The Gates of Evangeline (20 page)

File this one under “Things I Won't Be Mentioning to Noah.”

Danelle and I walk back to Evangeline, both clearly absorbed in our own thoughts. Suddenly the history of this place seems oppressive. For a moment, I can feel it all: the despair and drudgery of the hired help and the slaves before them, the listlessness and tedium of so many Deveau wives, the stress and pressure of being the owner of this estate. Sickness, injury, abuse—terrible things must have happened here, though they didn't all make headlines. In truth, Gabriel Deveau is just another name in more than a hundred and sixty years of pain and sadness at Evangeline.

“Is Hettie upstairs?” Danelle asks, bringing me back to the present. We're at the front door, stepping into the shadowy foyer.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to shrug off the bad vibes. “End of the hall.” I haven't told the nursing staff to expect her, so I'm not sure what type of reception she'll get. I linger at the foot of the staircase, listening. A quiet exchange of words, and then Danelle comes back down the stairs.

“She's sleepin'.”

“Would you like to wait?” I have no idea how to entertain Danelle in the meantime, but it seems polite to offer.

“I guess not,” she tells me, and I wonder if unburdening herself was the real purpose of this visit all along. “You said Hettie's been confused in her mind anyhow. I saw the place. Maybe that's enough.” She casts another glance around the large, airy foyer and up at the chandelier, almost mournful. Does she miss her life here? I imagine her presiding over the kitchen like a magistrate, handing out plates to the staff like some kind of judgment. But it's not nostalgia on her face, I decide. It's pity. Compassion. She feels sorry for them.

I can't let her leave without asking one more thing. There's been no delicate way to work it into our conversation today, to make it appear anything other than pointed and suspicious, but I have to know. “Ms. Martin, do you know if Maddie Lauchlin's son spent time with Gabriel?”

“Sean?” She eyes me shrewdly. “When he came to visit his folks, his mama was usually lookin' after Gabriel. So yeah, they spent some time together.” She lowers her voice. “You got a special interest in Sean?”

I don't play this close to the chest, not after the way Danelle opened up to me earlier. “Kind of,” I admit. “I don't know much, but the guy seems shady as hell to me.”

I wait for her to leap to his defense as she did with Maddie, Neville, and Andre. She only nods and studies one of the gold-framed paintings. “I got no love for Sean myself.”

“No? Why not?”

Danelle weighs this a couple seconds before delivering a heavy edict. “Sean Lauchlin got above himself. He spent so much time around fine folks, he started struttin' 'round like he was one of 'em.” Her mouth twists in disapproval. “The family was awful fond of him. Made him worse.”

I'm startled to hear Danelle upholding class divides, particularly when she seemed so open-minded about Andre's sexuality. On the other hand, she's confiding in me. Maybe we can get somewhere. “I heard Sean had a big fight with his parents a couple months before Gabriel went missing. Did Maddie ever say why?”

Danelle shakes her head. “She and Jack were pretty tight-lipped about it. Sean'd been worryin' them for years doin' I dunno what. Poor Maddie just about went to pieces when he left.”

I remember Noah said he used to play with Gabriel when he was little, and I have to ask. “Did you know Maddie and Jack's grandson?”

She looks surprised. “No. Never heard Maddie talk about him but once.”

“What did she say?”

“I dunno. Just slipped out one day when she was upset, somethin' 'bout her grandbaby. Didn't even know she had one 'til that minute. When I asked her, she clammed right up.” Danelle sees my bemused expression and offers an explanation. “Maddie was real religious, and I guess Sean didn't marry the girl. She musta been embarrassed. She was that kind.”

I'd love to continue with the conversation, but Jules pops his head out of the study and gives us both an icy stare.

“Can I help you?” he asks Danelle in a voice that is anything but helpful.

“No,” she says, unmoved by some pretty boy less than half her age. “I'm on my way out, thank you.” She pats my shoulder, the friendliest gesture I've received from her to date. “You have a good day.”

Jules waits for Danelle to leave and then turns to me. “It really isn't appropriate for you to bring personal guests onto the property.”

“She was here to see Hettie,” I say evenly. “But I'll certainly keep that in mind.”

I need to get away from this damn house. The fencing and cameras and guards are making me feel very mental patient. Besides, I want to pass everything Danelle told me today on to Detective Minot. The fifty dollars I lost in our bet is a small price to pay for escape.

I don't know how Hettie stayed at Evangeline all these years—largely alone, from the sound of it—without losing her mind. Maybe she didn't.

I
f I find Detective Minot comfortable to be around because he shares my rather cynical worldview, I find Leeann comforting because she does not. I spend my Wednesday afternoon engaged in grim but ultimately unproductive conjecture with Minot, and my Thursday writing about it. By Friday, I'm ready for a little kitchen gossip.

I have to give Leeann credit: there's just no earthly way to dislike her. With her big, toothy smiles and rambling tales of folks around town, I can see how she charmed old Neville Deveau into hiring her two years ago. I could pretend that my frequent kitchen visits are about research for the book or even her cooking—and in fact, I value Leeann for both of these reasons—but the simple truth is that I feel happy in her presence.

Six months ago I would have had nothing but disdain for Leeann. She is an overweight, uneducated twenty-three-year-old unwed mother who has lived her entire life in Chicory, Louisiana. She's never been out of state, and her only goals in life are to marry her hard-to-pin-down boyfriend and have more children. To the elitist Manhattanite, Leeann's not much, but she's kind, something I'm learning to appreciate.

Historically, I've always avoided “nice” people whose niceness is their primary quality. I pitied them. I spent my time with snarky intellectuals, basking in our superiority, our finely tuned sense of irony. Leeann wouldn't recognize sarcasm if it paraded by with a banner and a bullhorn, but any sign of sadness or stress in one of her coworkers, and she's all over it, offering to help. When she babbles about some drama unfolding within her church congregation or earnestly recounts a scene she saw on
Real Housewives
, I feel grateful to hear about a world not tinged by evil or tragedy.

“So . . .” Leeann smiles as she scrubs a copper pot from lunch. “How much you like 'im?”

I know without asking that she means Noah. I shouldn't be here, of course, shouldn't be indulging in some middle-school discussion of “boys.” Rae is flying in tomorrow night, and I ought to be banging out a chapter so I'll have time to hang out the next few days. Really, though, this is more fun.

“I like him enough,” I say, returning Leeann's smile.

“Nuff for what?” Leeann presses. “Do you ‘happily eva afta' like 'im? Or just ‘have a li'l fun 'til you get back to New York' like 'im?”

“He just got divorced,” I tell her. “And I . . . haven't dated in a while. A little fun is all I can handle.” I approach the farmer's sink, where she's working, and grab a green-checked dishrag. “Here, let me dry for you.”

Leeann hands me her pot, smirking. “You best watch out, Charlie. God might have more in store for you than fun.” I think she's trying to tease me, but it sounds ominous given all the other things that God or Fate or Chance has dumped on me recently.

“I know you believe in God and Jesus, Leeann, but . . . do you believe in other things? Things you can't explain?” I didn't intend to have this conversation, but I can't help myself.

I'm not making a whole lot of sense, but she responds confidently anyway.

“When you believe in God, you got an explanation for everything.” She's so certain, those mild blue eyes totally untroubled. I find myself inexplicably infuriated.
An explanation for everything? Like why my son is dead?
But I hold it in.

I remind myself that Leeann is only twenty-three. She hasn't lost anything she loved enough to hate the idea of God. She hasn't seen enough of the world to make it complicated.

“What about ghosts?” I ask. “Do you believe in spirits?”

Leeann sets down her last pan on the counter and wipes her soapy hands on a free dishrag. “I believe the Lord has His messengers,” she says, “and sometimes He sends His angels to us.”

“Angels,” I repeat. Not exactly the word that pops into my mind when I think of my visions of Gabriel Deveau, Hannah Ramirez, and Didi Minot.

Leeann nods. “There's heavenly visitations in the Bible. And my son saw one.”

“Your son saw an angel?” The fact that I'm only 90 percent skeptical of this claim alarms me.

“He's seen her a few times,” Leeann says with perfect seriousness, as if one can trust absolutely a three-year-old's reports of an angelic presence.

“How did he know it was an angel?” I realize it's pathetic that I'm looking to a preschooler for tips, but what else do I have to go by?

“He just knew,” Leeann says. “Maybe she had wings. Anyway, that's what I believe in. Messengers from heaven, not ghosts.”

I still don't see the distinction, but before I can pursue the matter, the pocket of Leeann's pants starts to vibrate. She fishes out an ancient, scratched-up cell phone. “It's Mike.” She frowns, and I gather that's her boyfriend. “I hope there's not trouble at home.” She presses the button with her thumb. “Hello?”

A pause. Her face knits up into a worried frown. “
Qui ça dit?
Why you on Mike's phone, sha?”

I haven't heard Leeann break into Cajun French before, but I gather from her tender tone that it's her son, the Angel Spotter. I can just make out a tearful little voice on the other end, and it fills me with a stabbing sense of loss. I would give anything to be inconvenienced by my child at work.

“Okay, sha, s'okay.” Leeann soothes him. “Mike just come in? Put 'im on da phone.”

A low male voice replaces the little-kid whine.

“What's goin' on ova dere, boo?” Leeann listens intently. “
Mais
, he says he sick. Says he got
mal
au ventre
.” Mike doesn't sound too happy, and soon Leeann is stuck soothing him as well. “I know you could handle it, but he's pretty worked up. Chilren always want dere mama when dey feel bad.”

I stare at the wood floor. She's right. Kids do want their mama. But I wasn't there for my son when he needed his mama most.

Even if I'd left work when Keegan's teacher first called to say he had a headache, I wouldn't have made it back in time. But I didn't leave after that first call. I told her that he could have some Children's Tylenol and resumed composing an angry e-mail to our web page designer. I could've asked to speak with Keegan, could've told him I loved him, but I didn't. I went back to work because, like Leeann, I thought work mattered. Fifteen minutes later, when they called to say he'd been rushed to the ER, I knew that it didn't.

I watch Leeann, the lump in my throat growing bigger and bigger.

“All right,” Leeann says, ending her call, “you tell T-man I gone be home soon.
Lâche pas la patate.
Hang in dere, beb. Love you.” She stuffs her phone back into her pants, too anxious to see how shaken I am.

“Do you need to be with your little boy?”

“I dunno.” Leeann chews on her lip. “He's cryin' for me, sayin' he sick. I haven't seen Jules today, but if he comes by and I'm gone . . .” She doesn't have to finish that sentence. We've both seen the mood Jules has been in lately. “I mean, Mike's there, but . . .” She trails off, consumed by motherly guilt. I get it. Mommy's boyfriend, however good he may be with kids, is no substitute for Mommy.

“Don't worry about Jules,” I urge her. “We can feed ourselves for a night. You go be with him.”

“You think?”

It's not that I'm afraid Leeann's kid will drop dead of a brain aneurysm before she makes it home. That sort of thing doesn't happen to other people. But one day, probably soon, she won't have this job anymore and she'll have to remember every pointless sacrifice she made for it at her child's expense.

“Trust me,” I say, “your son is more important than dinner.”

I don't have to tell her twice. She's off, ready to administer whatever hugs and kisses and cuddles her child requires.

Now alone in the kitchen, I feel a quiet depression creeping up on me. I remove an apple from a fruit bowl on the counter and rotate it absently in my hand. Through the kitchen window, I can see Noah taking measurements of some kind. I don't know how he stays so focused on this whole garden job. He's the only one who cares about the project anymore. But I suppose it's his way of honoring Hettie: leaving something beautiful behind that others can enjoy.

I'm not sure how long I stand there toying with the apple, but when I turn away from the kitchen window, there's a man in the doorway.

Andre Deveau.

He wears a navy suit and his short gray hair is parted and brushed back at an angle, the grown-up version of prep school fashion. I'm not sure whether he recognizes me from the dinner party or is just used to seeing strangers in his kitchen, but Andre makes no attempt at establishing my identity. “Has Jules been in today?” he asks, frowning at his phone. “I didn't see his car.”

Of course. He's here to settle their lovers' quarrel. Or maybe fire Jules, which would make my life a lot easier.

“I haven't seen him, sorry.”

Andre nods, about to leave, and then changes his mind. “I should eat. A snack, something low fat, please.”

He thinks I work here. I hesitate. I could tell him I'm not the cook, but I don't want Leeann to get in trouble for skipping out early. “Uhh . . .” I pluck something from the air. “How about a parfait?” It's the only quasi-healthy thing I've ever seen Leeann serve and will require no cooking on my part.

“Sure. I'll be in the study.”

He leaves without a thank-you, not bothering to learn my name.

It takes fifteen minutes to locate and combine the items necessary for a parfait, and the final product dismays me with its blobs and lumps and lopsided layers. Maybe Andre won't notice? I find the study door ajar, a fire crackling in the fireplace. Andre, now reclining on the love seat and glued to his iPad, wears a look that conveys murderous intent.

“Your parfait.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He peers at my sad rendition of a parfait and then at me, suddenly registering something's amiss. “I'm sorry, are you new? I should've introduced myself before. I'm Andre.”

“Charlotte,” I tell him. “We met at your mother's dinner party a few weeks ago.”

He stares at me a second before making the connection. “Oh God, that book thing Syd and Bridgie are doing. I'm sorry, you look different without the blue dress.” His forehead creases. “But—why are you making me snacks? Aren't you a guest?”

“The cook had to leave unexpectedly. Her son was sick, and Jules wasn't around . . . I just didn't want you to get upset.”

He puts a hand up. “Despite all appearances, Charlotte, I'm not a complete asshole.” He shakes his head. “I can't believe I mistook you for the cook. You must think I'm so spoiled, marching into the kitchen and barking out orders at whoever happens to be there.” He stands up and heads for the liquor cabinet on the opposite wall, his hand hovering over two bottles of amber-colored liquid. “Please. Have a drink with me and tell me about your book—not that plantation-home nonsense Bridgie's been feeding my mother.”

Andre selects one of the bottles and pours us each half a glass. Brandy? Scotch, maybe. Whatever he's got, it's bound to make him talkative. I recall the mojito he bought me when I interviewed him for
Sophisticate
years ago—not that he'd remember—and figure I can make a strategic exception to my no-alcohol policy.

“Thank you.” I accept the proffered glass and have a seat. “I've been wanting to talk to you.”

“I take it my sisters haven't been fountains of useful information? Well, no surprise there. They barely knew Gabriel.” He gives me a crooked smile. “To tell you the truth, I don't think they've ever forgiven him for overshadowing their birthday party.”

“I'm sure it was inconvenient for them,” I say carefully.

“Quite. They were expecting a nice little article in the society pages and he took the front page of every paper. They sulked about it for a few decades, and now thirty years later they're converting my mother's pain into a source of revenue. A bit mercenary, don't you think?”

Good,
I think.
He's under no illusions about who his sisters are.
If this is Andre pre-alcohol, I can't wait to chat when he's knocked a few back.

“I didn't intend to step on any toes with this book,” I tell him. “I took the assignment under the impression that your whole family supported the project.”

He shrugs. “I don't waste my time telling Syd and Bridgie what to do. Let them have their book.” He settles back down on the love seat and kicks his feet up on the ottoman. “So . . .” He shifts the conversation to me. “You've been here a few weeks. Are you enjoying the train wreck that is my family?”

I smile. “All things considered, yes. Your family's quite . . . interesting.”

“To train wrecks, then.” He holds out his glass in a wry toast.

I raise mine in return and force down a sip of whatever's in there. My throat burns and it's all I can do not to gag. Andre, on the other hand, takes a long, unflinching drink. He leans back and stares at the ceiling like the weight of it all—the struggling hotel business, his crazy family, the secret of his homosexuality, the drama with Jules—is dangling precipitously above him.

“All right,” he murmurs, “ask me anything. I might even give you an honest answer.”

I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “Honesty? I hadn't dared to hope.”

“I said ‘might.'” He flashes me a tired smile. “It all depends on what you ask.”

•   •   •

A
NDRE CAN TALK
, and he can talk well. His voice is rich and expressive, his words well chosen. His faint Southern accent sounds intelligent and gentlemanly without suggesting snobbishness. Somewhere in the course of our conversation, I realize that the CEO of Deveau Hotels does not entirely owe his position to nepotism. He knows how to work a listener. As he relates countless stories of his family to me—some cringe-worthy, some heartbreaking, some funny—I find myself drawn in, sympathetic toward this younger, more vulnerable version of him.