Iron Lace #1

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A fter careful analysis, Aurore had been certain that the United States would eventually enter the Great War. Henry hadn’t agreed at first, but eventually he had recognized the wisdom of her position, and together they had sunk every surplus penny into reconditioning their old stern-wheel towboats and wooden barges. They had even scraped together a loan to add to their fleet.

Now, just as she had predicted, the railroads couldn’t handle the huge loads of foodstuffs, armaments, machinery and military supplies heading south. The river was speckled with barges again. Soon it would be blanketed. Their investments had already begun to pay off, and if the war lasted a while, they would come out winners, no matter the eventual fate of the doughboys.

At thirty-three, Henry was too old for the new selective service law, but young enough to have a long life ahead of him. He had made it clear to Aurore that he planned to live it as a rich man. He also planned to live it with his wife firmly at heel beside him.

Henry had wanted a home to showcase his ascendancy in New Orleans society. Aurore had wanted one of quiet good taste. A home like the one she had envisioned could be built for four thousand dollars, with elaborate plumbing and enameled bathtubs, tiled hearths, hardwood mantels and enough rooms to keep a small household staff employed.

Henry had insisted they spend several times that amount and engage one of the most popular architects of the day, Thomas Sully, who had designed numerous homes along Saint Charles Avenue and Carrollton. The result of their warring taste was an elegant Greek Revival mansion. She had insisted on floor-to-ceiling windows and a double gallery with iron lace railings that mimicked those of her childhood home. Henry had insisted on high Victorian touches of beveled and etched glass and an asymmetrical wing for the library.

Henry had obtained prime property on Prytania, owing his good fortune to the previous owner’s bad. A fire had destroyed the home formerly occupying their lot. Live oaks and magnolias had survived, but most of the beautiful plantings that were important features of every Garden District home had been destroyed.

Aurore had found the design and construction of the house taxing, but work on the gardens had been her delight. Henry had little interest in shrubbery and a great deal in fences. He had demanded cast iron and geometric spikes, which she had promptly softened with masses of camellias, azaleas and sweet olive, in the Creole style. Against the house she had planted myrtle, jasmine and althaea, and in the yard, fig, orange and oleander. A rose garden bloomed under the bedroom windows.

As she consulted with landscapers, she had envisioned her children playing there. The house might be imposing, but she wanted the gardens to beckon merrily. Her children would live in the house, but they would thrive in the gardens.

Hugh did thrive there. A quiet child who seemed to be cataloging the experiences of childhood, Hugh loved the roses best of all. Aurore never chose flowers to bring indoors without Hugh at her side. He was sweetly serious about his mission, weighing the pros and cons of his choices with the intensity of a theologian considering original sin. He pointed; she cut and stripped off the thorns and gave them to him to place in his straw basket. Inside the house, he was always beside her to help when she arranged them.

In the hottest part of summer and fall, few flowers bloomed, and Hugh had little interest in them. Late on an October morning, he played under the shade of the magnolias instead, tossing a ball to the spaniel Aurore had bought him the day she realized he might never have a brother or sister to play with.

She wanted more children. Her menstrual periods were as regular as the waxing and waning of the moon, and despite the suspicions Henry often voiced, she had not tried to prevent another pregnancy. But, despite Henry’s frequent attentions, she remained barren.

Nicolette was ten now, so completely lost to Aurore that sometimes it seemed as if her daughter’s birth had been a dream. Hugh was the joy of her life. She couldn’t replace one child with another, but Aurore knew that she had more love to give than one child should have to absorb. Already she could see how hard it would be for Hugh to separate from her when the time came. As poor a father as Henry was, he was right when he criticized her for protecting their son so strenuously. Hugh had to grow up, and she had to allow it.

“Mamete.” Quickly bored, Hugh flung himself into her lap.

She held him close. “Are you tired of Floppsy already?”

“I want to draw.”

Even though the sky was clear, an earlier rainstorm still seemed to hang in the hot air. She understood his desire to go inside. She signaled his nurse, Marta, a stocky, silver-haired widow whose husband had piloted barges for Gulf Coast. Aurore had chosen Marta after Cleo went to live with a sister. Marta had endless patience, and although her standards were high, her expectations were reasonable.

She watched Marta lead Hugh away. Marta never spoke to him as if he were a child. She was teaching him German—despite the nation’s wholesale rejection of all things Germanic—and Aurore often spoke French in his presence. Hugh learned languages effortlessly, just as he had learned not to speak anything except English to his father, who ridiculed his abilities.

“Ro-Ro.”

She turned at the unexpected sound of Ti’ Boo’s voice and crossed the yard to greet her. Ti’ Boo had her youngest child in tow, Val, who was only a year older than Hugh, but who already looked exactly like his father. Val galloped after Hugh and Marta and left the women alone in the garden.

“I’m so glad you brought him today. Hugh needs a friend. Join me for coffee?” Aurore ushered Ti’ Boo to a table under the trees. “I’ll get a fresh pot.”

“No. Sit. Me, I’ve had three cups today already, and it just makes the morning hotter.”

Ti’ Boo had grown plumper through the years, but this morning she looked as fresh as a new day, in a white dress with striped trim. The skills she had learned in her childhood served her well now that the country was at war. Meatless days weren’t strong enough conservation measures. Everyone with land was expected to grow and preserve his own food, so Ti’ Boo taught vegetable gardening and canning to city women who had never grown more than a flower or two. At her insistence, Aurore had even dug up a large section of her prized lawn to plant vegetables.

“I brought you seeds,” Ti’ Boo said. “Cabbage and mustard and onion sets.”

“Good. I still have room along the back fence. Hugh can help me plant them this evening, when it’s cooler.”

“Is he well now?”

“He’s fine. It was only a mild fever.” Aurore thought of her frantic telephone call to Ti’ Boo the week before. Hugh had always been healthy, but at his first normal childhood illness she had become panic-stricken. The days when epidemics of yellow fever and cholera were commonplace had ended, thanks to a new emphasis on sanitation and pest control. But there were other diseases that could strike down children. Aurore had felt Hugh’s flushed cheeks and listened to his labored breathing, and she had been certain he was going to die.

“Every day I expect him to be taken from me,” Aurore said.

“We all feel that way.”

“I love him too much.”

“You need another.”

“I have another.”

Ti’ Boo reached for her hand. “Have you learned anything new about Nicolette?”

Aurore knew that her daughter no longer lived at the Magnolia Palace. Several years ago, Rafe had moved her to a small house on a quiet street below Canal, in what was commonly called the Creole Quarter. Most of its residents were Creoles of color. Rafe couldn’t have chosen a more foreign environment for a child who had been raised in the honky-tonk swirl of the district. Family ties, breeding and gracious manners were all-important to the colored Creoles. But although Nicolette might never be a real part of the community, she would blend in there. She could go to school and church, perhaps even make friends. Aurore was grateful, so grateful, that Rafe had listened to her.

But had he? At their encounter in Audubon Park, Rafe had been cold and mocking. Had he really heard her pleas and acted on them? Had she really changed his mind, or had he only moved their daughter to keep her farther from Aurore’s reach?

“You haven’t seen her?” Ti’ Boo asked.

“I’ve never found a way.” Aurore took Ti’ Boo’s hand and squeezed it. “Have you heard that the district is going to close? It’s official now. There’s been too much trouble lately, and sailors have been injured. The navy insisted. The city council voted for it last night.”

“How such a place could exist!”

“Rafe has investments there besides the Magnolia Palace, Ti’ Boo.”

“How can you know so much?”

Aurore didn’t know how to explain. She had learned to listen, to ask the right questions and bribe the right people. She wasn’t proud of her skills, but without them she would have no control of her life. “Sometimes it’s easier to be a woman. No one ever thinks we’re listening. The men gather to talk at dinner parties, and they say things as if we women had no ears.”

“These men talk about Rafe Cantrelle?”

“It’s very possible to hear things that aren’t said out loud. But it doesn’t matter how I know. I just do.”

“And what will happen to Rafe when the district closes? Have you heard that, too?”

“No. But I can guess.” Aurore rose to get the ball for Floppsy, who lay at her feet staring forlornly toward the house, where she was never invited. She threw the ball and watched the grateful spaniel retrieve it. “Rafe Cantrelle will survive this. He’s survived worse. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he prospers.”

“I think you admire him.”

Aurore turned, surprised. “How can you say that?”

“It’s not what I say that’s important.”

“I don’t admire him. I hate him!”

“I no longer think so.”

“He killed my father. He stole my baby.”

“I think, perhaps, he did neither.” Ti’ Boo stood, too. “I’ve asked myself again and again why Rafe did the things he did. But for every time I’ve asked, you must have asked a million, yes? And until you know, you’ll never have peace.”

“Peace?” Aurore threw the ball again, hard enough to send it through a hedge of sweet olive. “I wasn’t born for peace.”

“Were you born for revenge?”

“I’m not seeking revenge anymore. I don’t want my daughter hurt.”

“Is that the reason, Ro-Ro, or is it that you can see more clearly now? You must honor your father, the church tells us that. But must you also believe lies about him? Lucien Le Danois was not a good man. And Rafe never stole your daughter. You put Nicolette into his arms yourself.”

Aurore faced her. “How can you say these things to me?”

Ti’ Boo looked suddenly tired. “Because I’m getting older, and you never say them to yourself.”

“I’ve lived my life the only way I knew.”

“Again, what I think isn’t important, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’ve watched you since your father died and since your marriage, and I’ve seen you change. You’re like the crab who grows a shell so rigid that one day he must abandon it and grow another. On the bayou, we wait for these crabs to leave their shells, but it’s not the shells we wait for, no. It’s the crabs themselves, because in those hours when they have no shells, they’re the most delicious. If you continue to grow a shell of lies and secrets around you, Ro-Ro, you will have to leave it for another one day. And you, too, will be très vulnérable. ”

Aurore was stunned. Ti’ Boo had never criticized her before. “Why say this to me now? Is it because of everything I have and you don’t? Has it finally separated us?”

“I pray to God that I never have what you have, Ro-Ro.” Ti’ Boo touched Aurore’s arm lightly in farewell before she crossed to the house to get Val.

In the summer of 1918, Claire Friloux Le Danois died. Through the years she had grown less aware of her surroundings, until one morning she was gone. Against all advice, Aurore had often visited her mother. Aurore had hoped that her continued presence would ignite any spark that remained. But there had never been the faintest flicker.

Claire was buried in the Friloux family tomb in Saint Louis Cemetery Number 2. Burial was nearly impossible in a city below sea level. Vaults resembling the outdoor ovens of an earlier time were used instead. The Friloux vault had room for only one body. After disintegration, Claire’s remains would be deposited in a lower vault, to mingle with the remains of generations. That seemed kinder to Aurore than a solitary grave. In death, at least, her mother wouldn’t be alone.

The war and a new century had softened the city’s mourning customs. There had been too many gold-starred telegrams from the War Department and too little time to honor those who had fallen. No crepe adorned their doors; no mirrors were covered or clocks stopped. The trip to the cemetery was silent, with no brass band to celebrate a life that had really ended long ago. The wake was dignified and blessedly short.

After the funeral, Aurore was haunted by the specter of her own death. Laid out in a dress of Aurore’s choosing, Claire had seemed as withered and drained of life as an Egyptian mummy. Aurore was just thirty, but she felt the weight of Claire’s death when she counted the years that separated them. She, too, might die young. And what would happen to her son?

What would happen to her daughter?

Gulf Coast was thriving. The Merchant Marine Act of 1916 had projected a program for the expansion of American-flag shipping. With the profits from their new and successful expansion, Henry and Aurore had purchased their first ocean freighter. Her dreams of rebuilding Gulf Coast to its past glories were coming true.

Although every day with Henry was a duel for power, the new surge in business often kept him away from home. She arranged to be at the office when he wasn’t, and she accepted social engagements for the times they had to spend together. But through their years of marriage, he had learned to keep her off balance. Weeks went by when he was coldly polite, even distant. Then, as she relaxed into acceptance, he swooped down and attacked. Her bedroom was the dueling ground, his body the favored weapon. He slept with her hair twisted in his hands.

Aurore found herself sinking deeper into melancholy, and Claire’s death continued to haunt her. Given the choice between discussing her concerns with a priest and consulting an attorney, she chose a stranger named Spencer St. Amant.

On a cloudy morning, she crossed Canal Street near Maison Blanche and climbed two flights of stairs. She arrived early. Spencer was not Gulf Coast’s counsel; nor was he a friend of Henry’s. His name was an old one in New Orleans, but although the St. Amants had mixed in all the correct circles, they had remained on the periphery. Despite their heritage, the St. Amants were suspect, because they sometimes championed unpopular causes.

That reputation for tolerance had brought Aurore to Spencer. She was secure in the knowledge that whatever she told him would not be repeated. Still, as she waited, she paced the short length of the reception area, debating whether she should have come.

She continued that debate when she was sitting across from him. She twisted the beads at her neck as he welcomed her, and she tried to read his character. She guessed he was several years younger than she, and rather shy. He was slight, with hair so dark and skin so white that despite the fact that he was clean-shaven, the slight shadow of a beard was evident. His eyes were a brilliant blue, and they seemed to be assessing her, even as his hesitant smile promised no assessment at all.

“I believe our fathers were acquainted,” he said. “I’m told they competed for your mother’s hand in marriage.”

“Are you aware she died several weeks ago?”

“You have my sympathy.”

“There’s no reason to be sad.” She found herself telling Claire’s story, leaving nothing out. “So you see, she might have done better to have chosen your father,” she concluded.

He sat back, drumming his fingers on his desk. “I don’t envy your childhood.”

“The saddest part is that I didn’t learn anything from it.”

He waited, as if the rest of the day was at her disposal. She was touched by his patience, and heartened. “I’ve made some terrible mistakes,” she began.

Much later, he leaned forward. “What is it you want me to do?”

She felt as if all the pustulant hatred that had swelled inside her for more than a decade had been lanced. She knew that anger would swell again and fill her, but for the moment, she was free. “If I die, I want Nicolette to be taken care of.”

“From what you’ve told me, her father is a wealthy man. Why are you worried, Aurore?”

She noted the use of her first name, and everything it implied. By her confession, she had asked for more than legal advice. She had asked for an undeserved acceptance, and now he had given it. “Rafe Cantrelle can’t be trusted. I don’t know what he’ll do when Nicolette’s older. I want to be sure she’s provided for, so she can be her own woman.”

“But only if you die?”

“I don’t know what I can do for her while I’m still alive.”

“Do you expect to die?”

She grew cold. “It’s always possible.”

He leaned closer. “Do you expect to die at your husband’s hand?”

She shuddered. “No, of course not.”

“You could divorce him,” Spencer said.

“No! He would trumpet my past, take my son. I can never leave him.”

His eyes were kind, but behind that kindness was strength. “Does Mr. Gerritsen know you’re here?”

She shook her head.

“I think you should tell him.”

“I can’t imagine what he’d do if he knew I had told someone the truth about my past.”

“It might make him think.”

“Why?”

“Because from this moment on, I’ll be sure that if anything happens to you, the authorities look beyond the easy answers.”

“Henry’s a powerful man, and he’s growing more powerful. No one would listen to you.”

“In this city, a man can be powerful one day and friendless the next. I can be patient. I can wait. Tell him that.” He stood. “We’ll begin your will next time, but I want you to think carefully about how you’d like it worded. Only you know how much you want to reveal about your relationship with Nicolette. You have Hugh to think of, too.”

“I want to leave Hugh a letter. When my mother died, I wished there had been something from her, a letter, a few sentences in a will. Anything.”

“Was there a will?”

“No. She had nothing to give away. I paid for her care myself.”

“Have you thought of a memorial?”

She gathered her gloves. “It seems a sacrilege to memorialize such a sad life.”

“Were there happy times?”

She thought of fleeting, lazy days in the sunshine. “One summer at Grand Isle, although even that ended tragically.”

“You know they’ve built a church there, don’t you? I’m sure they’d welcome a donation in your mother’s name.”

“Do you think it’s important?”

He came around his desk to sit on the edge, just in front of her. “In the years to come, you’ll remember her, no matter how much you try not to. Go to the dedication of the church. Then the memories will be better.”

She thought of a woman’s arms protecting her from the terrors of a hurricane. Her mother had twice given her life. Years had passed since she had thought of that woman, battling the beginning of madness but still courageous enough to act on her own judgment, despite Grand-père Antoine’s demands. Despite Claire’s own fragility. Tears rose to her eyes, tears she hadn’t cried during the recitation of her own sins.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

He held out his hand to help her rise. He continued to hold it for seconds after she was standing. “Your secrets will be safe here.”

She knew he was telling the truth.

For the entire journey down to Grand Isle, Aurore worried about Hugh. For days she had considered Spencer’s advice, but only when she discovered that Henry would be out of town during the dedication did she make plans. The final incentive had been a letter from Father Grimaud. Father Grimaud served a parish in Carenàlro now, but someone had mentioned Aurore’s contribution to Our Lady of the Isle. He planned to be at the dedication, and he had something he wanted to give her.

She was curious. She had never met Father Grimaud, but she knew how he had stood at the presbytery window with a lantern to guide his flock to safety during the hurricane. Her own father had been the only one to reach him. The story brought back memories of howling winds and trembling walls. What could the priest have for her, except a memento of that night?

On the island, she settled into a small, rustic guesthouse. The hurricane had destroyed more than homes and lives; it had destroyed an entire industry. Few people, if any, summered on Grand Isle now. The hotels were gone, and the Krantz Place was a memory. An attempt a decade before to build a railway from Gretna had failed, and hopes of resurrecting the health-and-pleasure resort reputation of the island had died with it. Aurore had been lucky to find accommodations at all.

After a brief rest, she found her way down to the beach. She remembered the walk as a long one, fraught with magic and expectation. Now she reached the beach in minutes and stood looking out on the waves nibbling at the shoreline. Hundreds of yards away, men in straw hats were hauling in nets filled with glistening, wriggling fish, but there were no sailboats lazily skirting the horizon and no parties of bathers enjoying the water. Sea gulls circled the fishermen, and porpoises leaped not far from shore, but the colorful, pleasure-filled days of her childhood were gone.

She sat at the edge of a sand dune and stared at the water. The sun was the same sun she remembered, nipping her cheeks and the back of her neck when she didn’t immediately raise her parasol. The sand had the same sugar texture; the water was the blue-gray of her mother’s eyes.

Something close to peace filled her as the sun warmed more than her cheeks. Hopes and fears locked deep inside her began to thaw. Away from the responsibilities and restrictions of her marriage, she could almost remember the little girl who had loved the waves and the oleander-scented breeze. From that child had come the woman who sat on the sand today. That woman had become a creature of lies and secrets.

Ti’ Boo was right.

The sun was almost perched on the horizon when she rose and began to stroll. She started toward the island’s central ridge to find the cottage that had sheltered her during the storm. Ti’ Boo had told her that Nonc Clebert had passed on years before. Now the cottage was the property of a son who lived in Thibodaux.

The sky was nearly dark before she found it. The house sat by itself, protected from prying eyes by a dense stand of oaks and denser underbrush. A padlock barred the door, and lavishly twisted vines testified that no one had tried it recently. She remembered the safety of its walls, the hospitality of its cozy rooms. Someone had covered her with quilts; someone had brought her soup and tea. Someone had murmured stories in soft Acadian French as the storm raged outside.

Now the house was silent and alone, its days of usefulness so obviously at an end. She imagined it was a matter of time before someone tore it down and replaced it with a structure that would collapse in the first wind.

That night, she slept fitfully. The island had gently convinced her to lower her guard. Now images crept through her dreams, lapping at her consciousness. For the first time, she wondered if her life could be more than a battleground. She couldn’t dissolve her marriage, because she would surely lose her son. Hugh and Gulf Coast were everything to her, and she couldn’t hand them to Henry to destroy. But perhaps there were other ways to reclaim her humanity. Somewhere inside her dwelled the child who had laughed and run at the Krantz Place, the child who had believed that happiness was possible.

By the next afternoon, she was ready for the dedication. The church had been built on donated land on the central ridge, no more than half a mile from Nonc Clebert’s house. Archbishop Shaw and other dignitaries had arrived for the event, and bright-eyed children crowded the yard in anticipation of a special confirmation ceremony. The church was white frame, with soaring arched windows and a belfry of graceful Moorish curves.

In their days at the Krantz Place, her mother had yearned for a church here. Now, at her death, that wish had come true.

“Do you know about the bell?” A woman clad in an ill-fitting blue print dress joined Aurore in the yard, staring up at the building.

Aurore was glad to break her own silence. “No.”

“It’s the pirate’s bell from the chénière. ”

“Pirate’s bell?”

“ Oui, chère. Made of doubloons and pirate’s treasure. Don’t you know about it?” The woman’s eyes brightened at the chance to tell a story. When Aurore shook her head, she continued. “There was a big storm in ’93.” She spread her arms wide.

Aurore warmed to her immediately. The woman’s Acadian accent reminded her of Ti’ Boo. “I was here.”

The woman clucked in sympathy. “Me, I was living up the bayou. It flooded so high, we lived on a lugger for two weeks, till the water went down. But we were the lucky ones, us. The people on Chénière Caminada, well, most of ’em died. And while they did, this bell rang and rang.”

“The same bell?”

“It’s been buried for years. After the storm, someone found the bell in the sand. There was a struggle over who it belonged to. Nobody could agree. The church was gone, so some thought they’d move the bell to a church far away. But before they could, the bell just disappeared.” She snapped her fingers.

“Where was it?”

“Some people who survived the storm, they took it and buried it in a cemetery in Westwego. And it would be there still if this church hadn’t been built. But when it was time, the people on the island, they asked the right men if they would bring it back, and they agreed. It’s our history, don’t you see? Nobody else’s. And when it rings now, it rings for our sister the chénière, too, even though nobody lives there except the ghosts.”

At that moment, the bell began to ring, signaling the solemn beginning of the services. Surprised, Aurore found her eyes filling with tears. She didn’t move as she listened to the same resonant summons that had called so many to their death.

She remembered that Lucien had never been able to tolerate the sound of a bell, that he had built his office like a fortress, far from the river and its sounds.

The woman beside her gave a small cry and covered her mouth. Aurore followed her gaze to a priest with a long white beard who had just entered the churchyard, not far from where they stood. As she watched, he covered his ears at the sound of the bell and fell to his knees.

“Ma cloche! Le même son!” he cried.

“The same sound,” Aurore whispered.

Father Grimaud continued to kneel in the churchyard and weep.

Rafe didn’t know why Aurore was at the dedication. He wasn’t even sure why he was. He had read a small notice about Our Lady of the Isle in a New Orleans newspaper, and memories of struggling toward a white frame church had overtaken him. The memories had made it difficult to concentrate, to walk the narrow line that made his existence in New Orleans tolerable.

He possessed no sentimentality, but in the days after he read the notice, his life had no longer seemed his. He made arrangements to travel to Grand Isle. He’d made arrangements with Violet to care for Nicolette during his absence, and arrangements with his attorney to put all business affairs on hold.

Since his attorney always acted as go-between, no one in the city realized just how much Rafe was worth or how excellent his instincts were. Even the change in Storyville’s status hadn’t affected him. He had begun to sell his holdings there well before business in the district dropped off. He had become disgusted with his role as landlord for a house of prostitution. Rationalizations that worse men, men with no principles at all, would succeed him, had no longer rung true for him. He had found that he was a better man than he had wanted to be.

By the time the navy stepped in with its demands, the Palace—now a second-rate rooming house—was already somebody else’s problem. He owned property in the business district for immediate income, and vast tracts of swamp at the city’s edge, because he knew that with technology’s advances, the swamps would be drained and the city would expand. He was wealthy enough to live a comfortable life, or as comfortable a life as a man of color could lead.

Rafe didn’t know exactly when he had accepted himself as he was. Perhaps it had been at the moment of Aurore’s rejection. But soon afterward he had realized that he couldn’t deny the father he had never known, any more than he could deny his mother and the life she had been forced to lead. Juan had said his father was a good man. Rafe knew his mother had been a good woman. The blood of two races ran through his veins. The heritage his parents had bequeathed him was one of which he could be proud.

But pride was a lonely place, and he guarded it well. He kept to himself and conducted much of his business through his attorney and accountant. He gave no explanations about his bloodlines, but he lived among the gens de couleur of the city, and, by association, he was damned. He didn’t look for acceptance; acceptance had always been denied him. He didn’t look for respect or friendship. He woke up each morning with the sole goal of surviving the day with his pride intact.

So why had he come to Grand Isle? And why had Aurore come, an Aurore a decade older than the girl he had loved? As the service progressed, he could watch her undetected. She sat near the front of the church, her head covered with a floppy-brimmed hat that served the function of blinders. He could see the proud set of her shoulders, the grace with which she knelt and stood, the narrow curve of her waist. Although she hadn’t seen him, he had caught a glimpse of her face as she entered the church. The years had whittled away her youthful innocence and left in its place a wiser, colder woman. But she was no less beautiful.

When the service ended, he left the building quickly, but he lingered in the churchyard. Grand Isle, indolent Louisiana stepchild, had only rarely had an event of this magnitude to celebrate. Islanders and visitors crowded the yard as the little girls in white veils and the boys in dark suits endured family greetings and congratulations. He thought he recognized a face or two from his years on Bayou Lafourche, but he made no attempt to announce himself. Those days seemed to belong to someone else entirely, étienne Terrebonne, the boy he had never been. Here he felt closer to the child Raphael.

Aurore came out of the church, and he watched her move through the crowd toward Father Grimaud. Seeing the old priest again had been nearly as surprising as seeing her. Rafe felt certain that Father Grimaud would remember him. He had been kind during those lonely years, one of the few people who accepted Raphael as a child, simply one of God’s children.

Aurore spoke to the priest, and as Father Grimaud bent his head, his long white beard dusted the front of his cassock. He straightened. Even from a distance, Rafe could see warmth in his expression, as if he were greeting an old friend.

Rafe was intrigued by this conversation he couldn’t hear. Aurore had been too young to have known Father Grimaud. Rafe watched the priest beckon a young boy to his side and whisper something in his ear. Then the child started toward the church.

Aurore stepped aside, and others came to speak to the priest, but Aurore didn’t retreat until the child returned, carrying what looked like a thin stack of papers tied with a ribbon. He gave it to the priest and received a pat on the head. Then Father Grimaud turned to Aurore and spoke before handing her the papers.

Rafe watched her leaf through them before she looked back at the priest. Father Grimaud touched her shoulder. She nodded; then she started across the yard.

Rafe didn’t move. He had no wish to confront her here. Through the years, he had made a measure of peace with himself, and he had come to the island for more. But no one could make him hide; there was no battle he would surrender.

The bell rang again in celebration. With the first peal, Aurore’s gaze found his. She stared at him until the bell was silent. Then, without a word, she continued past.