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his own destiny was eternally to be. That was what

Grandmere Catherine had taught me about Death, and

that was what I now so firmly believed.

Daphne shed no tears in public. She seemed to

falter only twice: once in the church, when Father McDermott mentioned that he had been the one to marry her and Daddy; and then at the cemetery, just before Daddy's body was interred in what people from New Orleans called an oven. Because of the high water table, graves weren't dug into the ground, as they were in other places. People were buried above ground in cement vaults, many with their family crests

embossed on the door.

Instead of sobbing, Daphne brought her silk

handkerchief to her face and held it against her mouth.

Her eyes remained focused on her own thoughts, her

gaze downward. She took Gisselle's and my hand

when it was time to leave the church, and once again

when it was time to leave the cemetery. She held our

hands for only a moment or two, a gesture I felt was

committed more for the benefit of the mourners than

for us.

Throughout the ceremony, Beau remained back

with his parents. We barely exchanged glances.

Relatives from Daphne's side of the

family stayed

closely clumped together, barely raising their voices

above a whisper, their eyes glued to our every move.

Whenever anyone approached Daphne to offer his or

her final condolences, she took his hands and softly

said "Merci beaucoup." These people would then turn to us. Gisselle imitated Daphne perfectly, even to the point of intoning the same French accent and holding their hands not a split second longer or shorter than

Daphne had. I simply said "Thank you," in English. As if she expected either Gisselle or me to say

or do something that would embarrass her, Daphne

observed us through the corner of her eye and listened

with half an ear, especially when Beau and his parents

approached us. I did hold onto Beau's hand longer

than I held onto anyone else's, despite feeling as if