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"That's wonderful, Paul."

"The future couldn't look brighter, Ruby. We could have anything, do anything, go anywhere. . . Pearl would be a real princess."

"I don't want her to be a princess, Paul. I want her to be a fine young lady who appreciates the value of important things," I said curtly. "I've seen too many people fooled by their own wealth into believing they were happy."

"It won't be that way for us," Paul assured me.

Paul's rich acres of oil land and the homesite was southwest of my shack. We wove our way along, passing through canals that were so narrow at times, we could thrust out our arms and touch the shore on either side of the boat. We cut through some brackish ponds and into an entire new web of canals before turning dead south into his property. I hadn't been here since I had left for New Orleans, so when I saw the roof of the great house rising above the sycamores and cypress before us, I was overwhelmed. I felt like Alice being swept off to her own private Wonderland.

Paul had already had a dock built and there was a gravel path from the swamp that led up to the beginning of the house property. I saw the pickup trucks and vehicles that belonged to the workmen who were still hard at their labor, for Paul had put a rush on things and was willing to pay everyone time and a half to get the house completed ahead of schedule. To the east we could see the oil rigs at work.

"I bet you never dreamed the Cajun boy who motored about on his little scooter would own all this," Paul said proudly, his hands on his hips, his smile stretching from ear to ear. "Imagine what your grandmere Catherine would say."

"Grandmere probably would have expected it," I replied.

"Probably," he said, and laughed. "Whenever she looked at me, I felt she could not only see my thoughts, but my dreams."

He helped Pearl and me out of the boat.

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; "I'll carry her," he offered. Pearl was dazzled by the vastness of the house before us. "I'd like to call it Cypress Woods," he said. "What do you think?"

"Yes, it's a wonderful name. It is

overwhelming, Paul. The way it just pops up out of nowhere . . it's magical." He beamed a broad smile of pride.

"I told the architect I wanted a house that resembled a Greek temple. It makes the Dumas residence in the Garden District look like a

bungalow."

"Is that what you wanted to do, Paul. . . overshadow my father's home? I told you . ."

"Don't take me to task just yet, Ruby. What good is anything I have if I can't use it to please and impress you?" he asked. His eyes hardened to rivet on me.

"Oh, Paul." I wagged my head and took a deep breath.

What could I say to counter his enthusiasm and his dreams?

As we approached the house, it seemed to grow even bigger and bigger before us. Across the upstairs gallery ran a diamond-design iron railing. On both sides of the house, Paul had wings constructed to echo the predominant elements of the main house.

"That's where the servants will live," he indicated. "I think it gives everyone more privacy. Most of the walls in this place are twenty-four inches thick. Wait until you see how cool it is in there, even without fans and air-conditioning."

A short slate stairway took us up to the portico and lower gallery. We walked between the great columns and into the Spanish-tile-floored entryway, a foyer designed to take away the breath of a visitor the moment he or she set foot in this mansion, for it wasn't only vast and long, but the ceiling was so high, our footsteps echoed.

"Think of all the wonderful art you could hang on these huge walls, Ruby," Paul said.

We passed one spacious and airy room after another, all opening onto the central hallway. Above us hung the chandeliers about which Paul had expressed so much pride. They were dazzling, the teardrop bulbs looking like diamonds raining down over us. The circular stairway was twice as wide and as elaborate as the one in the house of Dumas.

"The kitchen is at the rear of the house," Paul said. "I have equipped it with all the most modern appliances. Any cook would be in heaven working back there. Maybe you can find where your Nina Jackson went and convince her to come live here," he added as a bonus. He knew how fond of Nina, my father's cook, I had been. She practiced voodoo and had taken an affection to me from the first day I had arrived in New Orleans. After she was convinced I wasn't some sort of zombie made to look like Gisselle, that is.

"I don't think anything would tempt Nina from New Orleans," I said.

"Her loss," Paul replied quickly. He was so sensitive about the rich Creoles, interpreting any comparisons as a criticism of our Cajun world.

"I mean she is too attached to her voodoo world, Paul," I explained. He nodded.

"Let me show you the upstairs."