Emilie Richards - Rising Tides

“I don’t understand what this has to do with any thing.”

“You will.” Phillip leaned back so that he could see her better. “What else did you learn from the letters?”

“The storm hit Grand Isle in 1893. Lucien and his family were here at the time. He was out sailing when the storm blew up, and he went somewhere nearby—”

“Chénière Caminada.”

“That’s right. To wait. The storm worsened, and he waited in someone’s house for it to end. Then, during the eye, he took a boatload of strangers to the church, because he was afraid that the house wouldn’t withstand the rest of the storm.” Dawn told Phillip everything else she’d pieced together. The church had already been destroyed, but the presbytery had still been standing. Just yards from the door, Lucien’s boat had gotten snagged on wreckage, and he had jumped in the water to free it. Lucien had become caught up himself. In a panic, as the winds and waves began again, he had cut the rope tying him to the boat and sent it swirling into the Gulf. Some how he had made it into the presbytery and safety, but everyone on board the boat had perished.”

“The people in the boat weren’t strangers,” Phillip said, when she had finished. “There were three passengers. Marcelite Cantrelle, her son Raphael, and her daughter Angelle. Angelle was Lucien’s child.”

Dawn stared at him. “No…”

“And he didn’t cut the rope to free himself, not the way you meant, anyway. He cut the rope and sent them to their death because he had to get rid of them. His father-in-law had found out about his affair and was making threats.”

The last part barely registered. “He killed them?”

“Call it what you like.”

Dawn wanted to argue Phillip’s version of the story, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t understood why her great-grandfather had felt so deeply guilty. Over and over again he had defended his actions, even though the re plies from Father Grimaud absolved him. And she had noticed inconsistencies. She had wondered whether her French was at fault.

“Father Grimaud was the chénière priest. That’s why Lucien wrote him those letters,” Phillip said.

“What does this story have to do with you?”

“Raphael was my grandfather.”

“But you said that he died.”

“Everyone thought so, including Lucien. After the hurricane, Lucien buried Marcelite and Angelle and a child who looked like Raphael. But Raphael was found days later, clinging to wreckage from the boat. When he regained consciousness, he discovered that he had be come someone else. A man from the chénière had identified him as a boy named Étienne Lafont whose entire family had perished. A family from Bayou Lafourche took him in, and that’s where he grew up. But Raphael knew who he was and what Lucien had done, and he swore that someday he would find Lucien and make him pay.”

Dawn repressed a shudder. “Did he?”

“Once he was grown, Raphael found his way to New Orleans and took a job at Gulf Coast Steamship. He worked his way up into a position of confidence quickly. He was bright, motivated—” Phillip stopped. “He was also of mixed blood, but no one knew. Or at least no one could be sure.”

“How can that be?”

“Raphael’s father had been born into slavery, the son of a house slave and her master. But remember, after the hurricane, people on Bayou Lafourche were told that Raphael was a boy named Étienne, and the people of the chénière were dark-haired and swarthy, a true mixture of nationalities. Raphael suspected what his real heritage was, but the only thing that mattered to him was to get revenge against Lucien. And to do that, he would have lied about anything.”

“Go on.”

“He discovered a foolproof way to destroy Lucien financially and bring Gulf Coast Steamship to its knees. But he didn’t count on one thing. As part of his plan, he was determined to make Aurore fall in love with him. But despite himself, he fell in love with her, too. She be came pregnant, and they planned to run away together. For one instant, Raphael thought he had it all. Lucien’s downfall. Marriage to Aurore. But it all fell apart. She discovered what he’d done. Not why, but what. Lucien died, and Aurore disappeared to have the baby.”

“Disappeared?”

“By then, Aurore knew who Raphael really was. She knew that his father was a mulatto, and that her child would have mixed blood, too. She hid so she could have the baby and give it up. But Raphael found her and took their daughter to raise himself. That daughter was Nicky.”

“Grandmère let him take her?”

“She thought she had little choice.”

“But that’s impossible to believe. She was a devoted mother. She would have given up her life at a moment’s notice for her children.”

“She gave Nicky to Raphael, then she set about re storing the fortunes of Gulf Coast Steamship. Only there were no steamships by the time the creditors had finished with them. Raphael had done his work well. So the company became simply Gulf Coast Shipping. And when she couldn’t find any other way to get it back on firm financial footing, she married Henry Gerritsen, a man who could help her do it.”

Dawn was silent, trying to drink in the entire story. Part of her wanted to tell Phillip he was crazy. But a bigger part, a much bigger part, knew he was telling the truth. Everything added up. His presence here. Nicky’s presence here. And the bits and pieces of history that she’d always known. “Did Grandmère ever see Nicky again? Did she know anything about her when she was growing up?” she asked at last.

“There’s a lot more to this than I’ve told you. And that’s why your grandmother had me write it all down. Aurore initialed every page.” He smiled, with no humor. “She knew there would be some here who wouldn’t believe it.”

“You mean you have this manuscript here with you?”

“No. Spencer has copies to give everyone, but apparently not until this little beach party is completed.”

“Does Spencer—”

“Spencer can verify everything I’ve told you. He’s known the entire story for many years. And so has Pelichere.”

The sun had risen higher before she spoke again. “I’m going to have to tell my parents, Phillip. How are you going to tell Nicky?”

“Maybe I should have told her months ago. Aurore left it up to me to decide when.”

“Why didn’t you tell her before Grandmère died? They might have had a chance at a reunion.”

“That’s why I didn’t. I was afraid that nothing good could come of a meeting. I couldn’t bear to see either of them hurt more.” He slid off the car and stood. “There’s more than I’ve told you. Don’t judge my decision until you know it all.”

She joined him on the ground and took his arm when it seemed as if he was going to walk away. “Thanks. I guess.”

“For what? For telling family secrets you’d probably rather not have heard?”

She tried to think of a way to explain her own con fused feelings. “I’ve spent the last year of my life trying not to be a part of this family.”

He moved away. “Well, now there’s even more family that you can try not to be a part of. And not the kind you’re probably dying to have.”

She let that go. “Listen, have you ever stood on the Mississippi River bank when the fog was rolling in?”

He frowned.

“Try it sometime,” she said. “I did it a lot as a little girl, and I still remember. At first the fog is appealing, soft and cool and deliciously mysterious. Then you begin to realize there are people nearby, and boats on the river. You hear snatches of conversation, whistles and bells, and sometimes you even hear laughter. But nothing is clear, and you can’t find anyone or anything without falling into the river and drowning.”