His face brightened. "That's the way you should feel," he said, nodding. "He didn't come for you and the baby while you were living here in your grandmere's shack, did he?"

"No," I said sadly.

"And he never even inquired about your wellbeing afterward. He's just as self-centered as your sister. They belong together. I'm right, aren't I?"

I nodded reluctantly.

He smirked. "But that doesn't mean you don't love him, does it?" he asked in a tired and defeated tone of voice.

"Love is something . . . you can't control sometimes," I said.

"I know," he replied. "I'm glad you think so, too." We stared at each other for a moment. Then he put the newspaper on the dresser and left.

I sat by my window thinking that Paul and I had more in common now than ever before. Both of us were in love with people we couldn't love the way we wanted to, the way we should love. I sighed just as deeply as he had sighed and then I took the newspaper and threw it in the nearest garbage can.

Despite Paul's and my desperate attempts to cheer each other up, a pall fell over Cypress Woods during the days that followed. The shadows seemed darker and longer, and the rain more persistent, heavier, gloomier than ever. I retreated to my work. I wanted to leave the real world and live in the world I was creating with my paintings. I continued painting the series of pictures of the Confederate soldier and his lover, but my next painting was a very melancholy one. In it I depicted the soldier being carried out of the wooded battlefield on a stretcher. He looked like Beau, of course, and on his lips one could almost read his call for me. . . Ruby. He had that far-off, dreamy look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who had focused on the woman he loved with all his strength, knowing that in moments the light would go out and he would lose her face, her voice, the scent of her hair and the touch of her lips, in the darkness forever and ever.

I actually sobbed while I painted, the tears dripping off my cheeks, and when I was finished, I sat in the window seat and gazed out at the canals, embracing myself and crying like a baby.

My next picture depicted his lover getting the terrible news. Her face was twisted with agony, her hands wrenching a handkerchief in them while a pocket watch he had given her dangled from her fingers. The messenger looked just as sad as she did, with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.

I did both pictures in darker shades and had the Spanish-moss-laden cypress either in the background or off to the side. I decided to paint the outline of gleeful Death in the cobweblike strands.

When Paul saw the pictures the first time, he said nothing. His eyes narrowed and then he walked to the window and gazed out over our beautifully landscaped gardens and hedges toward the canals where we used to pole in a pirogue together and talk about the sort of man and woman we wanted to be when we were adults living on our own.

"I've put you in a different sort of prison," he said sadly. "I've done a terrible thing."

"No you haven't, Paul. You've only tried to do the best things for Pearl and me. Don't blame yourself for anything. I won't hear of it."

He turned around, his face darker and more despondent than I had ever seen it.

"I wanted only for you to be happy, Ruby."

"I know that," I said, smiling.

"But I feel like the man who captured the beautiful mockingbird and put it in a cage in his house, giving it the best things to eat and the most loving attention he could. Even so, he woke up one morning and found it had died of a broken heart, its eyes turned toward the window and the freedom it had known and needed. It's true, you can love too much."

"I don't mind being loved too much," I said. "Please, Paul, I don't want you to be sad because of anything I say or do. I'll throw these pictures away."

"Oh no. They are some of your best work. Don't you dare!" he exclaimed. "You're going to become famous because of this series."

"It's almost more important to you than it is to me that I become a well-known artist, isn't it?" I asked.

"Of course. 'Wild Cajun artist captures the minds and imaginations of the sophisticated art world," " he announced, and drew the headlines in the air.

I laughed.

"Let's have a nice dinner tonight, a special dinner, and then go listen to some zydeco music. We haven't done that for quite a while," he suggested.

"Fine."

"Oh," he said on the way out, "did I tell you? I bought some more property this morning."

"What property?"

"All the land south of us to the canals. We're now the biggest landowners in all Terrebone Parish. Not bad for two swamp rats, huh?" he said proudly. He laughed and went down to tell Letty to do something special for us for dinner. Just before I went down to dinner, however, I received a phone call from Gisselle.

"I've been waiting for you to call me," she began, "to congratulate me on my marriage."

Tags: V.C. Andrews Landry Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net