of self-denial, a time to reflect upon one's past transgressions and repent. Even in New Orleans, the fun can't last forever. I glance at Noah in the driver's seat. His hands grip the wheel tightly; he stares straight ahead.

Maybe,
I think,
the end is here already. Maybe the fun is already over.

•   •   •

W
E
SPEND THE NIGHT
at a local motel. There's no romance, just fast food, an uneventful check-in, the television flashing in a dark room. Noah remains quiet. I don't know how to lift the dark cloud around him, so I don't try. We go to bed early, although neither of us really sleeps. He tosses and turns, getting up occasionally and stalking around the little room. Despite several signs prohibiting smoking, he opens a window and goes through a half-dozen cigarettes. I can't tell if he's angry or upset or simply worried about what his next step will be. It's unnerving. What am I supposed to do? Reassure him? Give him space? I'm not any good with feelings. Not my own, not anyone else's.

Around one a.m., I bring him a glass of water. It's a move from my grandmother's playbook: ply distressed person with liquid while avoiding discussion of actual problem.

“Thanks.” He stands shirtless by the window, staring out at the parking lot. But he drinks the water. A good sign.

I sit cross-legged on the floor beside him and wait. When he finally does speak, it's not what I'm expecting.

“Why do you like me?”

I don't know what to say. I like how he makes me feel—calm, comfortable, present in the moment—but does that sound too self-absorbed? And I like how easygoing he is, polite and pleasant to others, rarely ruffled by the little things—but given his current mood, that seems like the wrong quality to praise. And I like him physically, but that's superficial.

“I like you because—you're good,” I stammer.

My answer seems to depress him. “You don't even know me.”

A fair point. A month together does not constitute a high degree of knowing.

“Well, you're better than
I
am,” I tell him.

He presses his forehead to the window. “There's so many lies in my life, I don't even know who I am at the bottom of it all.”

Whose lies?
But he must mean Maddie and Jack, all the things about his past that they left out or twisted around. I wait for him to elaborate, but instead he climbs back in bed. Buries himself in covers. Turns his back to me and sleeps. Or pretends to.

His warm body beside me fails to calm me down. For the first time, being together is not enough. For the first time, I realize with a pang, I feel lonely.

•   •   •

A
PPARENTLY
N
OAH IS MUCH BETTER
at willing himself out of a funk than I am, because by morning, he is relentlessly cheerful. I try to reconcile the man singing in the shower with the brooding stranger of last night but can't. We don't discuss the loss of his job or his ensuing existential torment. I'm curious, naturally, but his happiness seems so precarious. It's easier to chatter about the drive to New Orleans, which parades to see, which restaurants to try. Considering how much time I now spend delving into the secret lives of strangers, I'm remarkably willing to avoid issues of any depth in my relationships.

About forty minutes out of Chicory, conversation lags and Noah begins messing with the radio. He breezes past a country station but stops on a song I find even more disturbing.

“Really? Christian rock?” For a New Yorker who spends a lot of time around atheists and Jews, unabashed Jesus love is sort of startling. Even my grandmother, an occasionally practicing Catholic, has always felt that religion, like kissing or farting, should be conducted as discreetly as possible.

Noah smiles, a bit sheepish, his thumbs resting on the wheel. “Just like the sound of it, I guess.” For a moment we listen to the lyrics, delivered by a gravelly-voiced man in a somewhat melodic shout.

Despite the pain, I keep believing.

Despite the hurt, I keep my faith.

I pray that you'll forgive my weakness

And hold me in your eternal embrace.

“Forgiveness and unconditional love,” Noah says. “Who doesn't want some a that?”

“You don't want God,” I say, shaking my head. “You want a mom.”

His smile vanishes. “Yeah, I want a mom. A mom and a dad, doesn't everyone? A kid deserves to know his parents.” He switches off the radio. “Forget it. You wouldn't understand.”

“Are you obsessing about your parents again?” I ask. “They don't have to define you, Noah. I don't think they matter as much—”

“They don't matter? You
would
say that. You pretty much chased away your kid's father. You didn't think he mattered, although maybe you shoulda asked your kid what he thought.”

After everything I've told him about my divorce, this interpretation of events shocks me. “Eric
cheated
on me.”

Noah's voice is flat. “He mighta been a shitty husband, but that didn't make him a shitty dad.”

I'm a fighter by nature, but his accusation cuts too deep for me to defend against. To blast my parenting decisions when Keegan is gone, when I can never right my wrongs, can only stew in my own regret—this is cruelty I did not think Noah capable of. I fall into a stunned silence.