Emilie Richards – Rising Tides (страница 15)

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 along the bank, following the route of the vanished stick. “And I like you, when I can turn my head far enough to watch my back.”

“I’m not after you. You should know that.”

“I know for a fact you’re hungrier for power than me, and until I met you, I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I just want to be governor. And maybe president later on. Could you use a friend in the White House?”

“I wonder what your brother would think of all this shinnying up the highest tree. Used to say, didn’t he, that a man’s real power was in his relationship with his Creator?”

“He probably did. Hugh was fond of saying things that had nothing to do with real life.”

“Miss him, don’t you?”

Ferris was silent.

“You know, Father Hugh could be the sticking point in your campaign.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Don’t you? I can think of more than a few reasons. Those who loved him will despise you for not being like him. And those who hated him will be afraid you’re too much like him.”

“That’s why I need people like you to make it clear exactly who I am and who I number among my friends.”

“Then, of course, there are things about your relationship with your brother that aren’t generally known…but could become so.”

Ferris didn’t miss a beat. “Right now I just want to find out what you’d like for this parish if I run for governor.”

“All I’d like is to be able to count on a governor to keep the welfare of the southern parishes in mind, and possibly to take a little advice from time to time.”

“I’m your man.”

“I think maybe you will be, but only if you remember that I’m not your man, or anybody else’s.”

They had reached a turn in the bayou. The water moved faster here, as if it had given in to the inevitable. Largo stopped and pointed. “Look over there. Stick didn’t make it ‘round the bend.”

Ferris saw something caught in the gnarled roots of a willow that clung tenaciously to the opposite bank. Whether it was the same stick or another was impossible to tell.

“Now, you can look at that stick two ways,” Largo said. “One, it didn’t want to go, so it’s hanging in those roots as a last stand. Two, it was bobbing happily down stream and got caught unawares.”

“Doesn’t say much for it either way,” Ferris said.

“No sir. It’s like a man who resists too hard or com plies too easily. Figure out how to straddle that line, Ferris, and I’ll help put you exactly where you want to be.”

Rain fell throughout the night, a dreary, steady drumming on the cypress-shingle roof that lacked drama. Drama was unnecessary. With the first light of morning, Dawn took her great-grandfather’s letters and hid them under the scatter rug beneath her dressing table. As a child, she had been full of secrets, hiding everything personal from the prying eyes of her parents and the house hold staff. Most of the time nothing she had hidden would have interested anyone, anyway. But the letters written by Lucien Le Danois were a different story.

She hadn’t known what to expect. In the garconnière, she had seen that the first few letters were addressed to a priest. But she had suspected that farther into the pile she would find advice from a father to his daughter—although the voyeur inside her had hoped for passionate love letters. Instead, she had gotten something very different.

She didn’t want to wait until breakfast and the reading of the next section of the will before she spoke to Ben. She had hardly slept, but she was past needing anything except answers.

She took time for a shower and a change of clothes; then she went downstairs, hoping she would find him there. Instead, she found Phillip, in a T-shirt and shorts, sitting on the hood of Ben’s car, tossing bread crumbs at a trio of sparrows. The birds ignored her approach, and so did he.

She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “Phillip, have you seen Ben?”

“No one else is up. Just you and me.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to do next or where to go. She needed answers, but nothing could persuade her to go into Ben’s room and wake him.

She thought about Pelichere and Spencer. One or both of them might be able to fill in the story that had been sketched out for her. But she just wasn’t sure.

“Not having the best kind of morning, are you?”

Dawn realized she had been staring right through Phillip. “No. I…” She turned her palms up and shrugged.

“Tell me something. Have you given much thought to why I might be here? Or my family?”

“Of course.” She knew this was bound to be an interesting conversation, but the letters were on her mind.

“Drawn any conclusions?”

“Not a one.”

“Not yet, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nothing as overt as hostility had been in Phillip’s voice, but again she sensed distrust. “I don’t know anything except the obvious.”

“The obvious? Like our color?”

She shoved her hands in her shorts pockets. “The obvious. Like your writing and your mother’s music.”

“Really? You haven’t noticed that you and I aren’t exactly the same?”

“Look, I’m not in the mood for this, okay? I don’t care what color you are. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but didn’t. Suddenly she suspected that she and Phillip weren’t talking about the same thing at all. He moved over a little, almost as if he were inviting her to sit beside him.

She joined him on the hood. Now they were both staring at the house.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” she said.

“I’m waiting for a whole lot of things.”

“Did Ben tell you about the letters?”