Ruby (36 page)

"Oh, Beau, I . ."
"You're so lovely, lovelier than Gisselle. Your skin is like silk to her sandpaper."
His fingers found the clasp of my bra and almost before I knew it, undid it. Instantly, his mouth moved over my breast, nudging my bra away to expose more and more until he found my nipple, erect, firm, waiting despite the voice within me that tried to keep my body from being so willing. It was truly as though there were two of me: the sensible, quiet, and logical Ruby, and the wild, hungry-forlove-and-affection emotional Ruby.
"I have a blanket in the back," he whispered. "We can spread it out and lie out here under the stars and. ."
And what? I thought finally. Grope and pet each other until there was no turning back? Suddenly, Daphne's furious face flashed before me and her words resounded: ". . . They look for girls who are more promiscuous, more obliging. . Whether it is true or not, Cajun girls have reputations."
"No, Beau. We're going too fast and too far, I can't. . ." I cried.
"We'll just sprawl out and be more
comfortable," he proposed, keeping his lips close to my ear.
"It would be more than that and you know it, Beau Andreas."
"Come on, Ruby. You've done this before, haven't you?" he said with a sharpness that cut into my heart.
"Never, Beau. Not like you think," I replied with indignation. My tone made him regret his accusation, but he wasn't easily dissuaded.
"Then let me be the first, Ruby. I want to be your first. Please," he pleaded.
"Beau . ."
He continued moving his lips over my breasts, urging and encouraging me with his fingers, his touch, his tongue, and hot breath, but I firmed up my resistance, a resistance fueled by the memory of Daphne's accusations and expectations. I would not fit the image of the Cajun girl they wanted me to be. I would not give any of them the satisfaction.
"What's wrong, Ruby? Don't you like me?" Beau moaned when I pulled myself back and held my dress against my bosom.
"I do, Beau. I like you a lot, but I don't want to do this now. I don't want to do what everyone expects I would do. . . even you," I added.
Beau sat back abruptly, his frustration quickly turning into anger.
"You led me to believe you really liked me," he said.
"I do, Beau, but why can't we stop when I ask you to stop? Why can't we just--"
"Just torment each other?" he asked caustically. "Is that what you did with your boyfriends in the bayou?"
"I didn't have boyfriends. Not like you think," I said. He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you had dozens of boyfriends."
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Can't we get to know each other a little more,
Beau?"
"Yes, of course. That's what I want. But there's no better way than making love," he offered, turning back to me. He sounded so convincing. A part of me wanted to be convinced, but I kept that part under tight wraps, locked behind a door. "You're not going to tell me now you just want to be good friends, are you?" he added with obvious sarcasm when I continued to resist.
"No, Beau. I am attracted to you. I would be a liar to say otherwise," I confessed.
"So?"
"So let's not rush into anything and make me regret it," I added. Those words seemed to stop him cold. He froze in the space between us for a moment and then sat back. I began to fasten my bra.
Suddenly, he laughed.
"What?" I asked.
"The first time I took Gisselle out here, she jumped me and not vice versa," he said, starting the engine. "I guess you two really are very, very different."
"I guess we are," I said.
"As my grandfather would say,
viva la difference,"
he replied, and laughed again, but I wasn't sure if he meant he liked Gisselle's behavior better or he liked mine.
"All right, Ruby," he said, driving us out of the marsh-lands, "I'll take your advice and believe what you predicted about me."
"Which is?"
"If I really want to do something," he said, "I will. Eventually." In the glow from the light of oncoming cars, I saw him smiling.
He was so handsome; I did like him; I did want him, but I was glad I had resisted and remained true to myself and not to the image others had of me.
When we arrived at the house, he escorted me to the door and then turned me to him to kiss me good night.
"I'll come by tomorrow afternoon and we can rehearse some of our lines, okay?" he said.
"I'd like that. I had a wonderful time, Beau. Thank you." He laughed.
"Why do you laugh at everything I say?" I demanded.
"I can't help it. I keep thinking of Gisselle. She would expect me to thank her for permitting me to spend a small fortune on dinner. I'm not laughing at you," he added. "I'm just. . . so surprised by everything you do and say."
"Do you like that, Beau?" I met his blue eyes and felt the heat that sprang up from my heart, hoping for the right answer.
"I think I do. I think I really do," he said, as if first realizing it himself, and then he kissed me again before leaving. I watched him for a moment, my heart now full and happy, and then rang the doorbell for Edgar. He opened it so quickly, I thought he had been standing there on the other side, waiting.
"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said.
"Good evening, Edgar," I sang, and started toward the stairway.
"Mademoiselle."
I turned back, still smiling at my last memories of Beau on the steps.
"Yes, Edgar?"
"I was told to tell you to go straight to the study, mademoiselle," he said.
"Pardon?"
"Your father and mother and Mademoiselle Gisselle are waiting for you," he explained.
"Gisselle's home already?" Surprised, but filled with trepidation, I went to the study. Gisselle was sitting on one of the leather sofas and Daphne was in a leather chair. My father was gazing out the window, his back to me. He turned when Daphne said, "Come in and sit down."
Gisselle was glaring at me, hatefully. Did she think I had told on her? Had my father and Daphne somehow heard about what had occurred at the slumber party?
"Did you have a nice time?" Daphne asked. "Behave properly and do everything as I told you to do it in the restaurant?"
"Yes."
My father looked relieved about that, but he still seemed distant, troubled. My eyes went from him; to Gisselle, who looked away quickly, and then back to Daphne, who folded her hands in her lap.
"Apparently, since your arrival, you haven't told us everything about your sordid past," she said. I gazed at Gisselle again. She was sitting back now, her arms folded, her face full of self-satisfaction.
"I don't understand. What haven't I told you?" Daphne smirked.
"You haven't told us about the woman you know in Storyville," she said, and for a moment my heart stopped and then started again, this time driven by a combination of fear and anger and utter frustration. I spun on Gisselle.
"What lies did you tell now?" I demanded. She shrugged.
"I just told how you brought us down to Storyville to meet your friend," she explained, throwing a look of pure innocence at Daddy.
"I? Took you? But--" I sputtered.
"How do you know this. . . this prostitute?" Daphne demanded.
"I don't know her," I cried. "Not like she's telling you."
"She knew your name, didn't she? Didn't she?"
"Yes."
"And she knew you were looking for Pierre and me?" Daphne cross-examined.
"That's true, but--"
"How do you know her?" she demanded firmly. A hot rush of blood heated my face.
"I met her on the bus when I came to New Orleans and I didn't know she was a prostitute," I cried. "She told me her name was Annie Gray, and when we arrived in New Orleans, she helped me find this address."
"She knows this address," Daphne said, nodding at Daddy. He closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.
"She told me she was coming here to be a singer," I explained. "She's still trying to find a job. Her aunt promised her and--"
"You want us to believe you thought she was only a nightclub singer?"
"It's the truth!" I turned to Daddy. "It is!"
"All right," he said. "Maybe it is."
"What's the difference?" Daphne remarked. "By now the Andreas family and the Montaignes surely know your. . . our daughter has made the acquaintance of such a person."
"We'll explain it," my father insisted.
"You'll explain it," Daphne retorted. Then she turned back to me. "Did she promise to contact you here and give you an address of where she would be in the future?"
I
gazed at Gisselle again. She hadn't left out a detail. Wickedly, she grinned.
"Yes, but--"
"Don't you ever so much as nod at this woman if you should see her someplace, much less accept any letters from her or phone calls, understand?"
"Yes, ma'am." I looked down, the tears so cold they made me shiver on their journey down my cheeks.
"You should have told us about this so we could be prepared should it come up. Are there any other sordid secrets?"
I shook my head quickly.
"Very well." She looked at Gisselle. "Both of you go to bed," she commanded.
I rose slowly and without waiting for Gisselle, started toward the stairway. I walked ponderously up the steps, my head down, my heart feeling so heavy in my chest, it was like I was carrying a chunk of lead up with me.
Gisselle came prancing by, her face molded in a smile of self-satisfaction.
"I hope you and Beau had a good time," she quipped as she passed me.
What possible part of my mother and what possible part of my father combined to create someone so hateful and mean? I wondered.

18
A Curse
.
Gisselle and I didn't speak to each other very

much the next day. I finished breakfast before she came down, and soon after she did, she went off with Martin and two of her girlfriends. Daddy left, saying he had to catch up on some work in his office, and I saw Daphne only for a moment before she hurried out to meet some friends for shopping and lunch. I spent the remainder of the morning in my studio, painting. I was still uncomfortable living in such a big house. Despite the many beautiful antiques and works of art, the expensive French furniture and elaborate tapestries and carpets, for me the house remained as empty and as cold as a museum. It was easy to be lonely here, I thought as I wandered back through the long corridors afterward to have my lunch alone.

And so I was glad when Beau arrived in the early afternoon and we went into my art studio to practice our play lines. First, he looked at the pictures I had drawn and painted under Professor Ashbury's tutelage.

"How about doing a picture of me?" he suggested, looking up from a watercolor of a bowl of fruit.

"Of you?" The idea startled me. A slow grin appeared on his handsome face.
"Sure. I hope it would be a lot more interesting than something like this." His grin quickly
evaporated. Suddenly, those smiling sapphire eyes looked at me as I had never been looked at before. They darkened so with pure desire. "I'd even pose nude, if you like," he said.
I know my cheeks turned crimson.
"Nude! Beau!"
"It's only for the sake of art, right?" he followed quickly. "And an artist has to practice drawing and painting the human body, doesn't she? Even I know that much," he said. "I'm sure your teacher will be taking you to his studio soon and have you do nudes. I hear there are college guys and girls who do it for the money. Or have you already drawn and painted someone in the nude?" he asked with a wry smile.
"Of course not. I'm not ready for that sort of work yet, Beau," I said, my voice nearly failing. He took a few steps toward me.
"You don't think I'm good-looking enough? You think the college guys will look better?"
"No, I don't. It's not that. It's just . . ."
"Just what?"
"I'd be too embarrassed to draw you. Now stop. We came in here to memorize play lines," I said, opening my script. He continued to gaze at me with that look of pure longing on his face, his cerulean eyes darkening. I had to fix my eyes on the pages so he couldn't see the excitement he had stirred in my breast. My heart pitter-pattered when the image of him sprawled nude on a chaise flashed before me. I couldn't help but tremble. I hoped he didn't see the way my fingers fumbled with the pages of my script.
"Are you sure?" he questioned. "You never know about something until you try." I took a deep breath, put the script down, and looked up at him sharply.
"I'm sure, Beau. Besides, all I need is for Daphne to believe one more bad thing about me. She has Daddy nearly convinced that I'm some sort of wicked Cajun girl, thanks to Gisselle."
"What do you mean?" Beau asked, quickly sitting beside me. Breathlessly, I gushed forth, describing how I had been interrogated about Annie Gray.
"Gisselle told on you?" He shook his head. "I guess she's just jealous," he said. "Well, she has reason to be," he added, his eyes continuing to grow warmer. "I'm too fond of you now to turn back. She's going to have to get used to it and behave herself."
We stared into each other's eyes for a moment. Outside, the morning overcast had darkened into rain clouds and a hard downpour began, the drops tapping on the windows and streaking down like tears on someone's cheeks.
Gradually, Beau leaned toward me. I didn't move away and he kissed me softly on the lips. I felt my small wall of resistance start to crumble. Surprising myself, as well as him, I returned his kiss the moment his ended. Neither of us said anything, but we both knew the memorization session was destined to fail. Neither he nor I could concentrate on the play. As soon as I lifted my eyes from the words and met his, my mind stumbled and fumbled.
Finally, he took the play script from my hand and put it aside with his. Then he turned to me.
"Paint me, Ruby," he whispered in a voice as tempting as the serpent's must have been in Paradise. "Draw me and paint me. Let's lock the door and do it," he challenged.
"Beau, I couldn't. . I just couldn't."
"Why not? You paint animals without clothes," he teased. "And naked fruit, don't you?"
"Stop, Beau."
"It's nothing," he said, growing serious again. "We'll keep it a secret between us," he added. "Why don't we do it right now? There's no one here to disturb us," he said, and began to unbutton his shirt.
"Beau . . ."
With his eyes fixed on me, he stripped off his shirt and then stood up to unfasten his pants.
"Go lock the door," he said, nodding.
"Beau, don't . ."
"If you don't lock it and someone does walk in . ."
"Beau Andreas!"
He stepped out of his pants and folded them neatly over the back of the lounge. He stood only in his briefs, his hands on his hips, waiting.
"How should I pose? Sitting? Knees up? On my stomach?"
"Beau, I said I can't . ."
"The door," he replied, nodding toward it more emphatically. To move me faster, he tucked his thumbs into the elastic of his briefs and began lowering them over his hips. I jumped out of the chair and rushed to the door. The moment I heard the lock click, I knew I had let it go too far. Was it only because I didn't know how to stop him, or did I permit it to happen, want it to happen? I turned and saw him standing with his shorts in his hand, holding them in front of himself:
"How should I pose?" he asked.
"Put your clothes back on this instant, Beau Andreas," I ordered.
"It's done already. It's too late to turn back. Just start."
He sat down on the lounge, still keeping his briefs over his private parts. Then he nonchalantly brought up his feet and sprawled out, facing me. With a quick gesture, he raised his briefs and draped them over the back of the lounge. My mouth gaped.
"Should I lean on my hand like this? This is good, isn't it?"
I shook my head, turned away from him, and sat down quickly in the nearest chair because my pounding heart had turned my legs to marshmallow.
"Do it, Ruby. Draw me," he ordered. "This is a challenge to see if you can really be an artist and look at someone and see only an object to draw and paint, like a doctor separating himself from his patient so he could do what has to be done."
"I can't, Beau. Please. I'm not a doctor and you're not my patient," I insisted, still without looking at him.
"Our secret, Ruby," he whispered. "It will be our secret," he chanted. "Go on. Look at me. You can do it. Look at me," he commanded.
Slowly, like one hypnotized by his words, I turned my head and gazed at him, at his sleek, muscular torso, at the way the lines of his body turned into each other. Could I do what he asked? Could I look at him and detach myself enough to see him only as something to draw?
The artist in me demanded to know, wanted to know. I rose and went to my easel and flipped over the page to work on a blank one. Then I took the drawing pencil in hand and looked at him, drinking him in with long, visual gulps and then turning what I saw into something on the page. My fingers, trembling badly at first, became stronger, firmer as the lines took shape. I took the most time with his face, capturing him as I saw him in my own mind as well as how he looked to others. I drew him with a deep, strong look in his eyes. Satisfied, I moved to his body and soon I had the outline of his shoulders, his sides, his hips, and his legs. I concentrated on his chest and his neck, capturing the strong muscle structure and the smooth lines.
All the while he kept his eyes fixed so firmly on me; it was as if he were a mannequin. I think he was testing himself as much as he was testing me.
"This is hard work," he finally said.
"You want to stop?"
"No. I can go a while longer. I can go as long as you can," he added.
My fingers began to tremble again as I moved down the drawing to the small of his stomach. Now, with every turn of the pencil, I felt I was actually running the tips of my fingers over his body, slowly working my way down until I had to draw his manliness. He knew I had reached that point, for his lips tightened into a sensuous smile.
"If you have to come closer, don't be afraid," he said in a loud whisper.
I dropped my eyes back to the easel and drew quickly, sketching so fast I must have looked like someone in a frenzy. I didn't have to look up at him again. The image of his body lingered on my eyes. I know I was flushed. My heart was pounding so hard, I don't know how I continued, but I did. And when I finally stepped back from the paper, I had drawn a rather detailed picture of him.
"Is it good?" he asked.
"I think so," I said, surprised at how really good it was. I couldn't remember drawing a single line. It was as though I had been possessed.
Suddenly, he rose and stepped up beside me to look at the drawing.
"It is good," he said.
"You can put on your clothes now, Beau," I said, without turning away from the drawing.
"Don't be so nervous," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
"Beau . . ."
"You've already seen all there is to see. No reason to be shy anymore," he whispered. When he put his arm around me, I tried to move away; I willed my feet to carry me off, but my command died somewhere on the way and I remained beside him, as pliable as soft clay, permitting him to turn me around so that I faced him and enabled him to kiss me. I felt his nakedness against me, his manliness harden.
"Beau, please . . ."
"Shh," he said, wiping my face softly with his palm. He kissed me tenderly on the lips and then he lifted me into his arms and carried me back to the lounge. As he lowered me onto it, he went to his knees and leaned over to kiss me again. His fingers moved quickly over my clothing, unbuttoning my blouse, unzipping my skirt. He undid my bra and peeled it away. My breasts shuddered, uncovered, but I didn't resist. I kept my eyes closed and only moaned as he kissed me on the neck, the shoulders, and then nibbled gently under and over my breasts. He lifted me gently and slipped my skirt down over my hips, quickly burying his face in the small of my stomach. His kisses were like fire now. Everywhere his lips touched me, I felt the heat build.
"You're wonderful, Ruby, wonderful. You're as pretty as Gisselle on the outside and far more beautiful and lovely on the inside," he said. "I can't help but love you. I can't think of anything else but you. I'm mad for you," he swore.
Wonder filled me. Did he truly love me with such passion? In a moment of exquisite silence, I heard the gentle tapping of the rain and felt a warm shudder pass through my body. His fingers continued to explore me, stir me. I seized his head in my hands, intending to stop him, but instead I kissed his forehead, his hair. I held him against my bosom tightly.
"Your heart's pounding and so is mine," he said. He looked into my eyes. I closed them and then, as in a dream, I felt his soft lips move over my cheek, in my hair, then lightly over my eyelids and finally my lips again. This time, as he kissed me, he slipped his fingers under the waist of my panties and drew them down.
I started to protest, but he quieted me with another kiss.
"It will be wonderful, Ruby," he whispered. "I promise. Besides, you should know what it's like. An artist should know," he said.
"Beau, I'm afraid. Please. . . don't. . ."
"It's all right." He smiled down at me. I was naked below him and his nakedness was against me. I felt him throbbing. It took my breath away, made it harder and harder to talk, to plead. "I want to be your first. I should be your first," he said. "Because I love you."
"Do you, Beau? Do you really?"
"Yes," he swore. Then he returned his lips to mine, slipping himself in between my legs at the same time. I tried to resist, keeping my legs tight, but as he prodded, he continued to kiss me and whisper and nudge me in places I had shown no boy nor man before. I felt like I was trying to hold back a deluge. Wave after wave of excitement washed over me until I was drowning in my own thundering flood of passion. I lost my final desire to resist and felt my thighs and my back relax as he moved with
determination to enter me. I cried. I felt my head spin and a delightful dizziness send me reeling back into the echo of my own soft moans. The explosions within me, surprised, frightened, and then pleased me. Finally, his climax came fast, hot, and furious. I felt him shudder and then come to a peaceful stillness, his lips still pressed against my cheek, his breathing still heavy and hard.
"Oh, Ruby," he moaned, "Ruby, you're beautiful, wonderful."
The realization of what had happened, what I had permitted swept over me. I pushed on his shoulders.
"Let me up, Beau. Please," I cried. He sat back and I seized my garments and began putting them on quickly. "You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked.
"I'm mad at myself," I said.
"Why? Wasn't it wonderful for you, too?"
I buried my foam in my hands and began to cry. I couldn't help it. He tried to soothe me, comfort me.
"Ruby, it's all right. Really. Don't cry."
"It's not all right, Beau. It's not. I was hoping I was different," I said.
"Different? From what? From Gisselle?"
"No. From. . ." I couldn't say it. I couldn't tell him I was hoping I wasn't a Landry because he didn't know who my real mother was, but that's what I meant. The blood that ran through my veins was just as hot as the blood that had run through my mother's and had gotten her in trouble with Paul's father and later, with Daddy.
"I don't understand," Beau said. He started to put on his clothes.
"It doesn't matter," I said, regaining control of myself. I turned to him. "I'm not blaming you for anything, Beau. You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do myself in the end."
"I really care for you, Ruby," he said. "I think I care for you more than I've cared for any other girl."
"Do you, Beau? You didn't just say those things?"
"Of course not. I. . ."
We heard footsteps in the corridor outside my studio. I hurried to finish dressing and he stuffed his shirt into his pants just as someone tried the door. Instantly, there was a pounding. It was Daphne.
"Open this door immediately!" she cried.
I ran to it and unlocked it. She stood there, staring in at us, looking me over with so much disapproval, I couldn't help but tremble.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Why was this door locked?"
"We were just studying our play lines and didn't want to be disturbed," I said quickly. My heart was pounding. I was sure my hair was messed and my clothes looked hurriedly put on. She ran her eyes over me again as if I were a slave on an auction block in the antebellum South and then quickly shifted her gaze to Beau. His weak smile reinforced her suspicions.
"Where are your play scripts?" she demanded with a scowl.
"Right here," Beau said, and picked them up to show them to her.
"Hmm," she said, and then flicked her stony eyes at me. "I can't wait to see the result of all this dedicated rehearsal." She pulled herself up into an even straighter, firmer posture. "We're having some dinner guests tonight. Dress more formally," she ordered in a cold, commanding tone. "And fix your hair. Where's your sister?"
"I don't know," I said. "She left earlier and hasn't returned."
"Should she somehow get past me before dinner, inform her of my instructions," she said. She glanced at Beau again, her frown deepening, and then returned her gaze to me and fired her words like bullets. "I don't like locked doors in my house. When people lock doors, they usually have something to hide or they're doing something they don't want anyone else to know," she snapped, and then pivoted and left. It was as if a cold wind had just blown through the room. I let out a breath and so did Beau.