Tears came to my eyes, but I didn't turn around so he could see them. I swallowed down the throat lump and completed my packing, only muttering, "Don't, Beau. Please."

"I can't help it, Ruby. I'll never stop loving you, and if it means I have to live forever with an illusion, then that's what do."

"Beau, illusions die quickly and leave us far worse off than if we had faced reality," I warned.

"I can't face a reality without you, Ruby. I know that now."

We heard footsteps on the stairway. I snapped my suitcase closed just as Paul came to the door.

"The car's ready," he said, looking suspiciously from Beau to me.

"Good. Good-bye, Beau. You must try to come to the bayou soon."

"Yes, I will."

"I'll just say good-bye to Gisselle, Paul."

"Fine," he said, and took my suitcase.

"I'll go down with you, Paul," Beau said. As the two of them headed for the stairway, I went to Gisselle's room. She was lying on the bed with a damp washcloth over her forehead.

"I'm leaving now, Gisselle," I said.

Her eyes fluttered open as if she weren't sure she had heard a real voice. "What? Is that you, Ruby?"

"Yes. I'm leaving for Cypress Woods tonight."

"Why?" she asked sitting up, suddenly rejuvenated. "We'll have a big breakfast tomorrow and maybe the four of us will do something that's fun for a change."

"I've got to get back to Pearl, and Paul has a lot of business to tend to," I said.

"Oh, pooh on all that. You just want to run away from all this sadness and ugliness with Bruce," she accused.

"Yes, that, too," I admitted.

Her expression softened and then her lips quivered. "What will become of me?" she cried.

"You have Beau now," I said. "You will do just fine."

"Yes," she said, pulling her face into a full, gleeful smile. "I guess I will."

I turned and hurried away, my heart pounding. How she enjoyed reminding me I had lost Beau again.


8

  From Bad to Worse

During our ride back to the bayou, Paul tried to make small talk and then he tried to get me excited about some new things that were happening not only in our business, but also in politics. I listened with half an ear, filling every silence between us with the sound of Beau's voice, and filling every dark mile along the way with the images of Beau smiling, talking, gazing at me with that look of anguish in his eyes and yes, that look of love.

I tried to keep myself busy and not think about him during the days immediately following our New Orleans trip, but for the first few days I couldn't get myself to draw a line. I would just stare at the blank paper and think about my studio in New Orleans and Beau. I tried sketching and painting animals, flowers, trees, everything and anything but people, for I knew that every man I would envision would be a man who had Beau's hair, Beau's eyes, Beau's mouth.

What made it even worse was gazing at Pearl, who had developed more distinct facial features and had begun to look more like Beau. Maybe it was just that I was seeing him everywhere since the funeral, but when Pearl laughed and smiled, I heard Beau's laugh and saw his smile.

One afternoon a few weeks after we had returned from Daphne's funeral, I sat on the patio and tried to read a book while Mrs. Flemming played with Pearl on the grass. It was one of those rare days in the bayou when there was barely a breeze and the clouds looked pasted against the soft blue sky. It made everyone feel lazy. Even the birds barely flitted from tree to tree. They sat quietly on branches, looking more like stuffed animals. From off in the distance, I could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of one of our oil drills and occasionally the voices of the men shouting things to each other. But other than that, it was very quiet so that Pearl's laughter rippled over the grass toward the canals, a tiny tinkle of a laugh, making me feel we were all in a toy world.

Suddenly James came rushing out of the house carrying a large envelope.

"This was just brought special delivery for you, madame," he said excitedly, and handed it to me.

"Thank you, James."

He nodded and left while I undid the fastener and pulled a newspaper out of the envelope. Mrs. Flemming gazed at me curiously and I shrugged.

"It's just a New Orleans newspaper, two days old," I said. I gazed at it, wondering why it had been sent special delivery, when I saw that an inside page had been marked with a bright red clip. I opened to the page and gazed at a circled story. It was a wedding announcement, describing the marriage of Beau Andreas to Gisselle Dumas. They had eloped.

I reread the story to confirm that the words actually said what I thought they said, and for a moment it felt as if the air around me had been sucked away. I couldn't breathe; I couldn't swallow, and I was afraid if I tried too hard, I would gag and turn blue. My heart seemed to sink deeper into my chest, making me feel empty and cold inside.

"Something not unpleasant, I hope," Mrs. Flemming said.

I stared at her for a moment and then found my voice. "My sister . . . she eloped," I said.

"Oh. With a nice young man?"

"Yes. A very nice young man," I said. "I have to go upstairs for a moment," I added, and rose quickly so I could turn and walk away before any tears showed themselves on my cheeks. I charged through the house and up the stairs and threw myself on my bed, where I buried my face in my pillow. Of course, I knew that this might happen, but I had lived with the wish that Beau would come to his senses and not succumb. Now some of his last words spoken to me returned, words that had suggested otherwise.

I can't help it, Ruby. I'll never stop loving you, and if it means I have to live forever with an illusion, then that's what I'll do.

Apparently he had decided to do it. Could I be happy knowing that every time he kissed my sister's lips, he closed his eyes and made himself believe he was kissing mine? That every time he woke in the morning and gazed at her face, he convinced himself he was gazing at me? He was in love with me; he would always be in love with me. I knew that Gisselle thought she had achieved some sort of victory by winning him back and getting him to marry her, although in her heart she must know that it was a shallow victory, and that he was using her like some magic mirror into which he could gaze and see the woman he really loved.

But Gisselle didn't care. She didn't care about anything but making me unhappy even if it meant marrying someone she didn't really love, not that she could love anyone but herself, I thought. I tried to be more angry than sad, but my broken heart wouldn't permit it. I cried so hard, my ribs ached and my tears soaked my pillow. When I heard a knock on my doorjamb, I choked back my sobs and turned to see Paul standing there, his face dark and troubled.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing. I'll be fine," I said, and quickly wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. He stood there staring.

"It was this, wasn't it?" he said, bringing the newspaper around from behind his back. "I found it where you dropped it in the hallway. You don't have to answer," he followed quickly, his face red with frustration and fury. "I know how much you still love him."

"Paul . . ."

"No, I realize it's not something I can make disappear with my money. I can build you a house twice as big as this one on twice as much acreage and fill it with things ten times as expensive and you will still mope about, dreaming of Beau Andreas." He sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling. "I thought I could substitute devotion and security for romantic love, but I was a fool to think so. Mother was right after all," he moaned.

"I'm over it, Paul," I said determinedly. "He's married my sister and that's that."

His face brightened. "That's the way you should feel," he said, nodding. "He didn't come for you and the baby while you were living here in your Grandmère's shack, did he?"

"No," I said sadly.

"And he never even inquired about your well-being afterward. He's just as self-centered as your sister. They belong together. I'm right, aren't I?"

I nodded reluctantly.

He smirked. "But that doesn't mean you don't love him, does it?" he asked in a tired and defeated tone of voice.

"Love is something . . . you can't control sometimes," I said.

"I know," he replied. "I'm glad you think so, too." We stared at each other for a moment. Then he put the newspaper on the dresser and left.

I sat by my window thinking that Paul and I had more in common now than ever before. Both of us were in love with people we couldn't love the way we wanted to, the way we should love. I sighed just as deeply as he had sighed and then I took the newspaper and threw it in the nearest garbage can.

Despite Paul's and my desperate attempts to cheer each other up, a pall fell over Cypress Woods during the days that followed. The shadows seemed darker and longer, and the rain more persistent, heavier, gloomier than ever. I retreated to my work. I wanted to leave the real world and live in the world I was creating with my paintings. I continued painting the series of pictures of the Confederate soldier and his lover, but my next painting was a very melancholy one. In it I depicted the soldier being carried out of the wooded battlefield on a stretcher. He looked like Beau, of course, and on his lips one could almost read his call for me. . . Ruby. He had that far-off, dreamy look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who had focused on the woman he loved with all his strength, knowing that in moments the light would go out and he would lose her face, her voice, the scent of her hair and the touch of her lips, in the darkness forever and ever.