sights began to appear, my apprehension grew. I took
deep breaths and hoped that I would be able to talk
without bursting into tears.
I directed Beau to the Tate residence. It was one
of the larger homes in the Houma area, a two-and-ahalf-story Greek Revival with six fluted Ionic
columns set on pilastered bases a little out from the
edge of the gallery. It had fourteen rooms and a large
drawing room. Gladys Tate was proud of the decor in
her home and her art, and until Paul had built the
mansion for me, she had the finest house in our area. By the time we drove up, the sky had turned
ashen and the air was so thick with humidity, I
thought I could see droplets forming before my eyes.
The bayou was still, almost as still as it could be in
the eye of a storm. Leaves hung limply on the
branches of trees, and even the birds were depressed
and settled in some shadowy corners.
The windows were bleak with their curtains drawn closed or their shades down. The glass reflected the oppressive darkness that loomed over the swamps. Nothing stirred. It was a house draped in mourning, its inhabitants well cloistered in their private misery. My heart felt so heavy; my fingers trembled as I opened the car door. Beau reached over
to squeeze my arm with reassurance.
"Let's be calm," he advised. I nodded and tried
to swallow, but a lump stuck in my throat like swamp
mud on a shoe. We walked up the stairs and Beau
dropped the brass knocker against the plate. The
hollow thump seemed to be directed into my chest
rather than into the house. A few moments later, the
door was thrust open with such an angry force, it was
as if a wind had blown it. Toby stood before us. She
was dressed in black and had her hair pinned back
severely. Her face was wan and pale.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"We've come to speak with your mother and