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"I can't ask you to do anything, Pierre. It's enough that you and I have been together while you are married, but I believed you when you said our love is so good and pure, it makes it all right. I wanted to believe you."
"Don't stop believing that, Gabriel. It's true. It's as true as the morning light and the evening stars." He stepped closer to me. "How can you deny that?"
"I don't deny it," I said softly.
"Good. Love me then, Gabriel; love me as purely as I love you and throw caution and
unhappiness to the wind."
"Pierre," I said, whispering. He put his hands on my shoulders. I couldn't drive him away; I didn't have the strength. God forgive me, I thought, but I love him more than I love what's logical or right or what's sensible. He kissed me and I kissed him back.
Instantly his arms were around me. He lifted me to him and held me.
"I thought I might kill myself," he whispered in my ear between kisses. "I thought I might throw myself into your swamp and let your snakes or alligators feast on my depressed body. It seemed a fit place to die."
"No, Pierre. Don't think of such a terrible thing."
"I won't as long as you will hold me and be with me and love me," he said. I promised I would and we kissed again. Then we stepped into his canoe. I lay back and watched him push off and pole us into the darkness.
The swamp seemed to come alive. It was as if all sound, all life, had been put on hold while we spoke, and now that we were quiet, Nature spoke. She spoke through the owl that hooted from the branch of the pecan tree onshore, the cicadas that raised their voices to drone their nightly symphony, the frogs that croaked at us every inch of the way, and the night heron that called from the darkness.
We returned to our love nest that night, and together, we burned my letter and watched the flames consume it.
"Let those dark thoughts evaporate with the smoke," Pierre said, and kissed me.
I lay back, too emotionally exhausted to resist or even to hesitate. Afterward, he brought me home before Mama returned from her traiteur mission. He told me he had to leave in the morning.
"I won't be able to return for nearly two weeks because I'm going on a business trip to Texas with my father."
"I will miss you and count the days until I see you again," I promised.
"I don't suppose I can come calling on you when I do return. Your mother wouldn't be too happy about that." "No."
"I expect your father wouldn't be pleased either. But I can't just come by and stand waiting for you to see me, so here's what I'm going to do," he said, and took off the blue silk cravat he had around his neck. "When you find this tied to the northeast post on your dock, you will know I am here and waiting for you. Bring it with you when you come," he said.
"Someday, somehow," he added with a sigh, "we might not have to be so secretive, but as for now . . ."
"As for now, let's not think about it," I told him. He smiled and kissed me good night. He waited as I ran up to the house and turned once to wave goodbye. He pushed off into the darkness as was gone, and I went inside.
As Mama had thought, she had to stay with Nicolette Loomis most of the night and was exhausted herself when she returned just before daybreak. Daddy didn't come home at all until the following afternoon. He made no excuses and Mama didn't ask him for any.
I said nothing to Mama about Pierre. If she knew anything by reading my face, she didn't reveal it.
Daddy had two hunting trips that week, and Mama and I were busy making food and selling our wares.
I went to town on an errand the following Saturday and spotted the Tates' automobile in front of the dry goods store. Neither Gladys or Octavious seemed to be around, so I wandered up the walk toward the car. When I peered into the rear, I saw the nanny and Paul. He smiled at me and I smiled back, but I moved away quickly when I thought Gladys Tate was returning. Even so, I had a long enough look at Paul to see how he had grown, how bright his eyes were and how beautiful he was.
Mama sensed a lightness in my gait and a contentment in my smile during those days. I could see it in the way she looked at me from time to time, but she didn't ask me anything, nor reveal she suspected anything. I was spending almost all my time working beside her or taking my walks in the swamp alone. I helped Daddy, too.
I hated being deceitful and secretive, but I told myself this was one of those times when it was better for everyone. I was afraid I was becoming a little like Daddy, who used to say lying and stealing were all right if they were meant to help someone you love or who needs it.
Mama, of course, accused him of just making up an excuse for his own evil ways.
"It will all come home to roost and haunt you in your old age, Jack Landry," she predicted. "The ghosts of your sins will be your own company."
I was terrified, of course, that what she predicted for Daddy would fit my future, too; but every time I entertained a thought to try to end my love for Pierre again, his face, his words, his warm lips, returned to mind and drove those thoughts away, fluttering off like a flock of rice birds spooked by an alligator.
The weeks passed too slowly, and when the time came for him to be here, I looked eagerly for his blue silk cravat; but every day I looked, I found nothing. I was afraid he had tied it and it had come loose and been carried down the canal, so I even poled up to the Daisys' landing to check, but he wasn't there. Another week passed and I began to grow desperately worried. Had our love affair been discovered and his father forbidden him to see me again? Had Daphne found out and made great trouble between them? Perhaps something happened to him and he was sick or hurt, I thought. It was terrible having to live in ignorance and darkness when it came to him. After another day passed and there was no cravat, I entertained the thought of going to town to use a pay phone and call his residence in New Orleans; but the idea of hearing his wife's voice, or even a maid's or butler's, terrified me. I could get him in trouble, I thought. So I waited, growing sadder and more depressed with every passing hour, much less every passing day.
