"It will destroy him," I said, shaking my head. "It will crack his heart in two, just as it has cracked mine."
"Then don't tell him, Ruby," Grandmère Catherine advised. I looked up at her. "Just let it all end."
"How, Grandmère? We like each other so much. Paul is so gentle and kind and—"
"Let him think you don't care about him anymore like that, Ruby. Let him go and he'll find another girlfriend soon enough. He's a handsome boy. Besides, his parents will only give him more grief if you don't, especially, his father, and you will only succeed in breaking the Tates apart."
"His father is a monster, a monster. How could he have done such a thing when he was married for such a short time?" I demanded, my anger overcoming my sadness for the moment.
"I make no excuses for him. He was a grown man and Gabrielle was just an impressionable young girl, but so beautiful, it didn't surprise me that grown men longed for her. The devil, the evil spirit that hovers in the shadows, crept over Octavious Tate day by day, I'm sure, and eventually found entrance into his heart and drove him to seduce your mother."
"Paul would hate him, he would hate his own father if he knew," I said vehemently. Grandmère nodded.
"Do you want to do that, Ruby? Do you want to be the one who puts enmity in his heart and drives him to despise his own father?" she asked softly. "And what will Paul feel about the woman he thinks is his mother? What will you do to that relationship, too?"
"Oh, Grandmère," I cried, and rose off the settee to throw myself at her feet. I embraced her legs and buried my face in her lap. She stroked my hair softly.
"There, there, my baby. You will get over the pain. You're still very young with your whole life ahead of you. You're going to become a great artist and have beautiful things." She put her hand under my chin and lifted my head so she could look into my eyes. "Now do you understand why I dream of you leaving the bayou," she added.
With my tears streaming down my cheeks, I nodded. "Yes," I said. "I do. But I never want to leave you, Grandmère."
"Someday you will have to, Ruby. It's the way of all things, and when that day comes, don't hesitate. Do what you have to do. Promise me you will. Promise," she demanded. She looked so anxious about it, I had to respond.
"I will, Grandmère."
"Good," she said. "Good." She sat back, looking as if she had just aged a year for every minute that passed. I ground the tears from my eyes with my small fists and stood up.
"Do you want something, Grandmère? A glass of lemonade, maybe?"
"Just a glass of cold water," she said, smiling. She patted my hand. "I'm sorry, honey," she said.
I swallowed hard and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.
"It's not your fault, Grandmère. You have no reason to blame yourself."
She smiled softly at me. Then I got her the glass of water and watched her drink it. It seemed painful for her to do so, but she finished it and rose from her chair.
"I'm very tired, suddenly," she said. "I've got to go to bed."
"Yes, Grandmère. I will soon, too."
After she left, I went to the front door and looked out at where Paul and I had kissed good night.
We didn't know it then, but it was the last time we would ever kiss like that, the last time we would ever feel each other's heart beating and thrill to each other's touch. I closed the door and walked to the stairway, feeling as if someone I knew and loved with all my heart had just died. In a real sense that was true, for the Paul Tate I knew and loved before was gone and the Ruby Landry he had kissed and loved as well was lost. The sin that had given Paul life had reared its ugly head and taken away his love.
I dreaded the days that were now to follow.
That night I tossed and turned and woke from my sleep many times. Each time, my stomach felt as tight as a fist. I wished the whole day and night had just been a bad dream, but there was no denying Grandmère Catherine's dark, sad eyes. The vision of her face lingered behind my eyelids, reminding, reinforcing, confirming that all that had happened and all that I had learned was real and true.
I didn't think Grandmère Catherine had slept any better than I had, even though she had looked so exhausted before going to bed. For the first time in a long time, she was up and about only moments before me. I heard her shuffling past my room and opened the door to watch her make her way to the kitchen.
I hurried to go down to help her with our breakfast. Although the rainstorm of the night before had passed, there were still layers of thin, gray clouds across the Louisiana sky, making the morning look as dreary as I felt. The birds seemed subdued as well, barely singing and calling to each other. It was as if the whole bayou were feeling sorry for me and for Paul.
"Seems a Traiteur should be able to treat her own arthritis," Grandmère muttered. "My joints ache and my recipes for medicine don't seem to help."
Grandmère Catherine was not one to voice complaints about herself. I'd seen her walk miles in the rain to help someone and not utter a single syllable of protest. No matter what infirmity or hard luck she suffered, she always remarked that there were too many who were worse off.
"You don't drop the potato because hills and valleys suddenly appear on your road," she told me, which was a Cajun's way of saying you don't give up. "You bear the brunt; you carry the excess baggage, and you go on." I always felt she was trying to teach me how to live by example, so I knew how much pain she must be suffering to complain about it in my presence this morning.
"Maybe we should take a day off from the road stall, Grandmère," I said. "We've got my painting money and—"
"No," she said. "It's better to keep busy, and besides, we've got to be out there while there are still tourists in the bayou. You know we have enough weeks and months without anyone coming around to buy our things and it's hard enough to scrounge and scrape up a living then."
I didn't say it, because I knew it would only get her angry, but why didn't Grandpère Jack do more for us? Why did we let him get away with his lazy, swamp bum life? He was a Cajun man and as such he should bear more responsibility for his family, even if Grandmère was not pleased with him. I made up my mind I would pole out to his shack later and tell him what I thought.
Right after breakfast, I started to set up our roadside stall as usual while Grandmère prepared her gumbo. I saw the strain on her face as she worked and then carried things out, so I ran and got her a chair to sit on as quickly as I could. Despite what she had said, I wished it would rain hard and send us back into the house, so she could rest. But it didn't and just as she had predicted, the tourists began to come around.
About eleven o'clock Paul drove up on his motor scooter. Grandmère Catherine and I exchanged a quick look, but she said nothing more to me as Paul approached.
"Hello, Mrs. Landry," he began. "My cheek is practically all healed and my lip feels fine," he quickly added. The bruise had diminished considerably. There was just a slight pink area on his cheekbone. "Thanks again."
"You're welcome," Grandmère said, "but don't forget your promise to me."
"I won't." He laughed and turned to me. "Hi."
"Hi," I said quickly, and unfolded and folded a blanket so it would rest more neatly on the shelves of the stall. "How come you're not working in the cannery today?" I asked, without looking at him.
He stepped closer so Grandmère wouldn't hear.
"My father and I had it out last night. I'm not working for him anymore and I can't use the car until he says so, which might be never unless—"
"Unless you stop seeing me," I finished for him, then turned around. The look in his eyes told me I was right.
"I don't care what he says. I don't need the car. I bought the scooter with my own money, so I'll just ride around on it. All I care about doing is getting here to see you as quickly as I can. Nothing else matters," he declared firmly.