Second Chance Sister (13 page)

Bat smiled at him. “Thanks for flirting with her a little.”

“My pleasure,” Louis replied. “She’s rather nice, I think. Why did your father not get on the telephone?”

“He doesn’t like it,” Bishou answered.

At the same time, Bat made a face. “You might find this hard to believe, Louis, because Maman is in a wheelchair — but the only reason I could feel comfortable traveling with the boys was because I knew Maman was there to take care of Dad.”

Louis looked surprised. “Not vice versa?”

“No,” Bishou confirmed, “not vice versa. And yet — ” She glanced uncomfortably at Bat, who gave her an imperceptible nod, “ — Dad isn’t exactly scatterbrained, either. They’re not crazy. They don’t need professional help.”

“Yet sometimes you both talk as if they do,” Louis said with an interested frown.

“Let me explain. When I was home this last time, Dad disappeared one day. He drove off in the car, no one knew where. Vanished.”

“Mmph.” Bat nodded. “I remember that day.”

“He’s a bad driver. He’s been in many accidents. We panicked. I ended up calling the police chief — I’d gone to elementary school with him — to see if they could find the car on the road.”

“We waited by the telephone for two hours, just sweating,” said Bat.

“But at last we got a phone call from Dave Russell, the chief, saying the car was parked two towns away, and named the street. From there, Maman could guess. He went someplace he hadn’t been for years. He’d gone to the Harvard Club. He’s an alumnus of Harvard University.”

“Did you fetch him back?” Louis wanted to know.

“Oh, no. Nor did we confront him, nor anything else that would start a fight. We just waited for him to drive himself home — which he shouldn’t be doing, and yes, our nerves were on edge until he was safely back in the house — and I asked him how was his day. He said fine, he’d seen something in a newspaper somewhere he wanted me to have.” Bishou smiled. “He’d brought me home the
Journal of Higher Education
, an old issue that was kicking around the Exeter Harvard Club. The article he’d seen was about UFOI. What did I think about teaching comparative literature in another country, Bishou? That was what Dad asked me. If Virginia, why not La Réunion? I will always wonder if he knew about you, or if he just thought it would be an exotic teaching post.”

Bat nodded confirmation. “I wouldn’t put it past him to leaf through my letters — and put them back so that I wouldn’t notice. I wouldn’t put it past his intuition, either. He has these
éclats
.” Lightning-strikes.

“And that gave you the idea to come here?” Louis asked his wife.

Bishou blushed. “Well — it gave me an even better excuse to come here.”

“And you credit him with insight,” said Louis.

“It’s hard not to. The day Bat and I took a walk, and had our long heart-to-heart talk about the future, down by the stream — when I came home, Dad just murmured to me, ‘Have you and Bat got everything settled now?’” She shrugged. “So I just said yes. What else was there to say? He had known there was a problem all along, and knew just as well that we would deal with it.”

“I begin to understand. It also makes me understand why neither of you has trouble with my memories of Carola. They are part of me, but they don’t make me insane or evil.”

“That’s it,” said Bat.

“And this woman, here,” said Louis, pulling Bishou into his arms, “has learned how to deal with these men.” He kissed her cheek. “She is one of a kind.”

“I know, dammit,” Bat grinned.

• • •

On Sunday morning, Bishou woke and nudged her husband. “Have you promised to go to Mass?”

Louis groaned. “
Oui
, I have promised.”

“We had better start getting ready, then.”

“
Embrace-moi, encore
,” he murmured. Kiss me again. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him lovingly. “Mm. How difficult this penance is. I would much rather stay right here.”

“I know you would. But we owe the Père.”

“
Bien dit
.” Louis sat up, rubbed his eyes, felt his chin to see if he needed to shave. Of course he did; he always complained about having a “five o’clock shadow that appeared at three o’clock.” Bishou washed up, and got out of the little bathroom so he could shave and get ready for church. She dressed, then stepped across the airy hallway to see if there was any activity from the guest bedroom.

She knocked when she heard voices. Andy opened the door, and peered out. “We’re not dressed.”

“You went to church on Friday. You don’t have to go if you want to.”

Andy grinned, a perfect image of Bat’s naughty look. “It’s no good. I already tried that one. Bat said up and at ’em. See you at church.” Bishou laughed, leaned over, and gave him the same kiss she would have given Bat. Whatever that attitude was, it definitely ran in the Howard family.

Bishou turned as her own bedroom door clicked shut. She wore the print dress and little Sunday hat, and a pair of white heels, not nearly as elegant as her wedding shoes. She had managed to find white gloves at
Mme.
Ross’s shop. Louis, also properly dressed for church in dark pants and brown jacket, raised an eyebrow. “
Prêt, cheri
?” Ready, darling?

“
Prêt, cherie
.”

Down the stairs, they went together, to the car. There was no sign of Bettina, but this was her half-day off; she would be back this afternoon. She might be at the church, anyway. Louis escorted Bishou to the little white car, and they drove off.

It was not much different from last Sunday, except for Bat, Andy, and Gerry crowding into the pew behind them. And, of course, Mass in French. Père Reynaud made eye contact with them during the procession, and at communion.

Standing outside after Mass, people came over to say hello to the Dessants, as if it were an ordinary event.
Well, from now on it will be
, Bishou thought.

Eliane and Marie, the sisters who owned Pension Étoile, came over and kissed them both. “Your wedding was beautiful! I cried the entire time. I wish you the best!” Marie said, while Eliane stood by. It was Eliane’s hand Bishou clasped, knowing the romantic heart that beat beneath the stern breast. She felt the clasp returned, and saw Eliane’s stiff lip tremble.

Mme.
Nadine was also present. “I hope I can get you to come over sometime this week, with the dress,” she said. “I have the illustrations, but I would like some photographs. It was an original design. The more records I have of it, the better. Tuesday, perhaps?” She glanced up at Bat. “Will you be busy, then, Monsieur Howard? A man in dark dress clothes makes good contrast in a photograph of a white dress.”

“Not me,” said Bat wryly. “The clothes would contrast, but the models would look too much alike.”

“Then you, Monsieur Dessant?”

“I’m not photogenic.”

“Photogenic doesn’t matter when the man is famous. He is always photogenic,” said Nadine.

“
Bien
, then, telephone us tomorrow and remind us,” Louis agreed, to everyone’s surprise. Nadine agreed, and moved off.

Bishou had caught Mama Jo’s eye, or Mama Jo had caught hers. Mama Jo stood some distance away, in the yard, with her friends. Bishou motioned her over.

Mama Jo did not look uncomfortable as she and Armand merged with the white group still on the church patio. Bishou reached out a hand to her, and said to Louis, “
Mon mari
, this is Mama Jo, who did my hair for the wedding.”

“Ah, how do you do, Madame,” said Louis, as if this were a regular event.

“And Papa Armand, my personal chauffeur,” said Bishou with a smile, and both men laughed.

“You drive the bus, Monsieur Armand?” asked Louis.

“Oui, Monsieur Dessant. We take good care of Madame Dessant, don’t you worry.”

“Or she will take good care of you,” Louis returned.

“Just be careful for a day or two,” Mama Jo said, “and watch out for your man, too.” She touched Bishou’s cheek, and left.

“What was that all about?” Bat asked, puzzled.

Louis explained, “Mama Jo’s our local witch-woman, and she has taken a liking to Bishou. So, she watches out for her.”

“You don’t believe in all that?” Bat stared at his sister.

“No, I don’t. But we had some good talks about many things while she worked on my hair, and she makes a lot of sense. Especially about men.”

“I see,” said Bat. “You talk woman talk.”

“Do you want to come down to the factory?” Louis asked Bat. “I must get paperwork ready for a cigarette shipment to go out first thing tomorrow morning on the
Mauritius Pride
.”

“Sure! The boys and I haven’t seen the place yet.” Bat deferred to his sister. “That all right with you? We’ll take Louis to the factory and you can go on home?”

“Sure, that’s fine with me,” said Bishou. “I want to change out of my Sunday clothes and just relax.”

“We won’t be too long,” said Louis, “because I want to relax, too. But I haven’t been in the office since Thursday, and things have piled up.”

“I’ll bet they have,” said Bat with a grin.

Louis gave Bishou the keys to the white car. “We will see you at the house.” Then he kissed her, and joined the Howard boys in the gray Ford. She got in the white convertible, started it, and began the drive home.

Bishou was beginning to understand why people drove slowly here. It was not only the grassy roads. There was also the smell of fruit, the call of birds, the flashes of colors in the trees, small animals leaping around … At last she turned on Rue Dessant, drove to the house, and parked the white Mercedes in front.

It was not yet noon, so Bettina and Madeleine weren’t back yet. Bishou climbed the open stairs of the empty house to the third floor. She changed from her Sunday clothes into a housedress, and sat at the little desk with paper and pen, to write to Vig and Sukey Hansen, their good friends from the Tobacco Conference. She had yet to tell them what she’d done after visiting them in North Carolina.

The bedroom door was open. She heard the sound of the front door, got up, and moved to the hallway. “Is that you, Bettina?”

“Oui, Madame!” the voice called back. “Bettina and Madeleine. Do you want breakfast?”

“Yes, please! Louis and the boys have gone over to the factory. I don’t know when they will be back. But I am very hungry!”

“We will fix a meal for you, and leave everything on the warmer for them.”

“
Bonne idée
. I am writing a letter. I will come down in a while.”

“Oui, Madame!”

Bishou smiled and sat down again.
Oui, Madame
. It really was like something out of an old movie.

“1 Rue Dessant, F-1001, Saint-Denis, Île de La Réunion. Dear Vig and Sukey,” she wrote, “Don’t worry, you won’t need an interpreter to read this letter. On the other hand, you’ll be glad to know that your predictions came true. Louis Dessant and I were married three days ago, in a little Catholic church here in Saint-Denis.

“I told you the truth when I said my business relations with East Virginia University prevented any personal relationships. But I admit I didn’t tell you I planned to look him up after I got my degree, because you were right, Sukey, he was cute. And tell Sondra I kept that number in my little black book — I knew good advice when I heard it.

“After I got my degree in hand, I flew from Logan Airport to Orly … ”

Bishou looked up to see Bettina standing at the door, upset. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, please, Madame, you have a visitor.”

“Who is it, Bettina?”

The housekeeper’s face looked almost tragic as she brought in a calling card and handed it to Bishou. She read: ADRIENNE BOURJOIS.

It took a moment to register. A calling card, a very Parisian affectation. Who was this? Bishou knew that Celie, the mail-order bride who was murdered on her way to La Reunion to marry Louis, was named Bourjois — and Bishou had now heard from several people about a vengeful sister who felt that Louis’ seven years at hard labor had not been payment enough for his part in that crime. “
Adrienne Bourjois
. Oh, Lord.” Bishou stood. Her face grew stern. “Thank you, Bettina, I will handle this. Where is she?”

“I showed her to the salon, Madame,” said Bettina anxiously. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did right. Return to the kitchen. I may ring for coffee in a while, or not.”

“
Oui, Madame
.”

Bishou climbed down the stairs, letting her heels clack, while Bettina stepped softly behind her. At the bottom, Bettina hurried to the kitchen while Bishou walked to the front room.

In a straight-backed chair sat a Parisian woman perhaps ten years older than Bishou, dressed in black. Her sharp-featured but nonetheless pretty face was directed at the entryway to the salon, and at Bishou. Her disapproval of everything about Bishou was palpable.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bourjois,” said Bishou, sitting in the chair near her. “What may I do for you?”

“Do for me!” she exclaimed angrily, pulling a newspaper clipping from her purse and flapping it at Bishou. “How can you contribute to such a disgrace?”

Bishou didn’t need to see the clipping. She knew what it was, the announcement of their marriage in the Parisian newspaper. There had been a larger article in the
Journal de l’ Île
, more of a feature, rehashing the scandal of Louis’s first marriage yet somehow kindly done. There had been a nice photograph in both. The
Paris Gazette
, loving its little bit of scandal, had picked up Louis’s name for a wedding announcement — probably just to see what it would stir up. Well, here was what they stirred up.

“Are you such a fool that you don’t know that you have married a murderer, or do you believe somehow that he is innocent of all the atrocities of which he was accused?”

“Neither. But I do believe he was as much a victim of Carola Alese as your poor sister.”

The noise she made was one of disbelief and fury. “My sister Celie is dead because of him!”

“He did not murder your sister.”

“He found out how she died — and he condoned it! He and I were supposed to share all costs in finding the criminal when she killed my sister and absconded with his money. He found her first, and killed our detective so he would not report to me! And then he took the murderess back, and treated her as his wife.”