"I had this all done while you were out shopping with Daphne," he revealed. "Do you like it?"
"Like it? I love it!" I whirled around the room inspecting everything. There was even a pile of art books, going from the most elementary things to the most elaborate and complicated. "It's . . . wonderful!"
"I thought we should waste no time, not with a talent like yours. What do you think, Gisselle?" I turned to see her smirking in the doorway.
"I hate art class in school," she remarked. Then she focused a conspiratorial look on me and added, "I'm going up to my room. Come up as soon as you can. We have some things to prepare for later."
"Later?" my father asked.
"Just girl talk, Daddy," Gisselle said, and left. He shrugged and joined me at the shelves of supplies.
"I told Emile at the art store to give me everything we would need to have a complete studio," he said. "Are you pleased?"
"Oh, yes. There are things here, materials and supplies I have never seen, much less used."
"That's why we need the instructor as soon as possible, too. I think once he sees this studio, he'll be encouraged to take you on as one of his pupils. Not that he shouldn't by just looking at your painting anyway." He beamed his smile down at me.
"Thank you . . . Daddy," I said. His smile widened.
"I like hearing that," he said. "I hoped you felt welcomed."
"Oh, yes, I do. Overwhelmed."
"And happy?"
"Very happy," I said. I stood on my toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. His eyes brightened even more.
"Well," he said. "Well . . ." His eyes watered. "I guess I'll go see what Daphne is up to. Enjoy your studio and paint wonderful pictures here," he added, and walked off.
I stood there in awe of it all for a few moments. The room had a nice view of the sprawling oak trees and garden. It faced west so I could paint the sun on the final leg of its journey. Twilight was always magnificent for me in the bayou. I had high hopes that it would be just as magnificent here as well, for I believed that the things I carried in my heart and in my soul would be with me no matter where I was, where I lived, and what I looked at through my windows. My pictures were inside me, just waiting to be brought out.
After what I thought was only a short while later, I left the studio and hurried up to Gisselle's room. I knocked on the door.
"Well, it's about time," she said, pulling me in quickly and closing the door. "We don't have all that much time to plan. The boys will be here in twenty minutes."
"I don't think I can do this, Gisselle," I moaned.
"Of course you can," she said. "We'll be sitting around the table at the pool when they arrive. We'll have bottles of Coke and glasses for everyone, with ice. As soon as they approach, you introduce me to Martin. Just say I want you to meet my sister, Ruby. Then, you'll take this out from under the table and pour globs of it into the Coke," she said, and plucked a bottle of rum out of a straw basket. "Make sure you pour at least this much into every glass," she added, holding up her thumb and forefinger a good two inches apart. "Once Beau sees you do that, he'll be convinced you're me," she quipped.
"Then what?"
"Then . . . whatever happens, happens. What's the matter?" she snapped, pulling herself back. "Don't you want to pretend you're me?"
"It's not that I don't want to," I said.
"So? What is it?"
"I just don't think I can be you," I said.
"Why not?" she demanded, her eyes darkening and her eyelids narrowing into slits of anger.
"I don't know enough," I replied. That pleased her and she relaxed her shoulders.
"Just don't talk much. Drink and whenever Beau says something, nod and smile. I know I can be you," she added. And then in a voice that was supposed to be imitative, she said, "I just can't believe I'm here. The food is sooo good, the house is sooo big and I'm sleepin' in a real bed without mosquitos and mud."
She laughed. Was I really like that in her eyes?
"Stop being so serious," she demanded when I didn't laugh at her mockery of me. She dropped the bottle of rum into the basket. "Come on," she said, picking it up and seizing my hand. "Let's go tease some stuck-up Creole boys until they beg for mercy."
Trailing along like a kite on a string, I followed my sister out and down the stairs, my heart thumping, my mind in a turmoil. I had never had a day packed with so much excitement. I couldn't begin to imagine what the night would bring.
14
Someone's Crying
"We'll sit over there," Gisselle said, and pointed to lounges on the far end of the pool, near the cabana. It put us far enough away from the outside lights to keep us draped in soft shadows. It was a warm night, as warm as it would be on the bayou, only tonight without the cool breeze that would come up the canals from the Gulf. The sky was overcast; it even felt like it might rain.
Gisselle put the basket with the bottle of rum on the table and I put down the bucket of ice, the Coke, and the glasses. To bolster our courage for Gisselle's prank, she decided we should mix the rum in our Coke before the boys arrived. She did the pouring and it seemed to me she made each drink more rum than Coke. I tried to warn her about the effects of whiskey. After all, I knew about it from painful experiences.
"The man I called Grandpère is a drunk," I told her. "It's poisoned his brain."
I described the time I had poled our pirogue out to see him in the swamp and how he had gone berserk on his galerie. Then I described some of his ranting and raving in the house, how he wrecked things, dug up floorboards, and ended up sleeping in the muck and grime and not caring.
"I hardly think we'll become like that," Gisselle said. "Besides, you don't believe this is the first time I snuck some of our liquor, do you? All of my friends do it and no one is as bad as that old man you described," she insisted.
When I hesitated to take the glass of rum and Coke from her, she put her fist on her hip and scowled.
"Don't tell me you're going to be an old stick-in-the-mud now and not have fun after I've invited the boys over, especially so you could have a boyfriend."
"I didn't say I wouldn't have some. I just—"
"Just have a drink and relax," she insisted. "Here!" she said, and shoved the drink at me. Reluctantly, I took the glass and sipped, while she took long gulps of hers. I couldn't help grimacing. To me it tasted like one of Grandmère Catherine's herbal medicines.
Gisselle stabbed me with a hard penetrating gaze and then shook her head.
"I guess you didn't have much fun living in the bayou. It sounds like all work and no play, which makes Jack a dull boy," she added, and laughed.
"Jack?"
"It's just an expression. Really," she cried, throwing her hand up dramatically, "you're just like someone from a foreign country. I feel like I've got to do what Mother wants to do: teach you how to talk and walk." She took another gulp of her drink. Even Grandpère didn't swig it down that fast, I thought. I wondered if she was as sophisticated as she was making out to be.
"Hi, there," we heard Beau call, and turned to see two silhouettes come around the corner of the house. My heart began to drum in anticipation.
"Just remember to do what I told you to do and say what I told you to say," Gisselle coached.
"It's not going to work," I insisted in a whisper. "It better," she threatened.
The two boys stepped onto the pool deck and drew closer. I saw that Martin was a good-looking young man, about an inch or so taller than Beau, with jet black hair. He was leaner, longer-legged, and swaggered more when he walked. They were both dressed in jeans with white cotton shirts with buttoned-down collars. When they stepped into the dim pool of illumination cast by a lantern nearby, I noticed that Martin wore an expensive looking gold watch on his left wrist and a silver ID bracelet on the right. He had dark eyes and a smile that tucked the corner of his mouth into his cheek, creating more of a leer.