Posts Tagged First Novel
“Au revoir, darling,” Marguerite said, waving from the carriage carrying her and her retinue of servants to the riverboat, Creole Belle. With afternoon settling toward evening, the last trip upriver departed within the hour.
“Dream of me every night,” she said, as the driver cracked the reigns, lurching the carriage into a rumbling motion forward. “Au revoir, my dear,” Tomas said, touching her fingers with his as they moved past. “I’ll see you in a week’s time at the Willows. Travel safe, mon amour!”
“I’ll dream of you, my love!” Marguerite continued, waving a pink silk scarf out the window. “Until we meet again!”
714 Rue St. Peters would be quiet, now that Marguerite and her servants were gone. Almost ghost like, he thought as he walked through the gate, and into the inner courtyard of Laiche House. Built by his father as a retreat from the plantation, Tomas called it home from the moment he took command of the Two Seas, some ten years back.
“Woo-ee!” Tomas’s servant said as he opened the red patio door, welcoming Tomas home. Named only Joe, the negro was one of two free blacks from the Willows who chose to work for Tomas at his New Orleans residence. The formal green garb of a Laiche footman made the elderly man look younger, while his jovial smile and pleasant disposition inspired true southern hospitality.
“Dat woman’s a whirlwind, Marse Tomas,” Joe said, holding the door as Tomas walked through. “She ain’t never settle down the entire time she here.”
Tomas nodded but said nothing – his mind focused on a mysterious artist that swirled around inside his head.
“I think Monsieur Gullette will be dropping by for dinner,” he said after a moment. “Best have some shrimp po boys prepared, maybe etouffee as well. Nothing too grand.”
“I’ll get on it right away, den.” He reached for Tomas’s coat, but Tomas shook his head.
“I’m going out for a bit of a walk,” Tomas said. “Too much excitement for one day. Fresh air will do me good.”
“Yassir,” Joe said. “Miss Marg’rite has a way of making a man crazy, dat for sure. What time you comin’ back?”
“By seven,” Tomas said, plopping his felt hat atop his head and lifting his cane – a silver-capped stick with an ebony wood shaft. “If Gullette arrives before me, please make him feel at home.”
“I’ll whoop him at backgammon by the time you get back,” Joe said, smiling and leading Tomas through the foyer, toward the front door opening onto Rue St. Peter. “He thinks he can beat ole Joe, but he ain’t never come close.”
“Maybe today?” Tomas said, nodding at Joe as he walked through the door.
“Ain’t likely,” Joe called out. “But ya never know!”
The walk from his residence to Jackson Square took close to twenty minutes, as various people he knew from the neighborhood stopped him to inquire into his health. It was a small community, with many of the houses along this street being second residences of the planters. While it was air he claimed he was interested in, what he really wanted was seeing the artist in the square. Her work was impressive, but he wasn’t seeking art. What intrigued him more were those eyes.
Looking into those dark eyes snapped something into place, as if finding a missing piece of a puzzle. He had to discover what the piece was, what it meant and why he was drawn to its fire.
As he walked past the mansard-roofed Presbetyre and looked down St. Ann toward the Market, he could just make out the corner where the artist was still painting. Gulls winged over her head, circling and dancing in and out of a gathered group of children.
Flutters tickled his chest, pulling him up short. What was that? Nerves? He shook his head. How could he be nervous going to see an artist he didn’t know?
There they were again, this time stronger. He WAS nervous. His breath came up short, while his heart raced like a runaway cart. This was crazy! He took a deep breath, then looked around. It felt like he had walked for miles. No, RAN and now just found his breath.
No one noticed, or even saw he was there. At this time of the afternoon, most people would be either heading home for dinner, or coming to the cathedral. Those coming for evening Mass were more interested in their souls than the cowardly owner of a shipping company, too scared to talk to a street artist.
Spinning his cane, he nodded then plodded forward as if walking along the soft, clinging muddy banks of the Mississippi. Why were his legs shaking? There was nothing to fear! She was an artist for Christ’s sake.
He forced them to work, and in year-long seconds, found himself standing with a group of children watching the raven-haired artist finish her painting.
Beautiful. Soft, gull-like forms spun in colorful circles over what appeared to be the Square, represented by fading grays and blues. It was like seeing life through fog-covered glasses, while feeling its energy at the same time. People moved, trees shaded – all represented by softened shapes that ‘almost’ resembled reality.
Sounds faded, and he fell into the picture. As if walking among the gulls, the scene washed through him, over him – filling him with a color-soaked, ‘love of life’ sort of energy which roared through his soul. It was –
“Monsieur?” a soft voice said. “Are you alright?” He blinked, shook his head and looked around. He was dizzy, as if he’d been shaken awake from a vivid dream.
“Excuse moi?” he said, breaking his gaze from the painting – joining the artist’s deep eyes.
“I asked if you were interested in purchasing the painting?” she said, smiling up from her stool. “You seemed lost.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, feeling the energy return to his head – buzzing and crackling throughout. “Lost. I did feel like I was…” He shook his head again.
“Never mind,” Tomas said. “Oui, Madame, I’m interested in purchasing the painting.”
Three of the children clapped, while another cheered out loud. “Yay for Simone!” the creole girl exclaimed. “Simone sold a painting!” She danced in place, bouncing with her hands held high.
Simone. So that was her name. It sounded… perfect.
“Excellent, Monsieur,” she said, her smile becoming brighter if that were possible. “Merci for your patronage. Shall I wrap it for your fiancé?”
He cocked his head, the dreaminess of the painting rushed from his thoughts with a crash. How did she know he was engaged? Very interesting. “My fiancé?” he said. Simone’s eyes went wide as she caught her words.
“Pardon me, Monsieur,” she said. “I made an assumption and meant no offense. I simply recall the lovely Mademoiselle you were with, and how delighted she might be with this painting for a gift.”
He laughed, throwing his head back as he did. “You clearly remember the scene wrong, Madame,” he said. “If I recall correctly, she compared your work to rats.”
Simone shrugged. “I must not have heard,” she said. “Perhaps it would best if I simply wrapped it, and left the rest for you.” Tomas nodded.
“And its Mademoiselle,” she added, moving splayed strands of black silken hair from her face, draping them over one ear. “Though I prefer Simone.”
Tomas dipped his head in a bow. “Simone,” he said, letting the name linger on his tongue as if tasting its flavor. “Lovely,” he muttered quietly. The way she cocked her head let him know she heard.
“Tomas Laiche,” he said. “Tomas will do.”
“I would not dare be so familiar, Monsieur Laiche,” Simone said. “Especially to a patron with whom I know nothing.”
“You know I appreciate your art, Ma… Simone,” he said. “Isn’t that familiar enough?” She shook her head.
“No, Monsieur,” she said. “It’s not, though I appreciate the fact you enjoy my work.” She took the painting from the easel, then lifted a large piece of brown paper that had been folded away in a satchel.
“The price is twenty dollars, Monsieur,” she said, watching his eyes. Tomas didn’t blink as he met hers. His knees still shook, and he prayed she didn’t notice.
“Bien sûr,” he said, lifting his wallet from within his jacket. “A fair price for such a marvelous piece.” She nodded as he handed over the note.
I wonder how many she sells, he thought, watching her carefully fold the note away into her own wallet. The way she treated it, made him think this was a rare occurrence.
“Shall I have it delivered to your home,” Simone said. “Or would you like to carry it yourself?”
“Delivered, s’il vous plaît,” he said. “Is that extra?” She shook her head.
“Included in the price, Monsieur,” she said, leaning toward one of the children and whispering in her ear. The girl giggled, then skipped off toward a shop in the bottom of the Pontalba building across St. Ann.
Tomas watched, trying to figure out a way to keep the conversation going. He’d been too fast in buying the painting, and now found himself quickly running out of excuses to talk to this amazing woman beyond the moment.
“You don’t deliver it yourself?” he said, saying the first thing that came to mind. ‘That was stupid’ was his next thought.
“Monsieur,” she said. “My delivery person is quite capable of the extreme care needed for a painting such as this.” She tied a brown strong around the wrapped painting. “It’s in good hands, I can assure you.”
Tomas noticed the remaining three children watched carefully, smiling as their wide-eyed glances bounced between the two adults as if watching street performers.
“What if it were to be damaged?” Tomas said, trying to calm his racing heart. It took his entire being to keep the pounding from wavering the tone of his voice.
“If it is,” she said. “Return to me, and I’ll make the necessary repairs.”
“But I don’t want a damaged painting,” he blurted. He smiled, taking a deep breath when he saw her frown.
“Simone,” he said, clearing his voice. “I would be ever so grateful if you were to deliver it in person. Perhaps, even assist in the hanging?”
Simone’s mouth snapped shut, creating a tight line; nothing resembling her smile. Was she shocked? He’d been too forward. Too much, too soon. Damn! The hanging part was even more stupid than the initial request.
“Monsieur Laiche,” Simone said, her voice calm and slow. “I am an artist, not a delivery boy. Certainly one of your slaves can hang the painting just as well as I, if not better.”
“Servants,” Tomas said, shaking his head. “They’re servants in my house.” Simone shrugged, yet her face remained stoic. “They’re not slaves.”
Simone stared at him, her eyes moving between each of his. What’s she thinking, he wondered, hearing his heart pound in his ears. Maybe it’s time to let the delivery boy take the painting.
“Perhaps-“ he said.
“Very well, Monsieur,” Simone stated. “I’ll deliver your painting myself.” She sighed and smirked. “It’s too late in the day to begin anew, anyway.”
Her words rocked him, and if he hadn’t been careful, he would have collapsed from shock.
“You, you will?” he said, then recovered. “Excellent.” He smiled, taking a breath. “It does my mind well knowing it’s being handled with the care it deserves.”
“Oui monsieur,” she said, searching his face. “I’m certain it does.” She bent over to begin packing her supplies, giving him time to breath, as well as a moment to see the rest of her.
As if feeling his eyes, she turned and smiled. “Is there anything else you require, Monsieur?” she said, batting her eyes in a belle-like manner. “Or do you wish to help with my packing?”
“Ah,” Tomas said, trying to come up with a gentlemanly answer to why he was staring her backside. Finding none, he nodded. “Sure, I’ll help. If you don’t mind the assistance?”
She nodded, standing and pointing at the wooden box containing her paints.
“You may take that, monsieur,” she said. “If it’s not too heavy. You don’t look the type for manual labor, so if it’s too much, I can manage myself.”
He frowned, smirked then nodded. “I can carry a box, thank you very much,” he said.
Bending over, he grabbed the handle and lifted, grunting from the weight. What does she have in there? An entire paint factory?
“Très bon,” she said. “I see I was mistaken.” She gathered the rest of her supplies, then placed them inside a worn, leather satchel. The easel folded up into a nice square, and with the straps on the back, turned into backpack – complete with storage for canvas, as well as a peg to hang her stool.
“That’s quite remarkable,” Tomas said, nodding with approval.
“It is,” she said. Turning to the three remaining children, she reached into her pocket and handed them each a piece of brown sugar nugget.
“Merci, Simone,” they said, stuffing the candy into their mouths. “We will see you tomorrow!” She grinned, ruffling one of the girl’s hair.
“I can hardly wait,” Simone said. “You’re my inspirations!”
“Yay!” they said, cheering, twirling and bouncing down the street toward their not so distant homes. Simone watched, laughing at their gaiety.
Tomas observed it all with intense fascination. She was more than beautiful, he noticed, now that he had a chance to see. Long, black hair that fell close to her waist – filled with lighter highlights that glistened in the evening sun. Lithe and delicate, she resembled a dancer more than an artist.
Her smile truly captivated him. Especially the way it lit when filled with joy – such as watching the children. It radiated, instilling him with the pleasure and happiness the children gave her. Just staring raced his heart, and he found himself catching his breath once more.
She sighed, then turned toward him, the smile fading into a more serious look, one sharing neither pleasure nor happiness.
“Shall we go, Monsieur Laiche?” she said. “The sooner I deliver your painting; the sooner I can be away for dinner.”
Tomas nodded toward the Cathedral. “This way,” he said. “714 Rue St. Peters. It’s not too far.”
Cries of gulls rang out over the café where Tomas and Marguerite settled in for their noon-time meal. Angry at being shooed away by the wait-staff, the whitish-grey birds wheeled and howled in dismay.
Scents of roasting meats, baked bread and flavorful spices floated on the breeze, while quiet conversation fluttered between tables where red-stripped umbrella’s provided shade for the lunching patrons.
“Darling,” Marguerite said. “Why did you pretend to duel to Monsieur Gullette?”
“Excuse moi?” Tomas said, pulling himself from thoughts of seagulls, children and the lift of an eyebrow.
“People were watching, Tomas. It was embarrassing and distasteful.”
“Distasteful? Anton and I are old friends. We’ve done that almost every Saturday since I’ve been in New Orleans.”
He casually ignored the part of being with other women, thinking it would be best not to rile her jealousy.
“He sells flowers, darling,” she said. “He’s not our type of people. We should be socializing with the other Planters. Not street vendors and the common bourgeois.”
Tomas almost laughed at the use of the word, which in fact was her family name.
“I have an idea!” she said, clapping her hands. “Why not go to the Planter’s Club? All of daddy’s friends do.” Tomas groaned.
“If I recall,” she continued. “Your father did as well. We could make new friends, meet new people; our sort of people, Tomas. Not vendors.”
The way she said the word, vendor, made it sound like a disease to be eradicated. Like the current round of yellow fever raging through the city, though he doubted burning tar pots would run off Anton and his shop.
Tomas sighed and looked away. In the corner across the courtyard, a couple shared a glass of wine together, leaning close across the table and giggling. He could almost see the energy between the two, as if strands of love flowed from one set of eyes to the other.
“They aren’t my type,” Tomas said, then smiled as the couple kissed across the wine. “All they ever discuss is sugar, cotton, business and…”
He paused, wondering if he should add mistresses to the sentence. That was the typical topic of the club: what woman a man had bedded that night, and how good the conquest.
“I don’t relate well to them.” Marguerite cocked her head in compassionate concern.
“Dear,” she said. “They’d love for you to be there. You have the confidence to hold your own with them. You run a successful company. And now, with the Willows in your name, you have more power than most.”
She nodded, her eyes glittering in the mid-day sun. “You deserve to be in that hall, building your greatness.”
Tomas smiled, nodding at his future wife. “Of course, you are correct, my love,” he said.
“Perhaps I’ll go there tonight once you depart for Emerald Oaks.” He was going to say more, but the waiter arrived to take their food request.
“Monsieur,” he said, offering the menu to Tomas. “Mademoiselle. Welcome to Bon Ami. Might I offer you some wine to begin your lunch?”
“That would be lovely,” Tomas said, handing the menu to Marguerite. “Bourdeaux, si veaux plais.”
“Right away, Monsieur,” the waiter said, dipping his head in a bow and scurrying away toward the back of the restaurant. Set within the courtyard, the café claimed the exterior brick walls of adjoining buildings as its own. Fountains bubbled water in the corners, while trees and ferns provided cooling shade for the umbrellas.
“Darling,” Marguerite said, handing the menu back. “Decide for me. I trust you.”
He never understood why men ordered for women, as if they weren’t intelligent enough to figure out what they wanted to eat. The few women he actually enjoyed being around knew exactly what they wanted, even though society felt they should not.
Except Marguerite. She believed herself incapable of choosing her meal. Or perhaps, that was simply the way she was. Did she enjoy being seen subservient? Perhaps she believed it.
As Tomas lifted the menu to read aloud the choices, a couple entered the café and were escorted toward a table in the corner, opposite from the young lovers Tomas was watching.
“Josephine!” Marguerite said, practically leaping from her chair. She waved her hand as she called out. “Josephine!”
Heads turned in the café at her outburst, as did the woman named Josephine. She clapped her hands, said something to her companion and scurried toward Marguerite.
“Marguerite!” she exclaimed as the two came together in a hug, kissing one another on each cheek as they did so. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been forever since we last met.”
She turned and smiled at Tomas, who stood to welcome the young woman. Her companion joined them once the table had been reached.
“Madame,” Tomas said, bowing in welcome. “It appears that you know one another?”
“We do indeed, darling,” Marguerite said. “We were both in school together. Josephine? Might I present my fiancé, Tomas Laiche.”
Josephine extended her hand for Tomas and curtsied.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Madame,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “Any friend of Marguerite is a friend of mine.”
“And might I present my husband,” Josephine said, turning and smiling a sincere grin at the tall gentleman. “Frederic LaCour.”
Frederic bowed as he was introduced, which Tomas matched. They shook hands. “Tomas Laiche,” Tomas said, then pivoted toward Marguerite.
“And might I introduce my fiancé, Marguerite Bourgeois.” She performed the greeting with as much grace, if not more, than her friend Josephine – batting her eyes and playing shy as Frederic kissed the back of her hand.
“Would you care to join us?” Tomas said, motioning to their table. “We would be honored if you did so.”
Josephine and Frederic exchanged glances, while Marguerite did everything she could to hold back her excitement.
“The honor would be ours, Monsieur,” Frederic said. Capturing the waiter’s attention with a snap of his fingers, he motioned to let the man know they would be sharing a table.
Once the women were seated, the men took theirs – sitting side by side, so the women could discuss the latest gossip.
“Laiche?” Frederic said once the waiter had brought the wine. “Are you the same Laiche that owns the Two Oceans Trading Company?”
Tomas nodded “The very one,” he said. “I hope my reputation is a good one?”
Frederic nodded, sipping his wine as he leaned back in his chair. He wore a similar coat to Tomas, though not near as bright. One might say reserved, as the colors were muted.
Where Tomas wore a light green coat, Frederic’s was dark brown, bordering on black. They both wore tall, knee-high black leather boots, but Tomas’s pants were light tan to match the willow pattern of his shirt. Frederic’s shirt was white, as were his trousers.
“Indeed is it,” Frederic said. “One might call it sterling, if I might be so bold. I’ve always wondered what the mysterious captain of the largest trading company in the south might look like.”
Tomas took a sip of wine and chuckled. “And now you know,” he said. “Do I pass muster?”
Both men looked at the two women, who were giggling like they were back in school. The conversation was centered around Marguerite, and the sort of day she was having.
“You do, indeed,” Frederic said. “My friends and I occasionally discuss you at the Planter’s Hall.”
“You’re a planter?” Tomas asked, sipping his wine. He heard the words, ‘disgusting artist’ and smiled. Frederic nodded.
“My father is the planter. I’m an attorney here in New Orleans.”
Tomas nodded. “LaCour and Boudreaux?” Tomas said, cocking his head. If so, they were a formidable firm in New Orleans – handling every sort of defensible case they could get their hands on. The rumor was, that they had never lost.
Frederic tipped his glass. “I see that MY reputation proceeds me,” he said. “I hope it, too, is a good one?”
“From what I hear,” Tomas said, taking another sip of wine. His glass was near empty. “In fact, we once considered putting your firm on retainer. We ran into issues with the Port Authority on a trade deal we’d arranged with France.”
LaCour nodded. “I remember that,” he said. “Not needed in the end, if I recall. It worked out favorable for you, then?”
Tomas nodded. “Worked well for both parties. We got our deal, and the Port made enough coin to build a new wharf for the extra cargo.”
LaCour nodded and glanced toward the waiter. Lifting his empty glass, the man came hurrying over with the wine bottle – refilling both LaCour’s and Tomas’s.
“So tell me,” LaCour said after taking a sip of his wine. “How did Mademoiselle Bourgeois capture New Orleans’s most eligible beaux? Surely there is a story behind the pursuit?”
Tomas rubbed his eyes and shook his head, as all three sets of eyes turned toward his. “Oh do tell us, darling,” Marguerite said. “It’s such a delightful story.”
He sighed, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “If you insist.” At least he would never have to be called most eligible beaux anymore.
“It all started beside a lily pad pond, just beneath the Willows.”
The lily pad pond was quiet and still, as a warm, breezeless mid-May afternoon settled atop the Plantation. Not even the willow leaves rustled, so calm was the wind. Tomas draped his arm over the smooth, polished surface of the bench back. Built from a solitary cypress limb, it curved just in the middle, creating a comfortable, natural swale. He’d often wondered if it was a happy accident, or simply cut so the curve was properly centered.
The seat was a solid cross-cut plank of cypress, with its flame-shaped age rings clearly visible beneath the dark polish. His father made it himself when the house was first built, using the remains of various trees to assemble it. The intention had been for the front porch, but his mother refused – seeing its natural beauty better suited for the gardens.
Tomas trailed his fingers down the fan of wooden spokes supporting the back, feeling the smoothed over knots on the wood – places once covered with bark. His mother was correct: it belonged here by the pond, nestled perfectly beneath the willow tree’s leafy curtain of dangling fronds.
Four days had passed since his meeting with Phillipe, and he was no closer to a decision. His mother knew nothing of the situation, thinking instead that the wedding was still on and that the Willows would soon be hosting a ball for the engagement.
He’d hoped that sitting by the pond would bring clarity, that the dark water would give him what he sought. In storybooks, frogs croaked the answers, as if they were the magical voices of reason – filled with infinite knowledge. The greenish-black frog seated atop a lily pad had so far shown no such ability. Perhaps he was as confused as Tomas; or preferred flies instead of wisdom. Regardless, it held no answers.
“Tomas?” a soft voice said, accompanied by the swooshing rustle of willow leaves. He spun, sitting up with wide eyes toward a purple-gowned Marguerite.
“What are you doing here?” he said, hopping to his feet. He glanced past, seeing that Mammy Rose stood outside the grove with her back to the couple.
“Hello to you, too,” Marguerite said, crossing her arms. Sprigs of lavender wound through her chapeaux, rippling with lace down one side of her head – weaving into her shining, auburn hair.
“Forgive me,” he said, rushing forth to grasp her hand and lead her toward the bench. “I was startled.”
She extended her hand, knuckles up so he could kiss. Her eyes fluttered as he did. Scents of lavender, thick, soft and sensually delightful, swirled around her.
“You are forgiven, monsieur,” she said, then giggled. “Mammy May said I might find you here.”
“She would know,” Tomas said, helping her to the bench. He then sat next to her. “That woman’s always been able to find me, no matter where I hide.”
“She said exactly the same thing,” Marguerite said. She twisted on the bench, yet somehow kept her body straight.
“How are you?” she asked, cocking her head and smiling. Tomas matched her, gazing into her soft, bright brown eyes. “Father says you’re conflicted.”
Tomas snorted. “He said that?” She nodded, brushing a wrinkle away from her gown, glancing down to see it done properly.
“I’m not very well,” he said, shaking his head and gazing over the pond. The frog had moved, Tomas noticed. It now perched on a broken limb sticking from the water near the opposite shore. Any answers yet, monsieur frog?
“Your father made a tough choice near impossible.”
She smiled and placed her hand on his thigh, gathering his attention.
“Father can be blunt when making decisions,” she said. “It’s allowed Emerald Oaks to flourish in tough times.” She squeezed twice, and Tomas placed his hand atop hers, her cool skin mixing with his warmth.
“Blunt is a nice way of putting it, Marguerite,” Tomas said. “He informed me I could not, nor should not keep the Willows.” She nodded, twisting one finger to caress one of his.
“He told me the same thing,” she said, then sighed.
“Oh?” he said, narrowing his eyebrows at Marguerite. “I was under the impression this discussion was between him and I.”
She shrugged and shook her head. “Daddy always confides in me, especially when needing an additional opinion.” Tomas watched Marguerite carefully. He sounded damn sure of himself when talking to me. He looked toward the pond again, seeking the frog’s silent advice. It didn’t budge.
“So what did you offer?”
She caressed his thigh, rubbing back and forth beneath his hand. If his future hadn’t been on the line, he might have enjoyed it.
“Well,” she said. “I told him there should only be one requirement from you.”
“And that is?”
“Being named benefactor of your estate,” she stated, meeting his eyes straight on. Tomas pulled his hand away and sat up straight, considering her eyes and words.
Phillipe stated he’d have to sell him the Willows if he was to marry Marguerite. Now, this was all he wanted? Her to be named benefactor? Tomas stood and walked to the edge of the pond, his hands clasped behind his back.
Monsieur frog, he said to himself, seeing that the fat creature had moved to the shoreline. What do you think about that? The frog hopped once, in the direction of a stand of cattails. A heron slammed its beak into the frog, gobbling it up before it ever saw the dark gray, long legged bird.
“So he doesn’t want me to sell the Willows?” Tomas said. The heron took one step into the water and froze in place, continuing its hunt.
“He did,” she said. “But I convinced him otherwise.”
“Really?” he said, turning to face Marguerite. She twirled her bangs with one of her dainty fingers and nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Surprised?” He frowned.
“No, actually, I’m not.” He bent over to pick a pecan from the soft, mossy soil. “You seem more capable than you put on.” She nodded.
“Indeed I am,” she said. He nodded and turned, tossing the nut at the heron. Sensing the projectile well before it arrived, the hunter launched into the air, crying out as it flew off toward the river. The pecan plopped harmlessly into the dark waters, sending small ripples cascading toward the shore.
He smiled, but having turned away from Marguerite, she didn’t see it. She was feisty, no doubt about it. And the fact she convinced her father otherwise, said something about her ability to manage. Maybe, just maybe this would work out.
Yes, he thought. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, nodding as he did so. It might as well be now.
Turning, he marched up to the seated belle and dropped to his knee – reaching for her hand and grasping it inside both of his.
“Marguerite Bourgeois,” he said, gazing into her shock-widened eyes. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Why Tomas,” she said with gasping breath. Nodding quickly, her smile grew into an excited grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Is that a yes?” he said, lifting his eyebrows. She nodded quickly.
“Yes, Tomas,” she said. “Yes! I’ll marry you!”
She leapt into his arms, almost tumbling him backwards from his knees. Standing, he lifted her from the ground and spun – sending her legs flying around as she squealed with delight.
“Lawdy be!” Mammy Rose said, bursting through the dangling willow leaves. “Marse Tomas! Whatchoo do ta Mistis Marg’rite?”
Tomas stopped the spin, setting her down with a deep, happy sigh of pleasure and smiled at the negro maid. Leaning up, Marguerite pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him hard against his lips; right in front of Mammy Rose.
“Mistis!” she exclaimed. “You stop dat rite now, y’here?”
“Oh, Mammy!” Marguerite said once she finished her kiss. “Tomas just asked me to marry him!”
“Lawdy be!” Mammy Rose said again. “You gone be married?”
Marguerite nodded. “I am,” she said, rushing to wrap her arms around the older woman. “And we’re going to live right here at the Willows!”
“Lawdy be!” Mammy Rose said, holding the girl and rocking her in her arms, closing her eyes as she did.
“My lil girl gone git married!”
This is the end… as sung by The Doors. I have done it! Blammo! Pow! Thwack! Smack! After 100 days, 113,634 words and 347 pages, I completed my first novel.
2 weeks ago, on November 30th, I wrote the words: THE END
Frank sent his congratulations from the Caribbean, Francine raised her glass of French Bordeaux in toast from a wine bar in Vancouver, and myself?
I cracked open a crock of 18 year old scotch, poured it into an antique, crystal glass and savoured its smokey, smooth taste in contemplation of what I’d truly accomplished.
Since high school, I’ve dreamed of writing a novel. A horror, or a fantasy of some sort – building a world to rival that of Tolkien, or characters that would make Stephen King proud. Here’s the thing:
Writing a novel takes work. It takes time. And it takes desire. (And a wee bit of creativity, as well as a bunch of other things). All of these were missing for the past millions of years since I graduated.
But then, something clicked, the stars aligned and in a explosion of brilliance, I wrote a novel. And a historical romance novel at that.
Yes, needless to say that I was surprised. Not only the genre, but how well the story flowed. In fact, it worked so well, the ending is what I wrote immediately after the outline.
And that was just the beginning.
You see, endings are beginnings for new things. Or more of the same SORT of things, just different flavors. I may have written the words, The End, but that just opens the door for the next novel, the 2nd draft of the first novel, the query, the agent, the publisher, a snack here and there, and yes:
A swig ‘o the good stuff.
So to all of my lovely readers, here now and in days to come, I lift my glass to endings, may they be the start of an entirely new adventure!
Fair Winds and Following Seas, lovely reader, wherever your horizons beckon…
Stephen R. Gann