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“Just letting go,” he said. “Dancing with you, trying to explain to those idiots who my character was, and yours, too.”
“I bet you turned on a lot of people to Tennessee Williams tonight,” she said, grinning.
They reached the marina, and he dug in his pocket for his keys. The mailboxes were at the entrance to the shared dock. Opening the door to his box, a handful of mail awaited, flyers and square envelopes that looked like they held cards, and a long legal envelope. He closed the door and took her hand again, and they walked down to the boat. “Watch your step,” he said, helping her climb in. They descended the staircase into the cabin below.
“I need to get into the shower,” she said. “Is it okay if I shower here, or should I run down to Café Delphine?”
“No, shower here,” he said. “I’ll fix us tea. I need to unwind before I get into bed.”
“I forgot to ask, where are the kids tonight?”
“They went to the parade with a neighbor after we ate together,” he said. “I usually take them, but tonight was for us.”
“Aw, Alphé, I wouldn’t have minded.”
“I know, but I wanted to be with you, to focus on you. Next parade, Fat Tuesday, we can take them if you’re okay with it.”
“I’m fine with it.” She gathered up her things. “I’ll be right out.”
She went into the head, and he heard the water turn on. In the galley, he made a cup of tea and got one ready for Katrina. Back out in the cabin, he leafed through the mail, saving the greeting cards for the kids to open. The legal envelope had a return address that he didn’t recognize, a lawyer in Saint John’s Parish. Taking a sip of tea, he examined the envelope, assuming off the bat it was Lola’s new divorce attorney, and feeling a little admiration for her that she’d sought out someone as quickly as he’d requested. Maybe Lola was turning over a new leaf. He stuck the tip of his pocketknife in the loose corner and ran it along the top of the envelope.
Pulling the letter out, he squinted his eyes to read it, finally giving in and turning the overhead lights on. The little wall sconce wasn’t bright enough.
Dear Mr. Beaumont.
He read down the paragraphs, and it wasn’t completely clear what was being asked of him. Rereading, he figured out that they wanted to collect samples of his DNA for the purpose of determining the paternity of Priscilla and Rumor Beaumont.
He looked out the window for a second, the clanging of halyards disrupting his concentration. Although he was named as the father on their birth certificates, at the present time a question existed that he wasn’t the genetic father.
“What the fuck does this mean?” he said out loud.
“What’s wrong?” Katrina asked.
“Read this and tell me what you think.”
She read it and handed it back to him. “It looks like they are trying to determine the paternity of Pris and Rumor.”
“I need to talk to Lola tonight. Would you be upset if I walked you back to your apartment?”
She had all kinds of advice and wanted to keep talking but chose at that moment to keep her thoughts to herself. “Do you even know where she is?”
“She’d better be home,” he answered, grabbing a shirt out of his closet to wear over the wifebeater T-shirt. “I’ll text you later if it’s not too late.”
It was almost midnight, but this was important enough to bypass sleep. He was an adult man; there was no way she was going to start telling him what to do now.
Gathering her belongings, Katrina climbed out of the boat and followed him down the dock. It was post-party time, the atmosphere still ripe, music still drifting out over the water from some party inland, laughter, the smell of barbeque even at midnight.
Nothing was said as they approached her door.
“I’ll text you later,” he repeated, kissing her on the mouth.
She tasted tea and sugar and alcohol. Probably not the optimal time for him to discuss paternity. It was on the tip of her tongue to offer him her car, but she quickly thought better of it. When he started to walk north on Main Street, she got it. He wasn’t going to risk driving his own truck, either. The walk would sober him up a little bit.
He turned the corner off Main Street, his blood pressure leveling off. Lights were on at his house, and he didn’t see Alfonso Casson’s boat of a car, a twenty-year-old Cadillac. Climbing the path to the front door, he paused to listen. Laughter that sounded like Lola’s, and then a deeper voice. Shaking his head, he wondered who else was in town that she’d lure into the house with the kids at home. The situation was reaching desperation levels.
Rather than knock and risk a fight, he sent her a text.I’m standing outside and hear you and your friend. We need to talk regarding the letter from your attorney.
The lock switched and the door opened. “It’s past midnight.”
