Rising Tides. Emilie Richards

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      “You know, Father Hugh could be the sticking point in your campaign.”

      “I don’t see why.”

      “Don’t you? I can think of more than a few reasons. Those who loved him will despise you for not being like him. And those who hated him will be afraid you’re too much like him.”

      “That’s why I need people like you to make it clear exactly who I am and who I number among my friends.”

      “Then, of course, there are things about your relationship with your brother that aren’t generally known…but could become so.”

      Ferris didn’t miss a beat. “Right now I just want to find out what you’d like for this parish if I run for governor.”

      “All I’d like is to be able to count on a governor to keep the welfare of the southern parishes in mind, and possibly to take a little advice from time to time.”

      “I’m your man.”

      “I think maybe you will be, but only if you remember that I’m not your man, or anybody else’s.”

      They had reached a turn in the bayou. The water moved faster here, as if it had given in to the inevitable. Largo stopped and pointed. “Look over there. Stick didn’t make it ‘round the bend.”

      Ferris saw something caught in the gnarled roots of a willow that clung tenaciously to the opposite bank. Whether it was the same stick or another was impossible to tell.

      “Now, you can look at that stick two ways,” Largo said. “One, it didn’t want to go, so it’s hanging in those roots as a last stand. Two, it was bobbing happily down stream and got caught unawares.”

      “Doesn’t say much for it either way,” Ferris said.

      “No sir. It’s like a man who resists too hard or com plies too easily. Figure out how to straddle that line, Ferris, and I’ll help put you exactly where you want to be.”

      Rain fell throughout the night, a dreary, steady drumming on the cypress-shingle roof that lacked drama. Drama was unnecessary. With the first light of morning, Dawn took her great-grandfather’s letters and hid them under the scatter rug beneath her dressing table. As a child, she had been full of secrets, hiding everything personal from the prying eyes of her parents and the house hold staff. Most of the time nothing she had hidden would have interested anyone, anyway. But the letters written by Lucien Le Danois were a different story.

      She hadn’t known what to expect. In the garconnière, she had seen that the first few letters were addressed to a priest. But she had suspected that farther into the pile she would find advice from a father to his daughter—although the voyeur inside her had hoped for passionate love letters. Instead, she had gotten something very different.

      She didn’t want to wait until breakfast and the reading of the next section of the will before she spoke to Ben. She had hardly slept, but she was past needing anything except answers.

      She took time for a shower and a change of clothes; then she went downstairs, hoping she would find him there. Instead, she found Phillip, in a T-shirt and shorts, sitting on the hood of Ben’s car, tossing bread crumbs at a trio of sparrows. The birds ignored her approach, and so did he.

      She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “Phillip, have you seen Ben?”

      “No one else is up. Just you and me.”

      “Oh.” She didn’t know what to do next or where to go. She needed answers, but nothing could persuade her to go into Ben’s room and wake him.

      She thought about Pelichere and Spencer. One or both of them might be able to fill in the story that had been sketched out for her. But she just wasn’t sure.

      “Not having the best kind of morning, are you?”

      Dawn realized she had been staring right through Phillip. “No. I…” She turned her palms up and shrugged.

      “Tell me something. Have you given much thought to why I might be here? Or my family?”

      “Of course.” She knew this was bound to be an interesting conversation, but the letters were on her mind.

      “Drawn any conclusions?”

      “Not a one.”

      “Not yet, huh?”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nothing as overt as hostility had been in Phillip’s voice, but again she sensed distrust. “I don’t know anything except the obvious.”

      “The obvious? Like our color?”

      She shoved her hands in her shorts pockets. “The obvious. Like your writing and your mother’s music.”

      “Really? You haven’t noticed that you and I aren’t exactly the same?”

      “Look, I’m not in the mood for this, okay? I don’t care what color you are. It has nothing to do with me.”

      “Now that’s where you’re wrong.”

      She opened her mouth to defend herself, but didn’t. Suddenly she suspected that she and Phillip weren’t talking about the same thing at all. He moved over a little, almost as if he were inviting her to sit beside him.

      She joined him on the hood. Now they were both staring at the house.

      “You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” she said.

      “I’m waiting for a whole lot of things.”

      “Did Ben tell you about the letters?”

      “Yeah.” Phillip tossed another volley of crumbs to the sparrows. As he did, a gold band on his left hand glinted in the sunlight.

      “I didn’t realize you were married,” she said.

      “And I’ll be a father any day now. Belinda’s waiting back in New Orleans. So I have my own reasons to get this over with. That’s why I’m sitting here right now.”

      “What was your connection to my grandmother, Phillip?”

      There was a pause before he spoke. “The same as yours.”

      She tried to figure out what he meant. She had had many connections to her grandmother. Aurore had been her teacher, her friend, her champion. Dawn looked sideways to ask him to clarify. He was gazing at her, and waiting…. Then she understood. “She was—”

      He nodded. “My grandmother, too.”

      Seconds passed. “I don’t believe it,” she said at last.

      “That doesn’t surprise me.”

      “What are you trying to say, Phillip? That your mother…” She paused and tried again. “That Nicky—?”

      “Nicky is Aurore’s daughter. But Nicky doesn’t СКАЧАТЬ