Rising Tides. Emilie Richards
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it is.” Cappy pointed to a discreet sign illuminated by floodlights.
They turned into a driveway that in better weather would have been comfortably familiar. Now the landscape was a thousand shades of forbidding gray, and the Corinthian columns of the Bonne Chance Country Club offered no guarantees that the building would withstand a hurricane.
Inside the marble-tiled foyer, they checked their coats. Ferris swept Cappy from head to toe with critical eyes, but not a golden hair was out of place. Her hat was still perched at a jaunty angle, and the veil that matched the dark red of her suit brushed her forehead.
At moments like these he admired her most, and, as always, on the heels of admiration came desire. These days his sexual needs were few and easily taken care of, and he rarely bothered to spend the night in Cappy’s bedroom. Still, he had never ceased to want his wife when she was most untouchable. Now, as she straightened her skirt, he felt himself growing aroused.
“I’ll never understand why Largo doesn’t insist they redecorate this place,” she said.
“Maybe he likes it.”
She checked the circlet of diamonds above her left breast and brushed away an imaginary speck of lint. “Bamboo furniture and chartreuse walls? I half expect to see a native in a loincloth fanning the guests.”
“Not everyone has your patrician tastes, darling.” He took her arm. “And not a word of criticism.” He brushed his hip against hers as he led her into the dining room.
Largo was waiting at a table in the corner. There were no guests seated near him, but he wasn’t alone. The club manager stood at Largo’s right, his posture deferential. “I’m telling Charles here that we’ll have some crabs and a round of dry martinis before we order.” Largo waved Charles away and stood to embrace Cappy. Ferris watched the byplay and admired—as he simultaneously detested—the finesse with which Largo had already put everyone in the room in their respective places.
He shook hands and grinned when his own moment arrived, then held Cappy’s chair until she was settled. Seated across from Largo, he examined the man who could help install him in the governor’s mansion.
At fifty-nine, Largo had thinning hair that was the ivory of his suit, and his florid face was unremarkable. Raisin-dark eyes snapping with vitality were the first hint that he wasn’t someone to be taken for granted. His hands were even more revealing. Largo’s fingers were gnarled and knotted, yet he used them freely, as if he had an enormous tolerance for pain. More than once, Ferris had dreamed of Largo’s hands.
“The crabs are good,” Largo said. “Catch ‘em right here in Plaquemines.”
“How have you been, Largo?” Ferris asked. “Does Betsy have you worried?”
“Never yet seen a storm I couldn’t ride out. We might get a little damage. Some of the worst shacks’ll go.” He shrugged. “As good a way to clean up the place as any.”
He began to pepper Cappy with questions, which she answered with confident charm. Ferris knew she considered Largo a member of the overseer class, but she was political to the core and perfectly willing to abandon her snobbery on the surface if it suited Ferris’s purposes. And cultivating Largo suited them.
The crabs arrived, and Largo continued to chat as he twisted the shells into sections and dug out the meat with his fingers. The performance was a classic one, visceral and primitive, but most of all repugnant, because Largo obviously derived more pleasure from gutting the crabs than from the flavor of their meat.
Cappy politely worked on one with her knife and fork, and Ferris did, too. His mind drifted to a long ago night under the summer stars, when he and Hugh had sneaked away to the beach at Grand Isle with a dozen boiled hard-shells and half as many bottles of beer. Two young men with their lives ahead of them, they had for gotten their differences. By the time they staggered home at dawn, no secrets had been left between them.
The waiter returned, and at Largo’s recommendation they ordered turtle soup and broiled pompano. The meal progressed in lazy Louisiana fashion, with impeccable service and perfectly seasoned food. One round of martinis became another, with a manhattan thrown in for Cappy.
As they sat over coffee at the meal’s end, Cappy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and left them to speak alone.
“So your little girl’s home,” Largo said. “Good to have family together.”
“She’s grown up, Largo. A real beauty.”
“You should have brought her.”
“Another time,” he said, although both men knew it would never happen.
“She favor you or her mother?”
Dawn favored Hugh, but Ferris wasn’t going to make that announcement. He wondered what trick of nature had doomed him to see his brother’s face when he looked at his only child. “She looks a little like my mother,” he said.
“I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Gerritsen. State lost a fine lady when she passed away.” Largo stood. “I need to stretch my legs. Let’s walk along the bayou. It looks like the weather’s clear enough now.”
Ferris didn’t know what “clear enough” meant. There was a steady drizzle, and the soft ground promised to suck at every footstep, but he followed Largo to the foyer and instructed the hostess to tell Cappy where they had gone.
If nothing else, the fresh air was more palatable than the mildewed atmosphere of the dining room. Largo started away from the parking lot, and Ferris followed.
“Since Rosie passed away, I don’t get over here as much,” Largo said. “I eat at home. Got a nigger cook that can bake circles ‘round the one at the club.”
“I’m glad you felt like coming tonight.”
“I didn’t. Not really. But business is just that.”
“What business are we talking about?”
“You running for governor.”
“What do you think about it?”
Without answering, Largo walked to the edge of the narrow bayou. It was hardly wider than the length of two cars, and despite the rain, the water was sluggish, as if it were in no hurry to empty itself into the marsh. He kicked a stick into the water, and they stood watching it sullenly ride the current until it disappeared into the darkness.
“I was a boy,” Largo said, “I used to swim in this bayou. Now I wouldn’t stick a toe in. Never know what you’ll find in the water these days.”
“Never do.”
“Those days, I’d swim with pickaninnies that lived down the road. Didn’t know any better till my daddy caught me. Nearly skinned me alive when he found out what I’d been doing. Told me then that I’d never amount to a thing if I didn’t pay attention to my character. And I’ve done that all my life. I got where I am by watching who I associated with. Do you follow me?”
“Perfectly.”
“You got a silver spoon in your mouth, Ferris. Not pure silver, good silver plate, on account of your father. Your mother, now, she was sterling. Me, on the other hand, I started out without a goddamned thing.”
“It’s where a man gets to, not where he starts, that matters.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You and that pretty little wife of yours think I’m poor white trash. And you’re just about right. When I started out, those nigger kids I swam with had more class than I did, but now I got more money and power than any man’s got a right to. And I intend to keep every last bit.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Largo. It’s power I’m asking you to use on my behalf—though I wouldn’t mind a generous campaign contribution, as well.”
“I understand a man who wants it all.” Largo began to walk