The Gates of Evangeline (9 page)

Beside me, Sydney glowers at her sister. “Just because she's married, she thinks everyone else has to be.” She spears a piece of asparagus, and I remember reading something about a nasty divorce or two in Sydney's past. “Being single is not a disease,” she mumbles to no one in particular, and I almost feel sorry for her.

My pity proves extraordinarily short-lived because at that moment Raleigh leans over and places his hand on my thigh. “I've been thinkin',” he says. “Seein' as you're so interested in houses, maybe you'd like to come by after dinner for a visit. Whattaya say? I'll give ya the full tour a my domain.”

That's it. I can think of no place I wish to tour less than Raleigh Winn's domain. I grab my clutch and excuse myself to the restroom, leaving him to interpret my look of nausea as he likes.

•   •   •

I
N THE BATHROOM
, I turn on the sink and let the water run, my fingers pressed to the cold, white marble. I don't belong here. Any idiot can see that. I dab a tissue with water and attempt to clean up my smudgy eyes. Did I really think I was going to help Gabriel? How, exactly, does my attending a stuffy dinner party further this objective? As far as the Deveaus are concerned, I'm just some no-name hoochie for Raleigh to paw at, and I'll never get any useful information if I'm stuck playing Little Miss Plantation Journalist.

I pop open my clutch and check my phone, hoping for an update from home. Two voice mails, but the reception is too spotty to access them. Now I know why Jules was out in the garden talking to Andre. I sneak out through the kitchen door and listen to my messages in the dark. The first is a greeting from my grandmother, who assures me that she's doing fine and hopes I am enjoying my brush with high society. The second message contains the only good piece of news I've had all day. “This is Detective Remy Minot from the Bonnefoi Parish sheriff's department. Just returning your call. There's not much to discuss about the Deveau case, but you're welcome to come by the station tomorrow morning, say, nine o'clock. You have a good evening, ma'am.”

Finally. Someone knowledgeable to talk to. Odds are he wasn't on the force when Gabriel went missing, but in a community like this, you never know. He could potentially get me in touch with the cops who
were
involved. Or old witnesses even. I make a mental wish list. Madeleine Lauchlin, the nanny. Danelle Martin, the cook. Roi Duchesne, the recently fired groundskeeper who was originally of interest to police. I rub my arms, wishing again I'd brought a jacket.

I'm trying, Gabriel. I'm trying to help you.

As I head back toward the house, I come across the man in jeans who Hettie's been talking to all night. He's lighting up a cigarette, in no particular hurry, and I'm struck by how relaxed he appears. Relaxed, despite the cold, despite the stink-eye Sydney and Brigitte have been giving him, despite showing up to dinner in jeans and—I see now—cowboy boots. For the first time in ages, I feel pangs of regret that I quit smoking. I want some of that peace. I remember going to parties in college, parties where I didn't know a single person and it didn't matter. If I sat on the front step with a cigarette, people joined me, bummed a smoke off me, started talking. It's been fifteen years since I quit, but suddenly I'm jonesing hard.

The man takes his first long drag, eyes half-closed as he savors it. My gaze travels down his fingers and settles on the glowing end of his cigarette.

“You lustin' for me or my Marlboro?”

I look up, totally busted.

He's smiling. “You want one?”

“You don't know how bad. But I better not.”

He nods. “Bad habit, I know. I quit for ages, but then . . . had a rough year.” His voice is twangy, not the flat Cajun accent I've been hearing the past few days.

“Texas?” I guess.

“You're good.” He looks me over, but not in a creepy way. “I'm gonna say New York.”

“Uh-oh.” Looking like you're from New York is probably not a good thing. “What tipped you off?”

He grins. “Heard you tell Brigitte durin' dinner. Congrats on your escape, by the way. Tough crowd.”

I'm glad we're on the same page about that torturous meal. “It wasn't easy. You saw what I was up against.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, that old guy was workin' you pretty hard.”

By now, I'm really, really cold, but I don't want to go back indoors. There's something about this guy, an easiness I like. And I'm curious. I want to get his story. I take a few steps in his direction. “We were never properly introduced.”

He extends a hand. “Noah.”

“Charlie,” I tell him. His hand is large and rough when I shake it, like he's someone who could change his own tire or repair a leaky roof. But warm. Very warm.

“Charlie,” he repeats. “That's cute.”

“So what brings you to dinner tonight?” I ask.

“I'm out here doin' some work for Hettie.”

Now I'm really confused. Is he some kind of laborer, and if so, why was he at dinner?

“What kind of work?” I'm bordering on nosy, but I might not get another chance to ask.

“Landscapin'.”

Huh? Hettie is palling around with the gardener? “Do you . . . like it?”

“I started my company when I was nineteen.” He shrugs. “It's what I know.”

“Nineteen, wow. Contract work can be so hard. Hard to get enough jobs, I mean.”

Noah senses where I'm going with this. “Not too hard,” he says. “I got enough to keep forty guys busy full-time. Got a contract with parks and rec back home.” He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners like all my caste-sniffing amuses rather than offends him. “Look, I know what you're thinkin'. I've known Hettie just about all my life. She's an old family friend. Sweetest woman alive. Knew my grandparents.”

“I wasn't judging,” I protest. “I just figured—”

“You figured I don't go to these kinda dinners much.” Noah looks down at his jeans and laughs. “And you'd be right.”

“Yeah, well . . .” I point to my low neckline. “You can tell I don't either.”

He casts a quick glance at my cleavage and then virtuously averts his eyes. “I think every woman in that room would like to have some a what you got.” Then he adds as an afterthought, “The guys too.”

“Thanks.” I don't know whether he's counting himself as one of the guys, but I kind of hope so. I take a few steps back toward the house. “I better go say a proper good-bye.”

“You'll never get out again.”

Actually, I'm afraid of that. I don't think Raleigh will let me slip away so easily next time, and I'm not sure how to defend myself from future awkward gropes without making a scene. But I've already screwed up enough tonight, etiquette-wise. “I've got to thank the hostess,” I tell Noah. “Aren't you going to?”

“Nope. Told Hettie I was turnin' in for the night. Just got in today, so I played the tired-from-travelin' card.”

“Good call.” I sigh.

“Hey, if you don't wanna go back, then don't. Tomorrow you can just say you got sick.”

I think it over.

“You really think any a them care if you're there? Besides the grabby guy, I mean.”

“No,” I say. “I don't.” It's tempting. And I did say I was going to the bathroom. If they assume I got the shits and ran off, it's not any worse than the rest of the evening.

He sees me wavering. “You stayin' in one a the guest cottages?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. I'll walk you back.”

And just like that, we ditch dinner. The garden is considerably less frightening when I have an escort. Shrubs look like shrubs; I can sensibly attribute the soft rustling sounds to wind and leaves. Only the temperature spoils an otherwise lovely stroll. My teeth start chattering.

“Wish I had a coat for you,” Noah says apologetically. “I'll give you an arm if that doesn't seem too bold.”

Too bold.
I can't help but smile. “Sure, I'll take an arm.” I latch on to him. With my heels on, I'm about the same height as he is, but his arm is like two of mine. I wonder if he's a gym rat or bulked up on the job.

“So what got you smoking again?” I ask. “You said you had a rough year.”

“Oh.” He rubs his forehead like it gives him a headache. “Lost my granddaddy. Got a divorce.”

“Ah. The first year is bad, but it gets better,” I promise. “I got divorced a couple years ago.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“He was cheating.” For a brief second I'm oddly grateful to Eric for making me sound so blameless. “How about you?”

“Nothin' like that.” He steadies me when I trip on a tree root. “I guess when we got married, we were on the same page about kids, but . . . I changed my mind.” Noah takes another pull off his cigarette. “There's no real compromise for that one. You can't push someone into havin' a kid they don't want. So we went our own ways.”

I feel fleeting sympathy for his ex-wife, probably in her midthirties now and stuck searching for a man to father her child. My sympathy is quickly eclipsed by relief, however. This guy won't be pulling out photos of his adorable children, thank God.

We're standing outside my guest cottage now, and though I could leave, could end the night here, I don't. I watch as Noah stamps out his cigarette. The embers die beneath his boot, but I still smell it on him, the fresh smoke. He reads the hunger on my face and pulls out a pack from his pocket. “I got more. All you gotta do is ask.”

“I'd be
such
a hypocrite.”

“I won't tell.” He holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor.”

I wince. “Okay, fine. You've sold me. Light me up.”

He removes a cigarette from the pack and places it in my mouth. Apparently rekindling an old addiction is like riding a bicycle, because the sensation is instantly familiar. I cradle the Marlboro between my index and middle fingers, enjoying the weight, the shape. Noah retrieves the lighter from his back pocket, and with a quick movement of his thumb, the flame springs up. I lean toward him, into the flickering, pale orange light, and inhale deeply.

Maybe it's the hint of his aftershave or the way his arm feels when I huddle against it. Solid. And safe. Maybe it's his broad shoulders, or those dark eyes I can just make out in the moonlight, trying to figure me out, letting me make the next move. Maybe it's just the heady feeling of nicotine spreading through my bloodstream, hitting my brain, asking me,
Why the hell not?
I look up into the clear, starry sky and blow a small ring of smoke.

“Hey,” I ask, “do you wanna come in?”

M
y mouth tastes like an ashtray. It's the second thing I notice when I wake, the first, of course, being the naked man in my bed. Both my mind and heart race. I go from a disoriented state of just-woke-up to full-blown panic in a matter of milliseconds.

Shit, shit, SHIT
.

He's still crashed out, thank goodness, a mound of skin and shadow and bedsheets splayed beside me. A butt cheek peeks out where he ran out of blanket. It is a very, very nice butt, which leaves me even more rattled. I don't even know this man. I should not be assessing the cuteness of his butt.

Plan. You need a plan. First step: locate clothing.

I've never been the one-night-stand type. I'm too picky. And being naked in front of a stranger has always seemed more stressful than sexy. Yes, I made a couple of bad decisions in college, but who hasn't? There was Kurt, the German guy I slept with the night of his going-home party. Predictable outcome: he went home. And Justin Shanley, a crush I jumped into bed with, hoping it might go somewhere. Predictable outcome: it didn't. I thought I'd learned something from my youthful stupidity, but here's Noah, proof that I can be as dumb at thirty-eight as I was at twenty.

I slip on a bra and fresh underwear, but I still reek of cigarettes. I need a shower. I look back at Noah and cringe. Every awkward moment of the previous night comes flooding back. It was like we were seventeen one minute, all misplaced elbows and knees, clueless about the gentle choreography of lovemaking, then seventy the next, too slow and careful with each other for the breathless, animal encounter you're supposed to have in these situations.
Is this okay?
he kept asking.
Are you sure?

But I was sure—at least I was at the time. I could smell the aftershave on his jaw, his neck, and he smelled so
good
.

I head into the bathroom and frown at my reflection. Dark smudges of mascara have gathered under my eyes, and my hair spikes out in bizarre directions like a manga character's, minus the cute. I wash my face, brush my teeth. There's no fixing my hair until it gets a good washing.

Do I wake him? Let him sleep? Bump loudly around the cottage until he gets up? I'm not used to men anymore, I realize. The space they occupy, the little snorts of their sleep-breathing, their big man feet and hairy, crooked toes.

Any way you slice it, Noah's an unpredictable choice. I'm an overeducated, liberal New Yorker. Noah doesn't even have a college degree. He's from Texas. He wears cowboy boots and probably owns guns. Ten to one he's a Republican. And he's clearly rebounding from a rough divorce. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong person. So why, why, why?

Right now, all I know is that I wanted to. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks burn, my stomach do wild flip-flops. I've got to get him out of my place, sort myself out.

I peer at him from the bathroom doorway. He's rolled over and his eyes are at half-mast.

“Hey.” He stretches. “You're up. What time is it?”

“Almost seven.” I spot his jeans and briefs in a pile by the bed and collect them.

He rubs his face. “You sleep okay?”

I nod, and now that I think about it, I did. I got more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep. For me, that is a pretty big accomplishment. I hand him his clothes, careful not to look at his body.

“How 'bout we both shower and get dressed, and I'll come back here in half an hour,” Noah suggests. “I'll take ya to breakfast.”

“You don't have to do that.”

He still hasn't put on his briefs. “I'd like to. If that's all right.”

I fall silent, still in flight mode, trying to figure out the best strategy to extricate myself. He must see it on my face because doubt creeps into his voice. “Did I do somethin' wrong?”

“No, no.” And he didn't. The wrongness is all me, thinking I could handle this.

“Look, I don't know anything about datin' anymore. I hope I didn't—disappoint you.”

I look the other way as he slips into his clothing.

“I was with the same woman for twelve years,” Noah says. “I'm kinda learnin' everything all over. And I wasn't expectin' . . . I mean, you took me by surprise.” I have no idea what he's getting at until he says, “Gimme some time. I'll figure out how you work, how to make you feel good.”

Oh God, the poor thing. He's afraid he sucked in bed. I want to tell him there's blame enough to go around, but at this stage, that might be a little too much honesty.

“You were fine,” I assure him, and then, realizing no guy wants his sexual performance to be just “fine,” I add, “It was nice.” My weak attempts at sensitivity are probably negated by my handing him his boots immediately after.

He finishes dressing in silence; I do nothing more to encourage him. We walk together toward the cottage door and he pauses, runs a hand over his buzz cut. His eyes meet mine, questioning, and we both understand this is my call. If I open the door, he won't bother me again. When we see each other around the estate, he'll be personable, but he'll keep his distance. Privately, though, he'll worry. He'll play the night over in his head, asking himself,
What did I do?

Your move, Charlie.

In the end, I have to accept facts. I'm not a frat boy out for conquests. I'm a woman, endowed with empathy, and I don't want to leave some basically good guy freaking out about his penis size or whatever it is that men freak out about when they're rejected. One meal. I can survive one meal.

“I hear there's a good diner in town,” I say.

His relief palpable, Noah smiles and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “I'll see you in half an hour.”

•   •   •

W
E
'
RE EARLY ENOUGH
that Crawdaddy's Diner isn't crowded yet. Leeann told me her dad's place is a madhouse on Sundays after church gets out, but it's barely eight. Most of the patrons are older or look like they were out all night drinking. Our waitress, a puffy-eyed teenager in the latter category, leads us to a booth and doles out menus with an anemic smile.

The diner is a worn little joint with an off-white and avocado color scheme, but it's clean and smells pleasantly greasy. Noah and I study our options quietly until our waitress returns a couple of minutes later with a pot of coffee and a notepad. Noah gets a crawfish omelet. I'm not in the mood for anything adventurous. I need comfort food.

He seems content for us to sip our coffee in silence, but the not talking unnerves me. We should get to know each other, right? I reach for some stock question—
What are your hobbies? Do you have any pets?
—but something else tumbles out.

“Do you own a gun?”

He raises his eyebrows. “That's a funny question.”

Well, yes. But I play it off. “I'm just curious. Do you?”

“Sure. Couple a huntin' rifles and a nine-millimeter.”

“You hunt?” There's a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Mostly deer. My buddies and I do a huntin' trip every year.”

I picture his living room walls, rows of mounted deer heads. “So you just—kill animals? For fun?”

“For sport and for meat,” he says. “I eat what I can of 'em. Why? You think it's cruel?”

“Yeah, I do. Isn't killing animals for fun pretty much the definition of animal cruelty?”

He rolls his eyes. “You gotta control the deer population somehow. And how do you have a leg to stand on talkin' 'bout animal cruelty? You just ordered bacon, didn't you?” He swallows the last of his coffee. “You really think that pig you're gonna eat had a better quality a life than the deer I shoot?”

That shuts me up. I still think he's a bloodthirsty hick, but at least he's not a pushover. Eric was always so reluctant to disagree with me—so placating. I'm dying to get a read on Noah politically, to see what kind of fireworks that produces, but figure I should probably back off. What do our differences really matter, anyway?

“So how big is your job at Evangeline?”

“Not sure 'til I get the plans drawn up, but pretty big.” He holds out his empty cup to a passing waitress, who promptly refills it. “Hettie wants the garden to look like it did in the 1920s. I've got some photos to work with, and my designer should be comin' in a week or so.”

“That seems like a strange project for Hettie to start when she's so sick,” I point out.

He twists his napkin around a finger. “She wants to leave the home behind in a certain condition.”

“Why? Her kids won't care. They're hardly ever there.” I know that he is close to Hettie, but maybe he doesn't realize how poor her health is. “From what I hear, she doesn't have a lot of time, Noah.”

“I know. That's why we've got to do it now.”

His answers don't sit well with me. I find the project increasingly suspicious. “Whose idea was this whole garden renovation, anyway? Hers or yours?”

He heaves a deep sigh. “Hettie called
me
, okay? I'm not some asshole tryin' to screw over a dyin' woman here.” He hesitates. Gazes at me appraisingly. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes . . .”

We're interrupted by the arrival of our breakfast. Little Miss Hangover plops our plates on the table, looking nauseous. I look at Noah, expectant, but he's already stuffed his mouth full of egg, and now I have to wait for him to finish chewing.

“So you can't tell
anyone
this.” He wipes his mouth.

“Okay.” I wrap both hands around my mug.

“Hettie's not leavin' the estate to her kids.”

“What?!”
This is better than I thought. “Do they know?”

“Hell no. She says Andre won't care. He's got no love for Evangeline. But the daughters . . .”

“They'll pitch a fit,” I predict. “What's happening to the property, then?”

He shovels another chunk of omelet into his mouth. “She's donatin' the place to the Louisiana Historical Association. Should generate some tourism for Chicory. That's real important to her, takin' care a the folks in town.”

Impressive, really, the deception that goes on between Hettie and her daughters. I knew the twins were sneaky bitches, but Hettie's treachery surprises me. “Who knows about this, besides you?”

“Just her lawyer, I guess, since he drew up the will. And you. That's probably it.”

Something about this situation doesn't smell right. “Why would she tell
you
something like that? No offense, but that's big stuff.”

“Well, I needed to know for the job, to get the place historically accurate and tourist-ready. And Hettie likes me.” He sees my skepticism and gets defensive. “She does. She's really looked out for me over the years. Gave me the seed money to start my business.”

This baffles me. “She must've been really close to your grandparents.”

He nods. “They worked at Evangeline for, oh, thirty years, I think. I used to visit when I was small.”

And then suddenly I get it. “How old are you, Noah?”

“Thirty-two.”

He's younger than I first thought, and now it makes perfect sense. “You're the same age her son would've been,” I say softly. “He would've turned thirty-two last September.”

“Gabriel? Yeah. We used to play together.”

An odd little shiver runs up my back. Something about seeing this adult man in front of me—a real, physical being with stubble and eyelashes and ears that stick slightly out—drives it home for me. This is what Hettie lost. Not just the child, but the man. Can it really be pure chance that the man I fell into bed with last night is connected to Gabriel? I don't
think
I was drawn to Noah by inexplicable supernatural forces, but at this point, I'm not ruling anything out.

“You remember him?” I ask.

“Charlie, I was only three when he went missin'.”

“Hettie must think of you as a son,” I say. “She must think of him every time she looks at you.”

And then it hits me. Noah is her Zoey. Her son's playmate, loved to pieces, but always a reminder. I try to imagine how I'll feel looking at Zoey ten, twenty years from now, seeing what Keegan never had a chance to be. I pick at the food on my plate, no longer hungry.

Noah looks uncomfortable. He dumps a package of creamer into his cup. “She's been good to me, whatever the reason.”

“So your grandparents—” I suddenly remember his telling me last night that his grandfather died recently. “Your grandmother,” I correct myself, “is she still alive?”

“Died my senior year a high school.” He loads up a forkful of hash browns, not meeting my eye. “She and my granddaddy raised me.”

“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “You're like an orphan, then.” My sympathy is, of course, mixed with disappointment. His grandparents would've made for some excellent interviews. “What happened to your mom?”

“Died when I was a baby. And my dad went AWOL, so. Just me, Nanny, and Daddy Jack.”

“You mean your father just took off on you?” Parent Ditches Child is familiar territory with me.

“I mean he was in the military and he literally went AWOL. Was supposed to get sent overseas somewhere, and he disappeared. We never saw or heard from him again.” He shrugs, like this is no big deal. “I was little. I don't even remember him.”

“That sounds a lot like my family,” I say, “if you switch the genders.” I wasn't planning to get personal with Noah, but the similarities to my own life are eerie. “My mom was the one who ran off, and my dad died. I was older, though, when I lost him. Fourteen. My grandmother took me in.”

“Weird.” Noah studies me. “Shitty thing to have in common.” Our waitress trudges over to top off our coffee. She has a faraway look, like she's mentally composing a suicide note. “Don't know what she got up to,” he says after she's dragged herself to the next table, “but I'm pretty sure we had the better night.”