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"What did you do with Beau in the cabana before I came back and knocked on the door?" she demanded. I couldn't help but flush red. Her voice was filled with accusation.

"Nothing. It was Beau's little joke in response to what you did. We just. . . stood there and talked."

"In the dark, Beau Andreas just stood there and talked?" she asked, a wry smile on her face.

"Yes."

"You're not a good liar, sister dear. I'll have to give you lessons."

"That's not something I want to excel at doing," I responded.

"You will. Especially if you want to live in this house," she said nonchalantly.

Before I could reply, Edgar stepped through the French doors and approached us.

"What is it, Edgar?" Gisselle asked petulantly. Because of her hangover, every little noise, every little interruption annoyed her this morning.

"Monsieur Dumas has arrived. He and Madame Dumas want to see you both in the study," he said.

"Tell them we'll be there in a moment. I'm just finishing my croissant," she said, and turned her back on him.

Edgar threw a glance my way, his eyes showing his unhappiness at Gisselle's tone of voice. I smiled at him and his expression softened.

"Very good, mademoiselle," he said.

"Edgar is such a stuffed shirt. He creeps around the house as if he owns if and everything in it," Gisselle complained. "If I put a vase on a table, he'll return it to where it was originally. Once, I changed all the pictures around in the living room just to annoy him. The next day, they were all back in their original places. He's memorized where everything belongs, down to a glass ashtray. If you don't believe me, try moving something."

"I'm sure he's just taking pride in things and how well they're kept," I said. She shook her head and gobbled down her last piece of croissant.

"Let's go get this over with," she declared, and stood up. As we approached the study, we could hear Daphne complaining.

"Whenever I ask you to come home for

lunch or meet me somewhere for lunch, you always have an excuse. You're always too busy to interrupt your precious workday. But all of a sudden, you have all this time to spare to arrange for an art instructor for your Cajun daughter," she decried.

Gisselle smiled at me and grabbed my arm to pull me back so we would delay our entrance.

"This is good. I love it when they have a spat," she whispered excitedly. Not only didn't I want to be an eavesdropper, but I was afraid they would say something to reveal the whole truth.

"I always try to make myself available for you, Daphne. If I can't, it's because of something that can't be helped. And as for corning home today, I thought in light of the circumstances, I had to do something special for her," my father protested.

"Do something special for her in light of the circumstances? What about my circumstances? Why can't you do something special for me? You used to think I was someone special," Daphne retorted.

"I do," he protested.

"But not as special as your Cajun princess apparently. Well, what do you think now after I told you what happened?"

"I'm disappointed of course," he said. "I'm quite surprised." It broke my heart to hear his voice so full of disillusionment, but Gisselle's smile widened with glee.

"Well, I'm not," Daphne emphasized. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"Gisselle," I whispered. "I've got to tell--"

"Come on," she said quickly, and pulled me forward to enter the study. Daphne and our father turned promptly to face us. I could have burst into tears at the sight of his sad and disappointed face. He sighed deeply.

"Sit down, girls," he said, and nodded toward one of the leather sofas. Gisselle moved instantly and I followed, but sat away from her, practically at the other end. Our father stared at us a moment with his hands behind his back and then glanced at Daphne, who pulled her head up and folded her arms under her bosom expectantly. My father turned to me.

"Daphne has told me what happened here last night and what she found in your room. I don't mind either of you having wine at dinner, but sneaking hard liquor and drinking it with boys. . ."