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Maybe he wouldn't be in there. Maybe he had thought twice about it, too. I saw no signs of anyone in the windows. The curtains didn't move. I took a deep breath and looked back. If I did retreat, would I be happier or would I always wonder what it would have been like had I gone into the apartment building and met Beau? Maybe we would just talk, I thought. Maybe we would both come to our senses. I closed my eyes like someone about to dive into a pool and I entered the courtyard. Then I opened them and walked to the front door. I checked the numbers on the directory and walked up the small stairway to a narrow landing. When I found the door, I paused, took another deep breath, and knocked.

For a few moments, I heard nothing and I began to think he wasn't there. He had indeed changed his mind. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. That part of me that had tried to keep me away urged me to turn and flee, to actually run back up the street and return to the hotel; but the other part of me, the part that longed for complete love, filled me with such despondency, I thought my heart would turn to stone and crumble in my chest.

I started to turn away when the door was pulled open and I saw Beau standing there. He wore a soft white cotton shirt and trousers of the finest dark' blue wool. His eyes blinked rapidly as if trying to focus and convince himself I was really standing there.

"Ruby," he said softly, "I'm sorry. I must have fallen asleep in my chair dreaming about you. I thought you wouldn't come."

"I almost didn't, even when I found the address," I said.

"But you're here. You did come. Come in. Please." He stepped back and I entered the small apartment. It was a one-bedroom with a tiny kitchen and a living room that had French doors opening to the balcony. The furniture and the decor were very simple, modern with that slightly worn look found in hotels or motels. The walls were practically bare, only a small print depicting fruits and flowers here and there.

"It's not much," he said, gazing around with me. "Just a quiet hideaway."

"It's quaint. It just needs some warmth."

He laughed. "I just knew you'd apply your artist's eye instantly. Sit down," he said, indicating the small sofa. "Did you have an easy ride into the city?"

"Yes. I'm becoming a sophisticated traveler," I said. It was funny how we were both acting as if we were meeting for the very first time, and he . . . he was the father of my child. But time, distance, and events had made us strangers to each other.

"You're here alone?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes. I checked into the Fairmont. I'm going to bring my new series over to Dominique. He has been talking about this art show he wants to do with me."

"Great. But I warn you, I'm not going to let anyone else buy those pictures. No matter what the cost, I'll get them," he vowed. I laughed. "Would you like something cold to drink? I have some chilled white wine."

"Please," I said. He went out to the kitchen.

"So Paul knows you've come to New Orleans?" he asked while he poured the wine.

"Oh yes. He's gone to Dallas for some meetings." "And the baby?" Beau asked, returning.

"With Mrs. Flemming. She's wonderful with Pearl."

"I saw that. You're lucky to get someone like that nowadays." He handed me my glass of wine and I sipped some while he sipped his, both of us peering over our glasses at each other. "You never looked more beautiful, Ruby," he said softly. "Motherhood has made you blossom."

"I've been lucky, Beau. I could have been the fallen woman scrounging out a meager living in the bayou. . until my trust came through, that is."

"I know," he said. "Ruby, is there any way I can make things up to you? Is there any apology that would sound right?"

"I told you before, Beau. I don't blame you for anything."

"Well, you should. I nearly destroyed both our lives," he said. He sipped some more of his wine and then he sat beside me.

"Where's Gisselle?" I asked.

"Partying with some of her old friends by now, I'm sure. She was different for a while, especially when she came to France. She had me convinced she had grown up because of all the trouble and hardship in the family. She was vulnerable, sweet, and, believe it or not, considerate. The truth is, she conned me, or maybe I. . . maybe I let her. I was very lonely and depressed after you got married. I realized I had let the one person who could make me feel complete slip through my fingers. I felt like a little boy who had lost grip of his kite string and was chasing after it in vain. I could see it drifting away, only it was your face being carried from me in the wind.

"I drank more, partied harder, tried to forget. And then Gisselle appeared on the scene and there was your beautiful face before me. . . your hair, your eyes, your nose, though Gisselle to this day believes her nose is smaller and her eyes are brighter.

"Actually," he continued, gazing down at his glass, "a friend of mine in school in Paris who was studying psychology told me most men fall in love with someone who reminds them of their true love, their first love, someone who impressed them at an early age, someone they couldn't have, but someone they spend a lifetime trying to win. It made sense and I let myself get close to Gisselle again.

"That's my story," he said, smiling. "What's yours?"

"Mine's simpler, Beau. I was alone with a baby, afraid. Paul was always there, helping. Everyone in the bayou knew we were once very fond of each other. Everyone believed Pearl was his child. Paul is devoted to me and, despite my protests, is willing to sacrifice for me. I don't want to hurt him, if I can help it."

"Of course not," Beau said. "He's a very nice man. I enjoyed being with him. I just envy him."

I laughed.