"Stop worrying. It's nothing. I'll tell you what," he said, gazing to our right and nodding, "let's land over there by that clearing and sprawl out in the sun to dry for a while. We won't look so bad when we go back," he suggested.

I nodded and started to get up to pole, but he stopped me and took over. When we struck shore, he hopped out and pulled the canoe up before helping me get out. For a moment we stood so close to each other, we could feel each other's breath on our faces. His eyes held mine magnetically.

"My hair's a mess," I said softly.

"You look even more beautiful."

I started to disagree, but he put his finger on my lips and held it there a moment. Then he lifted it away and slowly, but surely, replaced his finger with his lips. It was so gentle a kiss, I could have imagined it, but when I opened my eyes, I saw his eyes were still closed. He looked like he was devouring the sensation with great intensity so as to get every bit of pleasure from it. His eyes opened and he smiled.

"I feel unreal, like I've entered your magical kingdom."

"It's not magical, monsieur, it's . . ."

"Oh yes, it is, and your kiss is the key," he said before kissing me again, this time harder, longer. I let myself sink into his arms, our wet clothing rubbing, the heat of his body caressing my skin, my breasts.

We sank to our knees and he sat back, bracing himself with his hands, his face to the sun.

"I'm not sure which kiss is warmer, the sun's or yours," he muttered with his eyes still closed.

"I don't know how this could have happened. I can pole a canoe better than my daddy can," I said, still ashamed.

"I'm glad it happened," Pierre replied. "Here," he said, lying back and extending his arm. "Just lie back on me and it will be comfortable."

I did as he suggested, my head against his chest, his arm around my shoulder. We lay there silently, our wet clothing steaming in the hot Louisiana midday sun.

"I feel like a Cajun peanut," I muttered after a few moments.

"What's that?"

"Shrimp dried in the hot sun."

He laughed. "You're so full of surprises, every expression, every word, is something unexpected. What a delight. Tell me how it can be that you have not been stolen away and married. Are all the young men blind here?"

I said nothing. The silence was heavy.

"No boyfriend?" Pierre pursued.

"No, monsieur." I sat up.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry," he said quickly.

"I should take you back," I said. "Mama will be angry no matter what."

I started to stand, but he reached out and seized my left wrist.

"I haven't known you long, but somehow, I feel I can be honest with you, and I hope you feel you can be honest with me. There's a pain in your heart. I wish I could remove that pain. I wish I had some of the magic that's in this place."

I sat again. He released my wrist, but took hold of my hand.

"Gabrielle. Your name is like music to me." He took my other hand and gently, but firmly, pulled me closer to him. "You're too beautiful to be unhappy. I won't permit it," he said, and kissed me again. When we parted, he wiped away the fugitive tear that had escaped from under my burning eyelid. "Someone hurt you? Some young man?"

"Not some young man," I said.

"An older man?" I nodded. "He took advantage of you? This happened recently?" he asked, firing one question after another.

"Yes. Often I go into the swamp alone. He came upon me one day and . . ."

"I hope he was made to suffer for it."

"No, monsieur. He is a wealthy man, and wealthy people often escape pain and suffering," I said bitterly.

"That's not true everywhere," Pierre said, and looked down. "At least, it's not true for me."

"Your brother," I said, recalling what he had told me. He nodded.

"There's more. I don't wear the ring all the time," he said, "but . . ."

My heart stopped and then started. "You're married, monsieur?"

With great reluctance, he nodded.

"Oh," I said, as if my heart had turned to lead. For a moment I couldn't breathe. The air seemed even more humid, more tepid.

"But it's not a happy marriage," he said quickly. "We are childless and the doctors say that is the way it will always be. My wife has some difficulties."

Despite the weakness in my legs, I stood up quickly. "We must return to the shack, monsieur. I must help my mother prepare for the day's selling."

"Of course."

"I am sorry I caused this to happen to you. Mama will get your clothing dried quickly. It will be better if we just walk along the bank," I added.

He stood. "Gabrielle. My wife is even more bitter about our marriage than I am. She thinks I think less of her. It's as if a wall has fallen between us these days. A house, a home, a marriage, should be filled with love. Two people should do everything they can to make each other's lives more meaningful, happier; but we are like two strangers sharing coffee these days.

"My heart hasn't felt as light and happy for some time as it did when I first saw you emerge from the fog in the swamp. You are truly like a breath of fresh air. I assure you, I mean it when I say I would do anything in my power to keep sadness from your door."

"Merci, monsieur," I said, but I started to walk away. He followed.

"Gabrielle." He took my hand into his again and I turned. "You felt something special when we kissed, too, didn't you?"

"I do not trust my own feelings anymore, monsieur. Besides," I added, gazing down, "you are married, monsieur. I don't want to go looking for any more trouble; it has a way of finding me itself."

"I understand." He nodded and then smiled. "Can we be friends?"

I shook my head.

"Why not? I'm really a nice guy," he said, smiling. "I'll bring you references."

"I'm sure you are nice, monsieur."

"Then?"

I lifted my gaze to look into his mesmerizing green eyes. "Being friends with you . . . it's like being a starving person in Mama's kitchen and promising only to take a small taste of the shrimp etouffée, monsieur. Why fool yourself into believing the impossible? Once you taste it, you can't help yourself."

He laughed. "Not only beautiful and magical, but wise, too. I'm tormented by the possibility we will never see each other again. You won't turn me away, will you?"

"I'm sure you have fine, well-to-do friends in New Orleans, monsieur. You don't need a poor Cajun girl in the bayou."

"That's exactly what I need," he said as we continued to walk along. He still held on to my hand. "Someone who will tell me the truth and listen with sincerity to what I say. I'll pay you for your time. I know. I'll hire you as my personal swamp guide," he added. "I'm sure there is a great deal more you can show me."

"But, monsieur . . ."

"As long as you don't dunk me in the water every time we go poling," he added.

I couldn't help but laugh.

"That's better. Look at me, soaked but happy. I'm like a little boy again," he said.

His exuberance swept me along. I thought of dozens of reasons to protest and refuse him, but he was too cheerful and too determined.

And something inside me kept me from shutting the door.


11

  The Hidden Ring

"What happened?" Mama asked the moment she set eyes on us.

"A little accident, Madame Landry," Pierre replied quickly, before, I had a chance to explain. "It's no one's fault, or if it is anyone's fault, it's mine. I was talking so much and asking so many questions, Gabrielle was distracted while we were in her canoe."

"You turned your canoe over in the canal?" Mama asked me with surprise. She knew how expert I was at poling a pirogue.

"No, Mama. I hit a rock while we were in the small pirogue and I fell out."

She was nonplussed for a moment, her eyes shifting from Pierre to me.

"Go change," she ordered me. She turned back to Pierre. "I have some clean, dry clothes for you to put on, monsieur. One moment."

"Please, don't go to any trouble," Pierre said, but Mama was already off to fetch the clothing. Pierre gazed at me and shrugged.

"Gabrielle!" Mama called from the stairway.

"Coming, Mama." I hurried up behind her.

"How did such a thing happen, Gabrielle?" she demanded in a loud whisper.

"Just the way he described, Mama. I wasn't paying attention and I poled us right into a rock. I lost balance and fell overboard."

"How did he get soaked, too?"

"He jumped in to help me."

"He jumped in?"

"Oui, Mama."

She stared at me a moment and then shook her head. "Change your clothes," she said.

By the time I came downstairs, Mama had Pierre dressed in Daddy's best pair of slacks and one of his best shirts. He was barefoot while Mama dried his shoes and socks, pants and shirt, on the stove. His underpants were hanging on the line in the sun. He looked up at me from the plank table in the kitchen. He had an impish grin and appeared to be positively enjoying every moment of my disaster. Before him on the table was a mug of steaming Cajun coffee and a bowl of gumbo.

"Our unexpected swim has made me ravenously hungry," he explained. "And I am glad of that because this is absolutely the most delicious shrimp gumbo I've ever eaten. So you see . . . at the end of every storm, there is some sort of rainbow."

I started to smile, but Mama raised her eyebrows.

"Sit down," she directed, "and get some nourishment in your stomach, too. Honestly, Gabrielle, how could you take Monsieur Dumas into the swamp to show him a pond filled with alligators and snapping turtles and snakes and then be so careless as to fall out of your canoe?"

"I didn't take him to any pond filled with alligators, Mama."

Pierre's smile widened. Just as I sat, we heard a car horn. "Customers," Mama said.

"I'll get my own gumbo, Mama. Thank you."

She gave us a once-over, her eyes filled with suspicion and reprimand, before hurrying out to the stand.

"Your mother's wonderful," Pierre said. "The sort of woman who takes command. I was afraid to say no to anything."

"When you leave, she will bawl me out for endangering a rich gentleman from New Orleans," I told him, and dipped into the black cast-iron pot to ladle out some gumbo for myself. I, too, was suddenly starving.

"I eat in the finest restaurants in New Orleans, but I don't think I ever enjoyed a meal more," he said, gazing around the small kitchen. "My cook has a kitchen to rival the best restaurants, and your mother does so much with so little."

"Where do you live in New Orleans, monsieur?" "Please, call me Pierre, Gabrielle. I live in what's known as the Garden District."

"What is it?"

"The Garden District? Well, it began as the area for the rich Americans when New Orleans became part of the U.S.A. These people were not accepted by the French Quarter Creoles, so they developed their own lavish neighborhood. My grandfather got our property in a foreclosure and decided we weren't above living there. Elegant gardens visible from the street give this section of the city its name. Tourists visit, but there are no buses permitted. There are some famous houses in the Garden District, such as the Payne-Strachan House. Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy, died there in 1889.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound like a tour guide," he said, laughing at his own enthusiasm.

"Is your house very big?"

He nodded.

"Is it bigger than any house you've seen in the bayou?" He nodded again.

"How big is your house?" I demanded, and he laughed. "It's a two-story Grecian with two galeries in front. I think there are fourteen or fifteen rooms."

"You think? You live in a house so big you're not sure of how many rooms?"

"It's fifteen," he said. Then he paused. "Maybe sixteen. I don't know if I should count the cook's quarters as one room or two. And of course, there's the ballroom."

"Ballroom? In a house?"

"We have some rooms that haven't been used for anything yet. If I count them, too . . ."

"Mon Dieu! Is there much land around it?"

"We have some outbuildings, a stable, a pool, and a tennis court. I never measured it, but I bet it's over an acre of land."

"You have a stable in the city?" He nodded. "Are you the richest family in New Orleans?" I wondered, wide-eyed.

He laughed. "Hardly. In this section there are a number of large estates like ours."

"How tiny and poor our shack must seem to you," I said, gazing down as ashamedly as someone caught with holes in the soles of her shoes.