Page 110 of Frankly, My Dear

When the conversation lulled, between the shrimp étouffée and the chicken and fresh vegetables, Ellen addressed Mrs. Baptiste, “I got a letter from my mother last week. She tells me that Mr. Audubon is now living in New York City and is quite the rave there in artistic circles.”

“Did you hear that, James?” Mrs. Baptiste said, then informed Selene, “When James was only twelve years old, he earned extra money guiding M’sieur Audubon through the bayou wilds to paint his bird pictures.”

“Are you talking about John James Audubon?” Selene asked in awe.

“Oui. In fact, he sent James a folio of his bird sketches.” She turned to her son. “You still have that folio, don’t you, cher?”

He nodded, tracing the rim of his vase with a forefinger, seemingly bored.

“I can’t believe you actually knew John James Audubon. Do you know that those sketches you have are priceless?”

James smiled grimly, his eyes full of dull remoteness. “No, they’re not, Selene. They’re barely worth the paper Audubon scribbled on incessantly.” And Selene saw in his bleak eyes the reminder that she was not of his time, and never would be.

Her throat aching with defeat, Selene fought back a rising panic as the grandfather clock chimed four o’clock. How much longer would it be before the Collins party departed? How much longer before James was no longer a part of her life?

Her meager supply of clothing and worldly goods were packed and waiting near the front door, including the ballgown. She’d already said her good-byes to a tearful Etienne, Blossom, Iris, Fergus and Reba, her aerobics class, and her other young pupils.

Blinking back tears, Selene tried to maintain some semblance of dignity. “Tell us about Mr. Audubon, James,” she encouraged, her eyes pleading for his help.

“He was a crazy old coot who could spend hours and hours just sitting and staring at a bird. Sometimes he even killed them in order to study them up close.” He shrugged. Then his eyes lit up with remembrance, and his gaze locked with hers. “But I have one thing to thank him for,” he said softly. “He introduced me to the mating ritual of the herons.”

Selene inhaled sharply. Oh, how could he remind her of that intimate interlude now? “You are cruel, James.”

“Moi?” he asked with wide-eyed innocence and drank another vase of bourbon. “Now that I’ve told you about Audubon, why don’t you tell us some blonde jokes?” He’d been barely picking at his food, but now he was tossing fresh peas in the air and catching them in his mouth one at a time, like peanuts.

Everyone ignored his rude behavior. But, for sure, Ellen Collins would have enough gossip to relate up and down the bayou for a lifetime.

“Blonde jokes? Are you crazy?”

“Oui, I am feeling a bit mad.” He offered her a stark, tight-lipped smile. “You don’t want to regale us with your blonde riddles, Selene? Ah, how unfortunate. Perhaps, I can remember some of the hundreds you’ve told me.”

“I never told you hundreds of jokes,” she said indignantly.

“No? Well, dozens, at least,” he said, winking at her. Lord, between Pierce and James, she was being winked to death.

First he explained to everyone at the table the point of a blonde joke, as if there were one. The dolt! Ellen didn’t look too happy about jokes based on the dumbness and loose morals of blonde women, but Reba giggled behind her fan. Mrs. Baptiste sipped at what must be her sixth mint julep of the day.

Oh, Lord.

“Why is a blonde like a bottle of wine?”

“Why?” Pierce asked enthusiastically.

“They’re both empty from the neck up.” James looked at Selene to see if he had told the joke right, and winked again.

She crossed her eyes at him.

He gave her a cross-eyed look back. Criminey! How could the man look so handsome even when cross-eyed?

“What’s the quickest way to drown a blonde?”

“James!” Selene exclaimed, knowing the insult to come.

“You put a mirror on the bottom of a lake.”

Ellen started hyperventilating, and her husband glared angrily at James.

“That’s enough!” Selene stood. “James, could I please talk to you in the hall?”