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disheveled, my face full of agony.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "What did she do?"

"Nothing," I said, throwing myself down on the bed. "I never spoke to her. I couldn't do it. I'll write to her," I said. "And leave it at that. Let's go home. . . now!"

He shook his head. "But we still have a few things to get. Mother thought we should have--"

"Oh, Paul," I cried, seizing his hand. "Take me home. Please . . . just take me home. You can get the rest yourself, can't you?"

He nodded. "Of course," he said. "We'll leave immediately."

It wasn't until we had arrived in the bayou and began up the drive to Cypress Woods that I felt a sense of relief again. Our new great house loomed before me and I realized this was my home, even if my mother-in-law was the one decorating it and not me. Now, more than ever, I was happy I had made the decision to marry Paul and come here. It was far enough and isolated enough to keep out the ghosts of my horrid past.

I couldn't wait to begin setting up my studio and painting again. The swamps and our great acres of land and our oil wells would comprise the walls keeping the demons away was safe here, I thought . . . safe.

5

Sad News

.

Each day of my first six months as mistress of

Cypress Woods was so filled with responsibilities and activities, I barely had time to ponder over the life I had chosen for myself and my daughter. I don't think I noticed the winter until I saw the snow geese leaving and realized it had ended. The first buds of spring were opening in an explosion of flowery splendor the likes of which I had never seen. Furnishings and decorations for the great house had begun arriving shortly after our trip to New Orleans. Painters and decorators, tile and carpet people, drapery and mirror people, a parade of artisans, marched through the house daily.

Paul's mother arrived nearly every morning to supervise. When I commented about it, Paul either misunderstood or ignored my meaning.

"Isn't it wonderful how much interest she's taking in us," he replied. "And her being here, running from room to room, upstairs and downstairs, answering questions, frees you to work on your studio."

I did direct my attention to it because it was the one place Gladys refused to enter. Paul was caught up in a flurry of activity, too. His days were divided between his work at the cannery and his supervision of the oil wells. Two weeks after our return from New Orleans, a new well was drilled. He called it Pearl's Well and decided that all the proceeds from it would go into a trust for her. Before she was a year old, she was wealthier than most people were by the end of their productive lives.

On weekends we had grand dinners for the husbands and wives of the people whom Paul dealt with in his oil business. Everyone was impressed with our home and grounds, especially the ones who came from Baton Rouge or Houston and Dallas. I knew they had all expected quite a bit less in the Cajun bayou. Paul never stopped bragging about me, bragging shamelessly about my artistic talents and successes.

I finally did write my letter to Daphne, but not until nearly a month had passed since my attempt to confront her in New Orleans. Paul would occasionally inquire if I had done so and I would say, "Soon. I'm just composing my thoughts." He knew I was procrastinating, but he didn't nag. At last, one afternoon while I had a chance to catch my breath, I sat on the patio with pen and paper and began to write.

Dear Daphne,

We haven't written or spoken to each other for nearly a year now. I know you have little interest in what's happened to me and where I am now, but for my father's sake and memory, I have decided to write this letter.

After my horrible experience at that disgusting clinic where you sent me to have an abortion, I ran off and returned to my roots, to the bayou. For months I lived in my grandmere's old shack, doing the things she and I had done to keep ourselves alive. I gave birth to a beautiful daughter whom I have named Pearl, and for months I struggled to provide for both of us.

I realized that my first responsibility now was to my daughter and her welfare, and with that in mind, I have married Paul Tate. I do not expect you to understand, but we have a very special life together. We are more like partners, devoted to making each other happy and secure and providing a secure future for Pearl, than we are husband and wife. Paul's inherited land turned out to be rich with oil. We have a beautiful home called Cypress Woods.

I ask nothing of you, certainly not your forgiveness, nor should you interpret this letter as my forgiveness of you for what you have tried to do to me in the past. Actually, I feel pity for you more than anger. I do expect, however, that what my father had decided to give me will be given to me. My love for him has not diminished one iota. I miss him dearly.

Please see that the attorney in charge of my trust has my new address.

Ruby

I received no reply, but that didn't surprise me. At least I had put myself on record and she couldn't claim I had disappeared and disavowed all contact and connection with my father's estate. I really had never accepted her as a mother or as family. She was a stranger to me when I had lived in the House of Dumas, and she was even more of a stranger to me now.

Jeanne came more often than Toby to play with Pearl and visit. With my marriage to Paul, she eagerly embraced me as her new sister and, at times, confided more intimately in me than she did in her own blood sister, Toby, and certainly more than she did her mother. One afternoon we sat on the patio and sipped fresh lemonades, watching Mrs. Flemming take Pearl for a little walk through the gardens.

Jeanne had come to Cypress Woods especially to talk to me about her boyfriend, James Pitot, a young attorney. He was a tall, dark-haired, handsome man whose politeness and charm reminded me a bit of Daddy.

"I think we're going to become engaged," Jeanne revealed. I knew from the way she spoke that I was the first to learn of it.

"You think?"