Emilie Richards – Rising Tides (страница 13)

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?”

He went to the nearest window and used a corner of a faded green curtain to dust it. The room grew subtly brighter, and she followed his lead, until all the windows had been wiped down. “I guess we’d better start some where and work our way around the room.”

“Did your grandmother ever throw anything away?”

“Apparently not.” Dawn approached an old chest with a cracked marble top. All the drawers opened easily. Something rustled in the corner of one, and she slammed it shut. “Mice.”

“If that’s the worst we find, we’ll be lucky.”

“Please.” She tried an armoire, packed full of filmy, fragile dresses spanning half a century in style. “There are museums that would love to have these.”

“I haven’t seen anything that needs a key.”

“We’re not done.”

She rummaged through boxes of dusty books and mementos, while Ben methodically examined furniture. They had almost progressed around the room before Dawn spotted the trunk. She remembered it well be cause it was the same one that had held all the family photographs. Some of the photographs were still there, but now half the space was taken up by a small leather suitcase.

Dawn sat cross-legged and lifted the case to her lap. She traced her grandmother’s initials, gold against dark blue. “Look.”

Ben squatted beside her. “Locked?”

She reached inside her pocket for the key. The lock opened as easily as the door. She lifted out a black leather journal. The pages were edged with gold, like a Bible. The first page was inscribed in fountain pen. The script was rounded and carefully formed. With childish whimsy, an ink blot had been turned into a tiny spider.

She was puzzled. She was halfway through the page before she realized who it belonged to. “Ben, this is Uncle Hugh’s journal. I didn’t even know he’d kept one.”

She looked up. Ben’s eyes were shadowed. “I’ve wondered what happened to it.”

“Then you knew?”

“I lived with him that last summer. I saw him writing in it sometimes. When I got out of the hospital and went back…to the rectory, I looked for it. But all his things were gone by then.”

She leafed through it. “It starts when he’s about ten, I think, and it’s pretty sporadic. But look, it’s nearly filled. Almost like…” She didn’t want to go on.

Ben finished for her. “Like his life and the pages ran out together.”

She didn’t want to think about that. “There’s more.”

She set the journal beside her and took out a lavender metal box decorated with pansies and violets. Inside, she found a thick stack of letters tied with a black rib bon.

The letters were more faded than the journal. In the dim light, she was forced to squint to make out words. “This one’s addressed to a Father Grimaud. Look, it’s in French.”

He squinted, too. “I studied Latin.”

“My French is acceptable.”

“Phillip’s is perfect, if you need a translator. Who are they from?”

She turned the first one over. “Lucien Le Danois.” She looked up at Ben. “He was my great-grandfather.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

There hadn’t been time to ask herself that question. Now Dawn realized how important it was. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

He shrugged.

Dawn realized she was hugging the letters to her chest. “If Grandmère had only wanted me to have these, she would have given me both of the keys. Or she wouldn’t have bothered with keys at all. Spencer would have handed me the suitcase this morning on the porch. Do you see? Obviously she wanted us to work together.”