so much more mature, his face firmer. In his dark blue
suit and tie, he appeared taller and wider in the
shoulders. The resemblances in Paul's, Gisselle's, and
my face could be seen in his nose and cerulean eyes,
but his hair, a mixture of blond and brown--what the
Cajuns called chatin--was thinner and very long. He
brushed back the strands that had fallen over his
forehead when he broke into a trot to reach me before
I got into the limousine.
Without saying a word, he seized me and
embraced me.
"Who is this?" Daphne demanded. The final
mourners who were leaving the cemetery turned to
watch and listen, too.
"It's Paul," I said quickly. "Paul Tate." Daphne knew about our half brother, but she
refused to acknowledge him or ever make any
reference to him. She had no interest in hearing about
him the one time he had come to see us in New
Orleans. Now she twisted her mouth into an ugly
grimace.
"I am sorry for your sorrow, madame," he said.
"I came as quickly as I could," he added, turning back
to me when she didn't respond. "I didn't find out until
I called the school to speak with you and one of the
girls in your dorm told me. I got into my car right
away and drove straight to the house. The butler gave
me directions to the cemetery."
"I'm glad you've come, Paul," I said.
"Can we all get into the car and go home,"
Daphne complained, "or do you intend to stand in a