These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance

  These Sheltering Walls

  by

  Mary Jane Hathaway

  All rights reserved. © 2014 by Gumbo Books and Mary Jane Hathaway.

  Cover art provided by Kim Van Meter

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.virginiacarmichael.blogspot.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements―

  I owe thanks to many people but especially to Christalee Scott May for reading several drafts of this book. Without your friendship and support, this story never would have been finished. Also to Sandra Bell Calhoune for her encouragement and her wit. Many thanks to Mindy Postlewait for her timely gifts of tea and soup when I was felled by a vicious cold. Thank you to Fr. Ryan Humphries for answering my odd little questions about Natchitoches. Thank you to John Abramowitz for answering questions about legal representation. And a very special thank you to Timothy Stone for his openness and honesty regarding his experience with PTSD. As always, any mistakes and errors are solely my own.

  Chapter One

  “The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.”

  ― David Foster Wallace

  Henry Byrne stepped into the small foyer of the Natchitoches Parish Historical Archives and shivered at the thirty degree difference in temperature. The early August humidity was at an all-time high, rolling in off the river, carrying the smell of red clay and fish and slow moving water. There was a neat line of chairs, and a large potted plant stood sentry in the corner. A middle aged woman with an elaborate updo of tiny braids sat at a desk near the far door, her eyes focused on her computer screen.

  Henry crossed the room, her heels sounding like a metronome on the tiled floor. “I’m here to see Mr. Becket. I have an appointment at two,” she said, pushing her glasses up with one finger. There was no reason to be nervous. Gideon Becket might be reclusive, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t friendly.

  The receptionist turned from her monitor, gave her a quick head-to-toe scan, and flipped open a desk planner. She ran one short, gold fingernail down the list. “I’m sorry. It looks like we have someone else scheduled at that time.”

  “Henry Byrne? That’s me. I’m the new head of restoration at Cane River Creole National Historic Park.”

  “I’m Bernice Watterson,” the secretary said reached out a hand. Her grip was warm and solid. “Glad to meet you. Most of those buildings have been in a right terrible state for years and years.”

  “We’re working to change that. I’ll be at Oakland Plantation most of the time, but I’m excited to see what we can do to help the rest of the park.” She heard the pride in her own voice.

  “Well, I know these things take time but you’ll get there. You look like a real hard worker. Ambition puts the Tabasco in your patience.”

  Henry smiled. It sounded so much like something her Granddaddy would say. “That’s right.”

  Bernice’s gaze flicked back to the planner. “Henry must be a family name. I have an aunt named Howard. Well, it’s actually Howard Mae. I always thought that was a pretty name.”

  Lie.

  Henry felt the familiar twist of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, I see―”

  “Are you from around here? You look familiar.”

  “I grew up in Shreveport, but my grandparents live here. Birdie and―”

  “Frank Pascal,” Bernice interrupted. “You’re Lisette’s girl. I thought your name started with an ‘L’, though. Anyways, I shoulda seen it the moment you walked in. You look just like your granddaddy.” She shook a finger at Henry, as if she’d been caught in a fib.

  “I hear that a lot. It must be the green eyes.” Henry adjusted her satchel and tried to look happy about being linked to her family within five minutes of her first professional meeting. This wasn’t unexpected. No need to panic. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She felt a drop of sweat make its way down the back of her neck.

  “I think it’s that pretty smile. He has a picture of you on his desk but you’re just a little thing in it.” She held up a hand as if she’d just remembered something. “You should join our bowling league. We had a real shot at the city tournament but Missy Standish decided to break her arm falling off her own porch.”

  “I’ve never bowled but thank you for the invitation.”

  “Well, it’s never too late to start, honey.” Bernice chewed her gum for moment. “You’ve got strong arms. I think you’d do real well.” She leaned closer. “It’s not just the arms. Everybody wants to join the Gutter Gals but we’re picky. We don’t like catty women. It ruins the mojo.”

  Henry nodded, feeling flattered that she didn’t seem the catty type.

  “You know who you need to meet? My nephew, Blue Chalfant. You’re single, aren’t you?”

  “I― Yes, I am.” She was sorely tempted to lie, if only because she couldn’t see herself ever dating a man named Blue.

  “He’s a lawyer.” Bernice said this with the same reverence as if he’d been president. “He graduated at the top of his class at Duke and has an office right in the Natchitoches Historic District.”

  She nodded again, wondering how hard it was going to be to avoid Blue Chalfant since she had just moved into the same area.

  Bernice went on, “On one side is the cutest little bookstore called By the Book, and it’s right down the block from the Pastime Café.”

  Henry almost groaned out loud. Bernice had just described the exact location of her new apartment, which was above that cute little bookstore. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other.”

  “You see your aunt much?” Bernice asked. “She’s my favorite and I’ll pay to see anything she’s in, I don’t care what it is. I just loved Affair on the Rocks. Oh, and Hearts Collide. So romantic!”

  And there it was. The conversation she didn’t want to have. “No, not really. We’re not very close,” she said. “If Mr. Becket is busy, I’ll just wait over here.”

  Bernice scooted out from behind the desk. “Let me go check and make sure he’s ready for you. He can get so caught up in his work. Without me keeping track of his day, he’d probably lose his head.”

  Lie.

  Henry crossed to one of the chairs and sank into it. Chit chat was her Kryptonite. The ability to spot a lie a mile off was a curse, not a blessing. Sure, there were people that made a great living from working with law enforcement, but Henry knew she couldn’t stomach
that life. Just having a simple conversation with a stranger seemed to be too much most days.

  She fiddled with the strap on her watch, hoping she didn’t have long to wait. She leaned forward and peeked into the next room. Framed maps covered the mint green walls and the glass display cases gleamed. The archives were well-kept, at least on this side. It might be a disaster in the storage areas but it looked promising so far. Some collections were thrown together by well-meaning, but untrained history buffs, but since this particular one was maintained by the preeminent historian on the area’s Cane River Creole culture, she hoped it wouldn’t be chaos behind closed doors.

  The front door swung open and a middle aged woman walked through, pulling along young girl in shorts and speaking in Creole. “Hurry, sha, I want to show you these pictures before they close the exhibit.”

  Henry smiled, thinking of her mamere. Her grandma always called her sha because Henry would always be her “sweetie”, no matter how old she was.

  The little girl rolled dark brown eyes and responded in English. “Why we gotta come here, grandma? You said we were gonna get ice cream.”

  Henry watched the woman tug her granddaughter over to one of the glass cases and lean in close, trying her best to engage the little girl. “We will, just as soon as I show you some things. I loved coming here at your age.”

  Lie.

  Tightening her ponytail until it hurt, Henry let out a long breath. She needed to focus on herself, not on what she couldn’t control. Slipping a compact out of her purse, she checked her bright red lipstick, and nudging her glasses down a bit, examined her mascara. She never knew why a person lied. Appearances, usually. A simple need to impress or seem better than they felt they were. She wasn’t averse to making a good impression and some might even say dying her hair a honey blonde could be considered a lie. But it was depressing how often and how easily most people lied.

  “Miss Byrne? He’s ready for you.”

  She snapped the mirror closed and stood up.

  “We’re excited to be working with y’all over there. Anything you need, just let us know.”

  Lie.

  Was Becket unhappy, or was Bernice just hoping she didn’t end up as the messenger between the two sites? “I’ll be spending a lot of time traveling back and forth so I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  Her expression betrayed a flicker of relief. “Welcome to Natchitoches, Henry.”

  “Thank you.” She turned and followed the narrow hallway around the corner. Her heart raced uncomfortably. Her mamere always said there was no way a man standing on his own two feet could avoid trouble. Of course it was safer back in her office, or interacting with people online. If she wanted to be one of the best Cane River historians, she was going to have to take chances, including somehow convincing Gideon Becket that they would work well together.

  Working with him, even unofficially, would be a real feather in her cap. She’d heard colleagues drop his name for much lesser things. A door stood half-open and she blew out a long breath before tapping lightly on the wood.

  “Come on in,” a voice sounded from inside.

  Her first impression was that he was a more than a few decades younger than she’d assumed. The second impression was that he was difficult to read; a neatly trimmed beard obscured his face. He stood up from his desk and walked toward her, hand outstretched. He was tall, taller than she’d expected, and as he got closer, she adjusted his age down even further.

  “Gideon Becket,” he said. His accent was definitely native Louisianan, but there was something else she couldn’t quite trace, a careful formality.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you.” Now that the moment had come, Henry felt her carefully prepared introduction disappear. His blue eyes met her gaze without expectation or curiosity. He was wearing a green button down shirt and dress pants, and had the build of a guy who was into weight lifting. She glanced down, realizing she’d been shaking his hand for a full five seconds, and let go.

  He spoke first. “I read your article in The Journal of Southern History, the one on the need for the restoration and preservation of primitive buildings in the Cane River region. That was a fine piece of research.”

  Truth.

  “Thank you.” That article had taken years of research and was one of the reasons she was hired. That and perhaps being related to pillars of the Natchitoches community. She hated to think it had anything to do with Birdie and Frankie Pascal but she knew small towns too well to completely dismiss it.

  She glanced at the floor to ceiling bookshelves. Long windows faced the overgrown fields outside and the morning sun filtered through the panes, highlighting a framed photo of Civil War troops on the opposite wall. The soft ticking of a large wall clock sounded like a heartbeat in the quiet room. This wasn’t what she’d imagined. From the rumors she’d heard about him, she’d thought there would be piles of papers, total disorganization, the classic forgetful academic who couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair or meet with anyone from the outside world. It all seemed so normal.

  He crossed back behind his desk. “Please sit down. I’d like to hear about your plans for the Historic Park. There are what, sixty structures between the two plantation sites?”

  She perched on the wooden chair across from him. “Sixty seven. I’ll be working from the offices in Oakland Plantation, of course, since Magnolia Plantation is privately owned. The park rangers on site seem like a great group. Right now we’ve got a team of masons and limewashers working on the overseer’s house at the moment but we’ll start work on the former slave quarters this week.”

  “The ones to the north used by the free slaves after Emancipation? I didn’t realize they were structurally unsound.”

  “No, the beams are solid and there’s no sign of rot. A pair of archeology students will be excavating under the floors. I’ve found several letters from the Creole people of color who worked and lived there on the plantation that reference hiding notes or records under the floors.”

  His expression shifted from neutral. “Fascinating.”

  “I don’t have solid proof anything is hidden in the buildings, but I’m very hopeful.” More than hopeful, she was downright giddy with the possibilities. She’d applied for the position with the plan to excavate those buildings and it was happening even sooner than she’d hoped.

  “How can we help?”

  “The excavation should be fairly straight forward. They started restoration work last spring on the cotton gin and the corn shed, but was suspended because there wasn’t enough information on the original buildings. I’m hoping the archives here and some of the county records stored in Natchitoches will have pictures and letters that will help us. Accuracy is our biggest concern.”

  “As it should be.” He picked up a silver pen from his desk. “Are you hoping to look through the archives today or would you like us to look through our collection for you?”

  “I’d love to take a look around this afternoon, if you have a few minutes. Of course, any assistance you could give in finding the papers would be appreciated, but there’s no need. If it’s not against your policy, I would be more than happy to search through the files myself.”

  He turned his palms up for a second. “However you like. Maybe between the two of us, we can track down what you need.”

  Truth.

  Her initial nervousness was starting to subside, especially since he wasn’t as intimidating when seated. This might not be as painful as she’d expected. He avoided meaningless small talk, at least.

  “Mr. Becket, I’ve read everything you’ve ever published. I’m a huge fan.” The moment the words left her mouth, Henry wished she could take them back. She’d never uttered the words “huge fan” in her life but for some reason her brain had thrown that into the conversation.

  “Really. Were they assigned as coursework?”

  “A few were. They usually started heated debates. You don’t pull any punches. And I have to say Preserving Local Narratives
Through Historical Newspapers was my favorite.”

  “Because you agreed with me that we shouldn’t rely so heavily on first person video accounts? That wasn’t a very popular article. It went against the current trend. Everybody loves a video of Grandpappy Joe spinning a tale about life on the farm back in the day. Nobody wants to wade through land deeds and slave sale records.” He didn’t smile. In fact, he hadn’t smiled yet.

  “I agree, actually.” She had her own reasons for not liking the videos. It was terrible to know when someone was lying about the past and there was no way she was going to call out someone’s grandmother for embellishing on her family history. “But you have to admit, we’re in the minority.”

  “I’ve never worried about being in the minority. You think I should soften my opinions in the interests of popularity?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Being unpopular gives your research an extra layer of credibility.”

  His chin went up a bit, as if he were getting a better look at her. “Credibility is key, but I don’t go out of my way to be unpopular.”

  “No? I thought… I mean, I had the impression you were…”

  He waited patiently for her to finish.

  “An old recluse.” The word seemed to echo in the small room. That’s not exactly what she’d meant to say but rather than take it back it seemed like a better idea to try and explain. “There’s never a photo attached to the articles and you don’t give any public talks. You co-wrote papers with Peter Rondeau and Walter Kimmelman, who are both in their seventies. You studied under Thomas LeTours but he hasn’t taught at Emory for years. So I hadn’t pictured you so…” She’d never wished for a rewind button so much.. “It doesn’t matter, of course. At all.”

  “Miss Byrne, it’s true Letours was my doctoral advisor.”

  “Please, call me Henry.”

  He paused for a moment, and then went on. “But I wasn’t a traditional student. I received my degree long distance, through a special scholarship program. A few retired emeritus professors take on advisory roles.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, some say nontraditional students like yourself are the way of the future.”