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"It's what she liked," Daphne said.
I whipped my head around. What I liked? I never was given a chance to offer an opinion. Why did she say that? "Well, I want some new clothes then, too," Gisselle moaned.
"You can get a few new things, but there's no reason to throw out your entire wardrobe."
Gisselle sat back and looked at me with a smile of satisfaction.
Our meal service began. We ate on a floral pattern set of porcelain china, which Daphne pointed out was nineteenth century. She made everything, down to the napkin holders, sound so expensive and precious, my fingers trembled when I went to lift my fork. I hesitated when I saw there were two. Daphne explained how I was to use the silverware and even how I should sit and hold it.
I didn't know whether or not the meal was something done especially for the occasion of our first dinner together, but it seemed overwhelming.
We began with an appetizer of crabmeat ravigote served in scallop shells. That was followed with grilled cornish game hens with roasted shallots and browned garlic sauce, and Creole green beans. For dessert we were served vanilla ice cream smothered in hot bourbon whiskey sauce.
I saw how Edgar stood just behind Daphne after he served each course, waiting for her to take her first taste and signal approval. I couldn't imagine anyone not being satisfied with anything on the table. My father asked me to describe some of the meals I had in the bayou and I described the gumbos and the jambalayas, the homemade cakes and pastries.
"It doesn't sound like they starved you," Gisselle remarked. I couldn't help sounding
enthusiastic over the meals Grandmere Catherine used to make.
"Gumbo is nothing more than a stew," Daphne said. "The food is plain and simple. It doesn't take much imagination. You can see that yourself, can't you, Ruby?" she asked me firmly. I glanced at my father, who waited for my response.
"Nina Jackson is a wonderful cook. I never had such a meal," I admitted. That pleased Daphne and another little crisis seemed to pass. How hard it was for me to get used to belittling and criticizing my life with Grandmere, but realized that was the currency I would need to pay for the life I now had.
The conversation at the table moved from my description of foods in the bayou to questions Daphne had for Gisselle about the Mardi Gras Ball. She described the costumes and the music, referring to people they all knew. She and Daphne seemed to share opinions about certain families and their sons and daughters. Tired of hearing the gossip, my father began to talk about my artwork.
"I've already inquired about an instructor. Madam Henreid over at the Gallier House has recommended someone to me, an instructor at Tulane who takes pupils on the side. I've already spoken with him and he's agreed to meet Ruby and consider her work," he said.
"How come I never got my singing instructor," Gisselle whined.
"You never really showed that much interest, Gisselle. Every time I asked you to go to the teacher, you had some excuse not to," he explained.
"Well, she should have been brought here," Gisselle insisted.
"She would have come," he said, looking to Daphne. "Of course she would have come. Do you want your father to call her again?" she asked.
"No," Gisselle said. "It's too late."
"Why?" he asked.
"It just is," she said, pouting.
When dinner was over, my father decided he would show me the room he had in mind for my art studio. He winked at Daphne and had a tight smile on his lips. Reluctantly, Gisselle tagged along. He took us toward the rear of the house and when he threw open the door, there it was--a full art studio, already in place with easels, paints, brushes, clays, everything I would ever need or dreamt of having. For a moment I was speechless.
"I had this all done while you were out shopping with Daphne," he revealed. "Do you like it?"
"Like it? I love it!" I whirled around the room inspecting everything. There was even a pile of art books, going from the most elementary things to the most elaborate and complicated. "It's. . . wonderful!"
"I thought we should waste no time, not with a talent like yours. What do you think, Gisselle?" I turned to see her smirking in the doorway.
"I hate art class in school," she remarked. Then she focused a conspiratorial look on me and added, "I'm going up to my room. Come up as soon as you can. We have some things to prepare for later."
"Later?" my father asked.
"Just girl talk, Daddy," Gisselle said, and left. He shrugged and joined me at the shelves of supplies.
"I told Emile at the art store to give me everything we would need to have a complete studio," he said. "Are you pleased?"
"Oh, yes. There are things here, materials and supplies I have never seen, much less used."
