Rising Tides. Emilie Richards
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entirely certain now if a story her grand mother had told about riding out a childhood hurricane inside its walls was fact, or a fiction she had embroidered over the years. But she did know that her grandmother had purchased the property in the twenties.
As a child, Dawn had not been allowed to play in most of the outbuildings, some of which had been torn down to protect her. But the garconnière, like the house, was built of bousillage, an adobelike mixture of mud and Spanish moss packed between cypress boards. Traditionally, a garconnière was a place for bachelors in Cajun families to live until they were married, usually an attic reached by stairs from the end of the gallery.
Perhaps the architect of the cottage had been wealthier than the typical Grand Isle resident, or perhaps he had been blessed with so many rowdy sons that he was persuaded by a pleading wife to build the structure far away. Whatever the reason, the garconnière perched at the edge of the Gerritsen property. The building was narrow and two-story, with an outside stairway leading to sleeping quarters. The low-ceilinged bottom story had been used as work space, and the remnants of a primitive forge still took up half of it.
Each summer Dawn had escaped to the nineteenth-century bachelor pad to play. There had been armoires full of old-fashioned resort wear, and photographs and mementos to admire. Some of the photographs had been of her grandmother, a doe-eyed young woman with piles of hair and a waist to rival Scarlett O’Hara’s. The photographs had been so significant to the young Dawn. How important to be the one taking them, to steal tiny pieces of life and preserve them forever.
She hadn’t been inside in years. Vines obscured much of the building now, along with overgrown ligustrum and sasanqua, and she thought of it only when a long afternoon of childhood memories threatened to overwhelm her.
The hours after receiving the key had been quiet ones, as if everyone had agreed that peace could be achieved only by silence. After her walk, she had re treated to her room and stared out at her personal smidgen of Gulf. Bits of her childhood had claimed her. The day her uncle had tried to teach her to swim, and she had sobbed in his arms at her own cowardice. The day, the rare and glorious day, when her mother had awakened her for a breakfast picnic, and all the things that had always been wrong between them had disappeared for the morning.
Sometime after noon, she had thought of the garconnière. Sometime after that, she had thought of the lock that had probably never been changed because the building was so well hidden that vandalism was unlikely.
It was nearly four before she gathered her strength to find Ben and ask him to go with her to investigate. She didn’t lack courage, just the desire to be in his presence. Curiosity was stronger.
She didn’t find Ben, but she found Phillip on the front gallery, rocking away his tension. He was a hand some man, with an easy smile and dark eyes that seemed to be taking the world’s measure. She had always ad mired his writing. He didn’t know how to waste words, and he didn’t know how to tell a story that was sentimental or simplistic. Her uncle had been the one to introduce her to his work.
She folded her arms and lounged against a pillar. “I might know what Ben’s key fits. There’s a building on the property, the original garconnière. The top story had an old-fashioned lock.”
“What about yours?”
“Mine might fit something inside.”
“Maybe you need Ben after all.”
“Might be he needs me, too. Who knows what my key will unlock, or who’ll benefit?” She saw Ben standing at the door. “I was just telling Phillip I might know what your key unlocks.” She told him what she had told Phillip.
“I’m willing to give it a try.” Ben pushed open the screen door but was careful not to let it slam shut. Phillip stood and stretched. “Would you like to come?” Ben asked him.
Phillip looked from one to the other. “I don’t think so. Likely to get me shot,” Phillip said. “Old Ferris Lee sees me disappearing into the undergrowth with his only daughter, I’m a dead man, and no jury in Louisiana would give a damn.”
She had to smile at the drawl Phillip switched on and off at will, even though there was nothing funny about what was essentially the truth. “I’m planning to tell old Ferris Lee where I’m going and why,” she said.
She found her parents in the dining room. Her mother was polishing silver. Her father was reading the New Or leans States-Item and finishing what looked to be the most recent of a dozen cigarettes.
The picture was one of domestic bliss. She tried to remember how often she had seen her parents this way. At home they were seldom in the same room unless they were giving a party. Despite that apparent lack of intimacy, she had no reason to believe they were unhappy together. On the contrary, they seemed perfectly suited. Her father’s career had become her mother’s, too. Had she married a simple attorney or businessman, Cappy’s life would have revolved around bettering their position socially, perhaps striving toward the day when her husband would be declared king of carnival, an honor truly understood only in New Orleans.
But Cappy had married Ferris Lee, and had been given more to strive for. First the state senate, now the governor’s mansion. There was even talk of a run for the presidency somewhere down the road. Ferris lacked George Wallace’s sneer and vicious rhetoric, but he shared his political and social views. How many of the women who had worshiped President Kennedy’s smile, if not his politics, would come flocking to Ferris Lee Gerritsen for both?
When she realized her parents were waiting, Dawn explained where she was going.
“I don’t understand why you’re pursuing this,” her mother said.
Dawn picked up a platter and rubbed her thumb across the edge. “Just think of it as emotional silver-polishing.”
Ferris stubbed out his cigarette. “Your mother and I are going out for dinner.”
Dawn was surprised. “What does Spencer say?”
“There won’t be a problem, though I’ve got half a mind not to come back anyway.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You don’t know what I mean, darling.” He lit an other cigarette.
She turned to Cappy. “Use your charm, Mother. Make sure he comes back.”
Cappy gave a real smile for the first time since their reunion. “You always ask me for the impossible.”
Dawn couldn’t remember ever asking Cappy for any thing except her love. But perhaps that was exactly what Cappy had meant.
Ben was alone on the gallery when she returned. “I’m ready if you are,” she said.
“Let’s get it over with.”
The path was as badly overgrown as she’d feared. Morning glory and creeper screened dead and dying trees, and the still air was heavy with the scent of decay.
They reached the garconnière without having exchanged one word. Dawn gestured toward the steps. “I’ll go first.” At the top, she stepped aside and gestured toward the door. “Voilà.”
With no ceremony, he took the key from his pocket and thrust it into the lock. He turned it, and the door swung open.
He faced her. “Surprised?”
“More than a little.” She entered first, since he was obviously waiting for her. Her eyes adjusted slowly. The room was the size of a French Quarter bar. There were six windows, old-fashioned double-hung panes grimy with dirt. Everything was just as she remembered it; in fact, it was hard to believe anyone had been inside in a decade.
Ben whistled softly. “Such wealth. How am I going to get this back to San Francisco?”
The idea was so ludicrous that she had to laugh. “Shipping the dust will eat up your life savings.”
“Got your key handy?”
“See anything I could unlock?”