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It was quiet within. We started up the stairs, Gisselle sniveling to herself. After we reached the landing and started toward her room, I thought I heard something else though. It sounded like someone weeping.

"What's that?" I asked in a whisper.

"What's what?"

"Someone's crying," I said.

"Just get me to my room and forget about it," she said. "Hurry."

We crossed to her door and I helped her in.

"You should take off your clothes and take a shower," I suggested, but she plopped down on her bed and refused to move.

"Leave me alone," she moaned. "Just leave me alone. Hide the bottle in your closet," were her last words.

I stood back and looked at her. She was a deadweight now. There wasn't anything I could do. I wasn't feeling all that well either and reprimanded myself for letting Gisselle talk me into so many rum and Cokes.

I left her lying facedown on her bed, fully dressed, even wearing her shoes, and started for my room. Once again, however, I heard sobbing. Curious, I crossed the hallway and listened. It was coming from a room down right. I walked softly over to the door and leaned my head against it. There was definitely someone within, crying. It sounded. . . like a man.

The click of footsteps on the stairway sent me scurrying back to my room. I went in quickly and immediately hid the basket with the rum in my closet. Then I went to the door and cracked it open enough to peer out. Daphne, dressed in a flowing blue silk robe, stepped so softly she seemed to glide down the hallway to the master bedroom. Just before she got there, however, she paused as though to listen for the sobbing herself. I saw her shake her head and then go into the bedroom. After she closed her door, I closed mine.

I thought about going out again and knocking on that door to see who was crying. Could it have been my father? Thinking it might have been, I went out and approached the door. I listened, but heard nothing this time. Even so, I knocked softly and waited.

"Anyone in there?" I whispered through the crack between the door and the jamb. There was no response. I knocked again and waited. Still nothing. I was about to turn away when I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around with a gasp to look into my father's face.

"Ruby," he said, smiling. "Anything wrong?"

"I . . . I thought I heard someone sobbing in this room so I knocked," I said. He shook his head.

"Just your imagination at work, honey," he said. "There hasn't been anyone in that room for years. Where's Gisselle?"

"She just went to sleep," I said quickly. "But I'm almost certain I heard someone," I insisted. He shook his head.

"No. You couldn't have." He smiled. "Gisselle went to bed this early? Must be your good habits are rubbing off already. Well, I'm heading for sleep myself. I've got a busy day tomorrow. Don't forget," he said, "your art instructor will be stopping by at two. I'll be here to meet him also."

I nodded.

"Good night, dear," he said, and kissed me on the forehead. Then he started for the master bedroom. I looked back at the closed door. Could I have imagined it? Was it something that happened because of all the rum I had drunk?

"Daddy?" I said before I crossed to go to my room. He stopped and turned.

"Yes?"

"Whose room was that?" I asked.

He looked at the room and then rolled his dark, shining eyes my way and I saw why they shone--they were full of tears.

"My brother's," he said. "Jean's."

With a sigh he turned and walked away. As if on the legs of a spider, a chill crept up my spine and made me shudder. Fatigued and drowning in many emotions, I returned to my room and got ready for bed. My mind was cluttered with so many different thoughts, my heart full of different feelings. I was so dizzy and tired, I was eager to lay my head upon the soft pillow. When I closed my eyes, a potpourri of the day's images rolled on the backs of my eyelids taking me up and down like a roller coaster. I saw the New Orleans sights I had seen with my father, the myriad of fashions I had waded through with Daphne, my wonderful new art studio, Gisselle's face as she plotted her silly prank and once again, I felt Beau's electrifying kiss when we were in the cabana.

That kiss had frightened me because I had been unable to stop myself from wanting to kiss him back. That unexpected touch of his lips, his tongue forcing my lips to open, shot through me with a jolt of excitement that tore down all my resistance. Did that mean I was bad, that I had too much of the evil Landry blood running through my veins?

Or was it just that Beau had touched something tender and lonely in me, his soft voice whispering to me in the darkness, his assurances restoring a calm to my bedazzled and bewildered soul? Would any young man's kiss have done that or was it just Beau's?

I tried to remember Paul's kisses, but all those memories were clouded and polluted by the discovery of our real relationship. It was impossible to think of him now as my first love and not feel guilty about it, even though it was neither of our faults.

What a long, complex, and troubling day this had been, and yet what a wonderful one, too. Was this the way my life would be from now on?