“You okay?” Clete said.
No, I wasn’t okay. And neither was he. And I had no way to set things right. Also, at that moment I had no way of knowing that Gretchen and Alafair and, in her sad way, Tee Jolie would write the fifth act in our Elizabethan tale on the banks of Bayou Teche.
GRETCHEN HAD RENTED a cottage in the little tree-shaded town of Broussard, located on the old two-lane highway midway between New Iberia and Lafayette. On Wednesday morning she looked out her front window at a scene she had trouble assimilating. Across the street, Pierre Dupree was walking a child through the side door of a Catholic church. The child could not have been over eight or nine years and wore metal braces on both of his legs. Gretchen took a cup of coffee out on her gallery and sat down on the steps and watched the church. A few minutes later, Dupree came back outside with the little boy and escorted him to a playground and placed him on a swing and began pushing him back and forth. Dupree seemed to take no notice of anyone around him or the fact that he was being watched.
Ten minutes passed, and Dupree strapped the little boy in the front seat of his Humvee. Gretchen set down her coffee cup and walked out onto the swale and leaned on one arm against the live oak that
shaded the front of her cottage. Still Dupree did not notice her. He pulled out on the street and drove toward the only traffic signal in town. Then she saw his face reflected in the outside mirror as his brake lights went on. He made a U-turn in the filling station at the intersection and drove back toward her, turning in to her driveway, the shadows of the live oak bouncing on his windshield. He opened the door and got out. “I didn’t realize that was you,” he said.
“Who else do I look like?” she asked, her arm still propped against the tree trunk.
“If you don’t want to talk to me, Miss Gretchen, I understand. But I want you to know I hold no grudge against you.”
“Why is it I don’t believe that?”
“I guess I’m a mighty poor salesman.”
The little boy was looking out the passenger window at her, his head barely above the windowsill. She winked at him.
“This is Gus. He’s my little pal in Big Brothers,” Pierre said.
“Been at it long?” Gretchen said.
“Just of recent. I was enrolling Gus in the Catholic school here. I’m endowing a scholarship fund.”
She nodded and tucked her shirt into her jeans with her thumbs. “How you doin’, Gus?” she said.
“Fine,” the little boy replied. He had a burr haircut and eyes that were mere slits, as though his face had not been fully formed.
“I blame myself for what happened in the restaurant in New Orleans,” Pierre said. “I got involved in some business dealings that had consequences I didn’t foresee. That’s my fault and not yours. I think you’re quite a woman, Miss Gretchen. I’d like to know you better.”
“You’re serious?”
“How many times does a guy meet a one-woman army?” He held his gaze on hers. “At least think about it. What’s to lose? You’ve already shown what you can do if a fellow gets out of line.”
Something was changed about him, she thought, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. Maybe it was his hair. It looked freshly washed and blow-dried. Or was it his eyes? They were free of scorn and arrogance. Also, he seemed genuinely happy.
“Is Mr. Dupree treating you all right, Gus?” she said to the little boy.
“We went to the carnival in Lafayette. We went to the zoo, too,” Gus replied.
“How about it?” Dupree said.
“How about what?” she said.
“Having lunch with me and Gus. Then I have to get him back home. It’s a beautiful day.” Again, his eyes lingered on hers. They were warm and seemed free of guile. “Have you ever modeled?”
“Sure, steroid ads when I rode with Dykes on Bikes.”
“Stop it,” he said.
He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. She gazed down the street, her chin raised slightly, her pulse fluttering in her throat.
“I’d love to get you on canvas,” he said. “Come on, have lunch and we’ll talk about it. I’m no Jasper Johns, but I’m not bad at what I do.”
“Sorry, no cigar,” she said.
“I’m disappointed. Keep me in mind, will you? You’re a pistol, Miss Gretchen.”