They call her Dana (63 page)

"I seem to recall something like that."

"You'll take it back?"

"On the contrary, I intend to give you a bracelet and earrings to match as a token of my appreciation. As producer of the play, I get a hefty percentage of the box office. Because of you, the play has been tremendously successftil. Consequently, you've made me an awful lot of money.''

"But—"

"I don't intend to argue about it," he informed me.

I started to protest more, and then I smiled. Then I burst into

laughter. Robert arched one brow, giving me an inquisitive look. I shook my head and, finally controlling my laughter, told him Laura's reaction when she first saw the necklace.

"Both of us were convinced you had dishonorable intentions," I explained, "and Laura suggested that I string you along—at least until I got a bracelet and earrings to match. She'll die when I tell her about this."

"I plan to give Miss Devon a gift, too."

"Diamonds?"

"Sapphire earrings to match her pendant."

"She'll be thrilled. You—you really are wealthy, aren't you?"

"Shockingly wealthy. Aren't you glad you strung me along?"

"I'm glad you've become my friend," I said. "It's nice to have an older man to go out with on occasion, someone I can talk to, someone I—I don't feel threatened by. I enjoy being with you very much, Robert."

We were riding past the elegant, exclusive shops now, their windows abloom with lavish displays, and I caught my breath as I saw Corinne's, a gorgeous apricot velvet gown and a wide-brimmed apricot chapeau with curling white ostrich plumes displayed in the front window. Dear Corinne. I really should pay her a visit, I thought. Would she remember the awed and nervous girl fresh from the swamps who first visited her salon, speaking in an atrocious squawk? Would she associate her with the notorious actress who, at this particular point in time, was one of the most famous women in the country? Traffic was heavy this afternoon in late May, and we were forced to slow down. I turned, gazing pensively as we passed the dress salon.

"You seem to know New Orleans quite well," Robert said. "Have you ever lived here?"

"I—I spent almost a year here," I said quietly.

"It wasn't a happy time?"

"It was—in some ways it was very happy. It was very sad, too. I left New Orleans a brokenhearted girl and—now I'm an entirely different person."

"Happier?"

"Much happier," I said firmly.

Robert didn't press, didn't ask me any more questions, and I was extremely grateftil for that. Not quite two years had passed since I had left New Orleans on the steamboat bound for St. Louis, but it seemed like an eternity ago. Julian, Delia, Charles,

mi

the months I had spent at the Etienne mansion—all that might have happened in another lifetime, I thought, and I assured myself that I was completely over that painful first love. Still, I found myself tensing up as we neared Etienne's. We turned the comer now, and there it was. The last time I had seen it, it had been a charred and smoking ruin. Now in the early afternoon sunlight it stood as grand and impressive as ever with a new pink brick front, new plate glass windows, a new striped awning. I recognized a couple of the pieces displayed in the windows. They had once been in the east wing.

Though completely restored, the store seemed deserted, and, yes, the items displayed looked vaguely dusty. Business couldn't be very good, I thought, and I forced back the flood of memories. The fortune of the Etienne family was no concern of mine, I reminded myself. I was glad to see that the store was still in business, but it ... it really didn't matter one way or another. I was in the city to perform for the paying customers, not to relive the past, and I had no intentions of contacting any of the family. They were naturally aware that I was in the city. After the barrage of advance publicity, everyone not closed up in a convent knew that I was in New Orleans and that our scandalous play was opening tonight at the Majestic Theater.

"The market is just ahead," Robert said. "Hungry?"

"Ravenous," I confessed. "I didn't have any breakfast, only a cup of coffee, and, I may as well confess it, I'm dying to try some pork rinds."

"Pork rinds?"

"I passed the stall a dozen times, but we never stopped— Jezebel told me that was 'po' folks food,' not fit for a fine lady like myself. They fry the poiic rinds until they're crispy and golden and light as a feather, and they look delicious."

"Pork rinds you shall have," he told me.

"And one of those small bread loaves stuffed with oysters in butter sauce. I've had one of them before. They're really tasty."

"I'm sure," he said.

"And a cup of gumbo, of course."

"Of course," Robert agreed.

The maiicet was every bit as colorful and intriguing as I remembered. Dozens of exotic smells filled the air, and some quite earthy, all blending together to make a heady perfume that hung over the area. It was a sultry afternoon, lazy rays of sun-

light bathing the cobbles. Negro women with huge baskets moved lethargically through the labyrinth of stalls, sniffing at barrels of black eel and mounds of plump pink shrimp, examining racks of meat, arguing with the vendors over the price of oranges and vivid yellow lemons and juicy scarlet plums. Prostitutes idled about, eating slices of melon and eyeing the men, and respectable women strolled together, exchanging gossip, occasionally pausing to buy a bunch of dried herbs or a string of mauve onions. Dogs barked, scurrying about among the litter of wilted cabbage leaves and carrots. Robert held my elbow as we sauntered past cages of squawking chickens and carts of apples and a wonderiand of vegetable stalls. He wore the patient expression of an adult indulging a favored child.

"You don't like the market?" I inquired.

"It's fascinating," he said dryly.

I smiled, leading him to the open-air cafe. We took a table beneath a big umbrella, and Robert sat me down and went to fetch our food from the stalls that encircled the area. The handsome, distinguished middle-aged man in his elegant attire looked completely out of place as he returned with pork rinds wrapped in grease-spotted paper. He brought oyster loaves as well, two cups of gumbo and glasses of iced lemonade. I ate with great relish. Robert tried one pork rind and made a face, poked at his oyster loaf with a fork, looked at his gumbo with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

"Poor dear," I said. "You're not enjoying yourself at all."

"On the contrary, I'm enjoying myself immensely."

"You'd rather be in a fancy restaurant with haughty waiters hovering about offering plates of hors d'oeuvres and pouring expensive wines into fine crystal glasses."

"Perhaps," he admitted, "but being with you is pleasure enough. Are you really going to eat the rest of those disgusting things?"

"They're delicious," I protested, reaching for another pork rind.

He shook his head, the faint half smile curiing on his lips again. There were a number of women at the other tables, and I noticed several of them looking at Robert with interest, even longing. Middle-aged he might be, but he was in marvelous shape, his trim, superbly muscled body that of a much younger man. Sunlight burnished his dark auburn hair, gilding it with

deep coppery red highlights, and his wise smoke-gray eyes were full of secrets, touched with sadness as well. No randy, hot-blooded youth, he had the strength, the authority, the maturity that many women found vastly appealing. He would always be in control of any situation, always in command. In the bedroom, too, I thought. I sensed incredible drive and energy behind that carefully maintained facade, great sensuality, too. I studied his strong hands, the palms wide, the fingers long and sinewy, those of his left hand curled tightly around his glass of lemonade. He would be very masterful in bed, I suspected, very demanding, but generous, too, giving as he took. I felt a blush tinting my cheeks as these thoughts materialized.

"Something wrong?" he inquired.

"Just—it's a little sunny."

Robert stood up and adjusted the umbrella so that I had more shade. As he sat back down, I sighed. Yes, I was attracted to him, I couldn't deny that. He was an extremely attractive man, his wealth and power adding an extra fillip of allure, but the feelings he aroused in me weren't primarily sexual. I felt secure with him, felt safe and warm and protected, and there was a closeness that had been there from the first, as though we really had known each other in some other lifetime. Even before we met, when I had been standing at the railing of the steamboat and he on the dock below and our eyes had met and held, there had been the feeling of our being bound together somehow. Mama Lou might have been able to explain it. I certainly couldn't.

"Have you decided what you are going to do this summer?" he asked.

"Not yet," I said. "After we finish our week here, the company will separate until September. Ollie is staying here in New Orieans with an old friend who used to be in the company, and Billy is going to vacation at the plantation of one of his belles-he's already met her family, they adore him, I fear he's finally hooked. Bartholomew and Theodore are going to visit an aunt in Cincinnati. I don't know what Laura and Michael are going to do, but whatever it is, they'll be doing it together."

"And Donovan?"

"Jason's going back to Adanta. He plans to spend the entire summer working on his new play. He's almost finished writing it, the National is offering him tremendous terms, and he'd like

to get the entire production mounted during our hiatus—sets built, costumes designed, all the details worked out. Dulcie and Jackson will be in Atlanta, too. It—they'll be incredibly busy and it'll be incredibly frantic and nerve wracking and—" I hesitated, looking down at my empty glass.

"You don't want to go with him?"

"Jason and I—we're very close, and it isn't that I don't want to be with him, it's just—for the past two years there's been nothing but theater. The noise, the confusion, the tension. I love being in the theater and I love acting, but I—I need a litde rest. I'd like to laze in the sunshine someplace quiet, read all the novels I wanted to read, wake up in the morning with no rehearsals and no responsibility, nothing whatsoever I had to do and no one I had to see."

"I quite understand."

"Do—do you think I'm being terribly selfish?"

"Everyone needs to replenish the wells now and then."

"That's it exacdy," I said quietly. "I—the past months have been wonderful and I'm very grateful for all the success, but I— every night onstage I've poured myself out, given my all, and I feel exhausted. I feel emptied. I do need to replenish the wells. Jason doesn't understand that. He thinks I'm being very unreasonable."

I looked at him, and we were both silent for a few moments, then he got up and went to fetch more lemonade. I watched him moving among the tables, going over to the stall, calm, confident, a splendid male who was well past youth but still in his prime. How easy it was to talk to hinri. How I enjoyed being with him. I smiled as he returned with the drinks. It was even sultrier now, heat waves shimmering visibly in the air, but although I could feel tiny droplets of perspiration sliding down my spine, Robert looked cool and fresh. He handed me my glass of lemonade and sat down. He took a sip of his lemonade, gazed at the glass for a moment and then, as though reaching a decision, set it aside, looking at me with level gray eyes.

"You could come to Natchez," he said.

"Natchez?"

"I have a house there. Belle Mead. It's just outside town, surrounded by oaks and gardens, with a river walk. It's very quiet. You could laze in the sunshine all you liked. You could

read all the novels you wanted to read. I have a full staff of servants who would take very good care of you."

"It—it sounds lovely," I said, taken aback by the invitation, "but I really don't think—"

Robert smiled. "I shall be av/ay on business most of the summer, Dana, and I can assure you that during the time I was in residence, I wouldn't infringe on your solitude. You wouldn't even have to see me if you didn't want to. Everything would be quite proper. ..." The smile flickered. "I could even bring in a respectable lady chaperone if it would make you feel easier.''

"I'm sure that wouldn't be necessary," I told him.

"This isn't—I'm not making an immoral proposal, Dana."

"I realize that."

"If you would like a place to rest, relax and replenish your wells. Belle Mead is open to you. It's said to be one of the finest homes in the South. I wouldn't know about that, but I'm very proud of it. I only wish I could spend more time there."

He said no more, and we left the market a short while later. I appreciated his invitation and thought it very kind of him to make it, although I couldn't possibly accept it. It wouldbe lovely to spend the summer at Belle Mead, to laze in the gardens and saunter along the river walk, but, under the circumstances, it was entirely out of the question. I stole a look at him as we rode slowly back toward the hotel. Robert Courtland had his own integrity. He knew I was involved with another man, and he would make no overt advances as long as I was committed to Jason, but . . . he was definitely in love with me. I suspected that Laura was right. Robert was merely biding his time, waiting for my tempestuous relationship with Jason to end. When he made his move, it would be major, but in the meantime he made do with our unusual friendship.

We drove by a gray stone wall ablaze with red and purple bougainvillea, an old gray stone church visible beyond the wall. A group of nuns made their solemn way through the wrought iron archway, arms folded, heads bowed. Further on there was an ancient convent, shaded by huge pecan trees, and then we were passing the shops again. New Orleans had its well-remembered aura of indolent old world charm, perfumed by the fragrance of a million blossoms. Robert seemed to be in a reflective mood, sitting close beside me, silent, smoke-gray eyes serious as he contemplated private matters.

' 'It was a lovely lunch,'' I told him. ' 'Thank you very much.**

Dismissing his grave thoughts, he gave me a warm smile. "I only hope you don't grow ill from those wretched pork rinds."