"I'd save a little to keep myself in champagne," Darby quipped, and they all laughed.

"This house . . . I must confess, Ruby," Gisselle said, stepping back, "I had no idea. You are rich even before you inherit your share of our trust. Can you imagine how wealthy my twin sister is going to be, Henry?"

He nodded, gazing around.

"Wealthy," he admitted.

"Brilliant. Henry's working on his doctorate in brain surgery," she said, and Darby laughed. "Well, are you going to show us around or do we have to stand out here all day in the swamp heat?" she demanded.

"Of course, I'll show you around."

"Is it all right to leave the car right here?" Henry asked me.

"Why isn't it?" Gisselle snapped before I had a chance. "What do you think she has, valet parking?" She laughed and threaded her arm through Darby's. "The tour, madame," she said.

"You haven't changed one iota, Gisselle," I said, shaking my head.

"Why should I? I was always perfect. Right, Darby?" "Right," he said obediently.

I opened the door and led them into the house.

"Daphne would bust a gut if she saw how well you've done for yourself, dear sister," Gisselle said as she gazed at the grand entryway, my paintings and small statues, the long marble floors and grand stairway. She whistled at the elegant furnishings in the living room and den, but her sarcastic attitude dwindled to a quiet look of awe as I took them through the rest of the downstairs and they saw the large pictures, the expensive lamps and chandeliers, the enormous kitchen and dining room with a table that could seat twenty comfortably.

"This beats anything I've seen in the Garden District," Henry confessed.

"You haven't seen everything in the Garden District," Gisselle spit, and he was silent. "How about the bedrooms?" she inquired.

"Right this way."

I showed them the guest rooms first and then Paul's and my bedrooms, skipping the nursery because Pearl was taking her nap.

"Separate but adjoining bedrooms," Gisselle re-marked, and smiled licentiously. "How often do we use that doorway?" she whispered. Although I blanched, I didn't reply. She laughed and gazed about. "You don't have an art studio anymore," she said with delight.

"Oh, that's in the attic," I replied nonchalantly.

"The attic?"

"Let me show you," I said, and took them upstairs.

"This is incredible," Darby said, now genuinely impressed. "The place is a palace. Look at the view from this window," he declared, turning to Gisselle. She sulked behind us.

"It's only a view of the swamps," she said.

"Yeah, but . . . it's beautiful. That's a big pool, and those flowers."

"All right," Gisselle said, bursting with frustration. "You have anything to drink? I'm parched."

"Of course. Let's go down to the patio and Molly will bring us some lemonades."

"Lemonades," she ridiculed. "Don't you have anything with a little kick to it?" she asked sharply.

"Whatever you want, Gisselle. Just tell my maid." "Her maid. Do you hear how my Cajun sister talks?

Just tell my maid."

We started out, the young men behind us. Gisselle seized my arm.

"Where's Beau's baby?" she demanded.

"Pearl's asleep and no one knows her as Beau's baby here," I said.

"Of course." She smiled with satisfaction. "And our brother, your husband?" she whispered.

"He's at work in the oil fields right now." My heart began to pound. "If you've come here to make trouble for us . . ."

"Why should I do that? I don't care what you've done, although I know you did it just to spite Beau."

"That's not true, Gisselle."

"Don't you want to hear about him?" she teased. I didn't reply. "He broke up with his fiancée in Europe, so you see, if you hadn't rushed into this sinful arrangement, you might have still won him," she said with great self-satisfaction. I felt the blood rush into my face so quickly, it felt as if it had drained completely out of my legs and I might tumble down the stairs. Then she laughed and put her arm through mine. "But let's not talk of old romances. Let's catch up on other news first. I do have a lot to tell you, a lot you will enjoy and a lot . . . you won't," she suggested with an impish grin.

She paraded me downstairs with her obedient escorts behind us ready at her beck and call.

"Daphne's wedding," Gisselle began once she had her mint julep in hand, "was an affair to remember. She and Bruce spared no expense. There were hundreds of guests. The church was bursting at the seams. Most people came because they were curious and just wanted to be part of the highlight of the social season. You know she really never had any friends. She just has business acquaintances, but she never cared and still doesn't."

"Are they happy together?"

"Happy? Hardly," she said, and laughed.

"What do you mean?"

"Bruce is still her little gofer. Remember how I used to tease him—Bruce, go for this, Bruce, go for that? Do you know what I discovered listening in on their business conversations one night? She made him sign a prenuptial agreement. He inherits nothing if anything happens to her. Nothing. And he can't divorce her and sue her for any property."

"Why did she marry him?"

"Why?" Gisselle raised her eyes to the sky and then smirked. "Why do you think? . . . To keep his mouth shut. They were embezzling from poor, dear Daddy. But Daphne was shrewd. She kept control of everything and made Bruce dependent upon her.

"She needed an escort, that's all. They don't sleep together. It's like what you have," she said, nodding toward the bedroom windows, "separate bedrooms. Only, they don't even have an adjoining door." She laughed. Then she looked at Darby and Henry, who were sitting there, sipping their drinks, staring and smiling stupidly at her like two infatuated lovebirds. "Why don't you two go look at the oil wells or something. Ruby and I have to talk girl talk," she snapped.

They both rose obediently and walked off.

"They adore me," she said, looking after them, "but they're both unimaginative and boring."

"They why are you with them?"

"Just to amuse myself." She drew closer. "So, Bruce came to my bathroom one day while I was taking a bath."

"What happened?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"What do you think?"

I wasn't sure I should believe her or not, but I did recall the way Bruce used to gaze at me, undressing me with his eyes, and I recalled how I would shrink under his touch.

She jerked her head high, threw back her shoulders, and with an arrogant air bragged, "I've been with many older men. I've even slept with one of my teachers at the school."

"Gisselle!"

"So? How is any of that any worse than what you're doing . . . sleeping with your half brother?" she snapped.

"I'm not. We don't sleep together. We're married, but we're not husband and wife that way. We both agreed."

"Why?" she said, grimacing. "Why get married then?"

"Paul's always loved me, and before we knew what our true relationship is, I was very fond of him. He loves Pearl as much as he would had she been his own daughter. We have a very special relationship now," I said.

"It's special, all right. And boring. You have a lover, then, I assume, some dashing, tall, dark Cajun swamp man who sneaks up to your room at night?"

"No, of course not."

"Of course not, not you, not Miss Goody Two-Shoes." She sat back, her arm dangling over the arm of the chair. "I wrote to Beau and told him of your wedding and how rich you are," she said.

"I bet you couldn't wait."

"Well, you ran away. You should have had the abortion and stayed in New Orleans. Even with all this, you're still living in the swamps."

"The swamps are beautiful. Nature can't be ugly," I said.

She took a long sip of her drink. "Did I tell you about Uncle Jean?" she suddenly asked.

"Uncle Jean? No. What about him?"

"You don't know anything?"

"What is it, Gisselle?"

"He killed himself," she said nonchalantly.

"What?" I gasped. I felt the blood drain from my face and my feet become nailed to the patio.

"One day he stole one of those knives they use to cut clay in their recreation room and cut his wrists. He bled to death before anyone discovered what he had done. Daphne put on a big show, of course, threatening to sue the institution. For all I know, she got some sort of settlement. I wouldn't put it past her. If there's a way to make money in something, she'll find it."

"Uncle Jean . . . killed himself'? When?"

"Months ago," she said, shrugging.

I sat back, stunned. The last time I had seen him was when I had gone to him with Beau to tell him about Daddy's death.

"Why didn't anyone write to tell me? Why didn't you?"

"Daphne said you relinquished your relationship to the family when you ran off," she replied. "And you know how I hate writing letters, especially bad news. Unless it's other people's bad news," she added with a slight laugh.

"Poor Uncle Jean. I should never have told him Daddy died. I should have left him thinking he was just not visiting."

"Maybe it is your fault," Gisselle said, enjoying my misery. Then she shrugged again and sipped her drink. "Or maybe you should be congratulated. After all, he's better off."

"How can you say such a terrible thing? No one's better off dead, not even Uncle Jean," I cried back in a choked voice.

"All I know is, I'd rather be dead than live forever in that stuffy institution," she proclaimed.

My eyes filled with tears as I thought about Uncle Jean lost and alone.

"And who do we have here?" we heard, and turned to see Paul come out of the house.