These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance Page 4

  He came around the front of the desk and leaned against it.

  “You never cared what people thought before.”

  Gideon couldn’t argue with that. “I just think I might need to be more visible… professionally.”

  “What started this? It seems like a pretty big change of heart.”

  “Nothing. And it has nothing to do with my heart. It’s just a conference.”

  “Okay. Then let’s talk about why you’re really here.” Tom waved his hand toward the phone, smiling. “You could have called. The telephone- it’s a modern convenience we non-historians use for purposes of communication.”

  “Well, if you’d rather I call next time, I can do that.” Irritation surged through him. “And don’t try to poke around in my psyche. I don’t need a counseling session.”

  “Fine. No poking.” Tom watched his face for a moment. “I guess I won’t bother being subtle. Just spill it.”

  “Nothing to spill.”

  “I’m your oldest friend. Probably your only friend. I know when you’re chewing something over.”

  “I just need some time on the river. Nothing major.”

  “Well, you know I’m always up for some bream fishing. Bix said they were real feisty when he was out with Paul a few weeks ago.” Tom paused, as if choosing his words carefully. His voice was much softer, all joking gone, as he said, “Gideon, you know that whatever it is, you can always talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing. No existential crisis, no test of faith, no big temptations. I just felt like a change of scenery was in order.”

  “Okay.” He smiled as he spoke but Gideon could see the tension in his shoulders, in the way his eyes were narrowed just a little. He didn’t say anything more, just stood there, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

  A minute passed in uncomfortable silence. Gideon heaved a sigh. Half of him admired how Tom could engage people on the very deepest level, bringing their fears and hopes out into the light, giving support and encouragement by simply hearing what needed to be said. And the other half of him wanted to tell Tom that he was too old to have someone hold his hand and tell him everything would be okay. Some things would never be okay. Some things were irreparably broken.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Gideon said. “But I’ve known for years that Duane Banner is going to walk out of prison in October. I’m not going to throw away everything I’ve built here and turn my back on everything I believe, just to get revenge.”

  “It’s going to be tough once he’s out there, living like a free man. It’ll take some adjustment. It’s another step in learning how to live with what happened.”

  “And what I’ve done.” Duane Banner’s face was burned into his memory, along with images of terror and death that populated his nightmares. There had been a point in his life when he gladly took a place in hell just for the chance to kill the men responsible for the destruction of his family. “But honestly, none of that has anything to do with a river trip.”

  “Okay, I believe you” Tom said. “Just remember―”

  “I know,” he said. “And you’d be the first to know if I started making plans.” There was real comfort in knowing that if he ever confessed a temptation to give Duane Banner a taste of vigilante justice, Tom wouldn’t be disappointed in him. They both knew redemption wasn’t simple. You fought for it every day, down in the mud and the muck of life, one decision at a time.

  Tom nodded. “I’ll call Bix and see when he wants to go out on the river.”

  “Great. Let me know,” Gideon said. “I’m headed over to Oakland Plantation to drop off a few things. Have you met the new director?”

  “Henry Byrne? Not formally, but I’ve seen her a few times. I know Birdie and Frank Pascal from the Zydeco Festival planning committee. They seemed real excited to have her come home.”

  Gideon rubbed a hand over his beard again. Maybe it was time to shave it off. “I can imagine. Anyway, I better get there before they close the office.”

  “Wait,” Tom said, holding out a hand. Gideon could see the wheels turning in Tom’s head. “So, what do you think of her?”

  “Me? Seems fine.” He grabbed his satchel, stood up and glanced toward the door. “She sent a list of things she needed from the archives, I thought I’d bring them over, since she has some sort of anxiety disorder and doesn’t like to go out.”

  Tom frowned. “Doesn’t like to go out?”

  “That’s what she said.” Gideon had his hand on the door frame. He didn’t want to be pulled into a conversation about Henry Byrne.

  Tom started to say something else but Gideon was already waving and on his way out the door. He’d drop the papers off and head home. Or maybe he’d head down to the riverwalk and pick up some biscuits, barbeque and slaw at The Red Hen. After a quiet day at work, he usually looked forward to going home to his little house, but somehow it didn’t appeal.

  Chapter Three

  “If people would dare to speak to one another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the world a hundred years hence.”

  ―Samuel Butler

  Henry signed into her e-mail account and stared at the list of names in her inbox. Gideon hadn’t responded to the message she’d sent on Monday. Turning, she reached for her office phone, thinking she’d just call over to the archives and make sure Bernice remembered she was coming tomorrow morning. Her hand hovered over it. No, Gideon most likely saw her e-mail, made a note, passed it on to Bernice without thinking to respond. Nothing to worry about. It didn’t really matter in the scheme of things. Unless she arrived tomorrow in the middle of a Friday morning tour and couldn’t get access to what she needed. In that case, it would be a problem and she would have driven over there for nothing.

  Her inability to make a decision about a simple request was more irritating than anything else. She wasn’t an indecisive person but for some reason, she hesitated now.

  Henry stood up and faced the long window, drawing the heavy burgundy curtains to the side. The afternoon sun streamed in, lightening the deep green wallpaper to a jewel hue and flashing over the surface of the burnished oak desk. The pale blue linen summer dress she’d put on that morning felt wrinkled and stale. The old place couldn’t handle the August heat unless they kept the windows covered and every door closed, but she felt trapped in the dim little room after a few hours. She squinted out at the trees and the outbuildings in the distance. For her, the best part of Cane River Creole history was everything she could touch, repair, and explore. If she spent too much time inside with the papers, she started to feel claustrophobic.

  The temperature in the room started to climb and she dropped the curtain again. She would just drop Gideon a quick note. No need to overthink it.

  She hit the reply button and sat motionless. “Dear Gideon” seemed far too friendly. She erased “Gideon” and inserted “Dear Mr. Becket”. Now it was simultaneously too formal and too intimate. Erasing the “dear”, she typed a few lines, hoping for a good balance between chipper and professional. She sat back, re-reading the message. It seemed cold. She re-inserted the “dear” and read it over. No, better without it. Another quick deletion and she gave it another look, this time whispering it to herself. Maybe it was the word choice, or maybe it was too short but something seemed off.

  Taking off her glasses and setting them on the desk, she rubbed her temples. She wasn’t one of those women who worried about what every man thought of her. She did her job and took pride in her work. Spending five minutes on a two line e-mail made no sense at all.

  A knock at the door made her jump. “Come in,” she called out.

  The door swung open and Gideon stood there. He looked the same as he had a week ago, bearded and nicely dressed, but this time he carried an old leather satchel.

  Henry felt her mouth drop open and she glanced at her e-mail, up at him, then back to the screen.

  “I brought what you needed from the archives,” he said.

&n
bsp; “Oh, I never intended you to bring it all the way here,” Henry said. She ran a hand over her hair, wishing she could check her lipstick, then was irritated with herself for thinking about it.

  He came closer, glancing at the rows of books on her shelves, the framed prints of battles, the miniatures of Civil War soldiers she’d found at a flea market. “If you’d like to look through them, you can make copies of what you need and I can take the rest back home. To the archives, I mean.”

  She smiled a little at his slip. “I really didn’t mean for you to do all this work.”

  “You mentioned you didn’t like to go out much so…”

  He thought she was agoraphobic. “It’s not quite like that. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I―” She shook her head. “Thank you. I do appreciate it. Please sit down.”

  Setting a straight-backed wooden chair closer to the desk, he opened the satchel. “I brought any letters that mention the former slaves’ quarters or homes of the free Creole farmers and any pictures we had of those outbuildings. You mentioned subsurface work?”

  “Right, our archeology students arrived last week. It’s all very exciting.” She leaned forward to look at the documents he was setting on the desk. The delicate paper was protected by velum sheets and she gently unfolded the notes attached. “Are you in a hurry? This might take me a few minutes to sort through.”

  “Not at all. Take your time.”

  Truth.

  She scanned the letters as quickly as she could, sorting them into piles. Some of the writing was faded but each letter had a small sheet attached with a typed explanation of the contents. “The notes make this a lot easier. Some of these handwritten letters are a real pain to puzzle out.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “I want to leave the archives in better shape than I found it. I typed all the letters, and keep updated, identical files. My main goal is to scan, document and codify everything in one large searchable database.”

  “That would be incredible. It would change the way we study Cane River history.”

  “Right. And there’s so much more than what’s catalogued right now. There’s a basement full of old letters and diaries and pictures over on Trudeau Street. It was started by Ellison Finnamore and continued by his son, Arthur. After Arthur died, he passed it on to me. I go over as often as I can, a few evenings a week.”

  “A basement? How much is a basement?” Henry leaned forward. Trudeau Street was only a few blocks from her apartment in the Cane River Historic District.

  “Ninety eight boxes.” He nodded at her gasp of surprise. “I’ve worked through forty seven of them in the last few years.”

  “And you’re trying to sort through and catalogue them all by yourself? You haven’t asked anyone to help you?” Of course he preferred to work alone. It was the kind of project that could make a historian famous. Or more famous, in his case.

  “There aren’t many people who know enough Cane River history to be able to sort the letters and pictures, let alone catalogue them. Our storage is at a premium at the archives so I haven’t bothered to move the boxes, even though the house in unoccupied. I have a scanner and a copier down there and just upload to an external hard drive while I’m working. If the estate ever sells it, we’ll have to find another storage place. But I doubt they’ll manage to sell the house any time soon. It’s got wiring issues.”

  He glanced down at the desk for a moment. “I was wondering if you’d like to be part of the project.”

  Henry sat up straight. It was an unofficial, unpaid position that promised a lot of dusty hours alone. It was a dream come true. “Yes, that would be very nice. Thank you for offering.”

  Something in her tone must have struck him as funny because a slow smile started around the edges of his lips. “I’ll have to make a copy of the key for you and I’ll show you what area I’m working on so you can choose your boxes, but I’d be very glad of the help. And of course, you would be credited when the catalogue goes online.”

  “Wonderful.” Her heart was pounding. She could almost see her name in bibliographical footnotes, already.

  “I’ll let you get back to reading.” He motioned toward the letter she was holding and she swallowed back her excitement. First things first.

  He sat quietly, hands folded in his lap. He wasn’t one of those people that needed to fidget or chatter and she appreciated that. Maybe some people found his stillness intimidating. Barney Sandoz’s words about gangs and cocaine and tattoos rattled around in her head but she refused to give in to the temptation to look at his wrists, to see if anything was showing under the cuffs of his shirt, or at his neck.

  After a few minutes, he leaned forward and she looked up to see him staring at her glasses where they rested on a Louisiana history magazine. She knew what he was seeing before he reached out: the view of the glossy cover wasn’t distorted through the glass at all. He held the frames up for a moment and then gently placed them back on the desk without comment.

  She felt her face go hot. “They make me look smart,” she said.

  “But you are smart.” His brows drew together. “I understand the need to put forward a certain persona. I know some women struggle to be taken seriously in higher academia and research, especially if they’re beautiful.”

  Her mind snagged on his words. She didn’t want to be known as a beautiful woman. “I guess I don’t want people to make a snap judgment about me.”

  “Actually, you do,” he said, smiling. “But you want it to be one that you control.”

  “And your beard? Do you think it makes you look wise?”

  “I’m not sure I was thinking of anything except that I don’t like to shave.”

  “Really? You have to admit that a beard gives a man a certain gravitas. Add in the hint of General Sherman and you make quite an impression.”

  His eyes widened. “Impersonating General Sherman doesn’t sound like a good way to make friends here.”

  “Maybe you’re not really interested in making friends.”

  “Neither of us are, it seems.” The corners of his lips had turned up again.

  After a few seconds, she realized she was simply holding the letter and smiling back at him. She cleared her throat and refocused on the notes. He said nothing more and soon the piles were sorted.

  “I’ll go make copies of these. And I’m sorry I didn’t offer you any coffee. Let me put on a fresh pot. We had a group come through earlier and there might not be much left.”

  “Oh, no, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

  “Okay, then.” She stood and walked to the door. “Would you like to look around? Or you can stay here and wait for me.” It felt awkward to just leave him sitting alone.

  “You don’t have to entertain me, Henry.”

  Truth.

  “Good to know. I’ll file that away.” She walked through the door and was all the way to the copier before she realized she was still grinning. It was odd, really. When she talked to strangers or spent time with someone new, the anxiety was crippling. It was a curse to able to hear a lie in someone’s voice or see it in their eyes. Growing up, she’d prayed that God would take it away, make her like everyone else. She’d finally come to accept the fact that she’d never be really normal, never marry, never have a family of her own. She couldn’t get through a first date without accidentally knowing something she really wished she hadn’t.

  She arranged a series of photos on the glass and closed the machine again. She hated lies the way a fireman hated fire, with a combination of fear and awe at the total destruction it could bring. But at the same time, she knew it was just a fact of life.

  She pulled the copies from the tray and gently gathered all the archived letters and photos. She’d always been a logical person, trusting historical facts and textbooks more than people. She would be as wary and as careful as she always had been. Nothing would change that.

  ***

  “Cora, I don’t think this is a good match.” G
ideon glanced back into the crowded waiting room. It was uncharacteristically busy for a Tuesday morning at the Juvenile Justice Center.

  “Sit down for a moment, Gideon,” she said. Cora Jeunesse had a soothing, pleasant personality. Nothing much bothered the sixty something woman. Maybe raising eight kids of her own and mothering countless foster children had something to do with her unflappable attitude. “This is Marlowe Edison’s grandson. She’s been taking care of his son while he was in prison. They’ve got a long road ahead, trying to learn how to be a family again.”

  “Exactly. I’m not a parent. I don’t know anything about what he’s going through.”

  “But you know how it is to get out of prison and find that the rest of the world has moved on without you. Reggie was convicted for driving the car in an armed robbery and the sweet little baby he left is now an angry nine year old,” Cora said. “He’s fighting to get back on his feet but aside from his grandma Marlowe, his family doesn’t want to own him. They’re waiting until he proves himself. And we know that proving yourself can take a really long time.”

  He ran a hand over his beard. When he’d decided to take a man’s life, he had thought he didn’t have anything to lose. He’d been wrong. He’d had everything to lose. Now, most days he didn’t care if he lived or died. On good days, he wondered why he’d survived and his sister hadn’t. On bad days, he begged God to let him go back in time and switch places with her. “Mentoring convicted felons means helping connect them with jobs and prepare for interviews and find apartments. I don’t have anything to do with getting their families back.”

  Cora cocked her head. “You don’t like the fact he has a child?”

  An unreasonable amount of anger rose up in Gideon’s chest and he took a long breath, trying to sort out why he’d rather walk over hot coals than get involved. The truth was that he may know what was going through the ex-con’s head, but he definitely understood what that eight year old was feeling. Betrayal, fury, a deep need for revenge. And there was no way he knew how to diffuse that bomb. “I just work better with adults.”