----------------------------------------

In the sweltering heat of a lazy Sunday afternoon, the tranquil atmosphere of Grand Isle was disrupted by the incessant chatter of a vibrant green and yellow parrot, suspended in a cage outside the door of Madame Williams’ main house. The bird’s repetitive cries of “Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!” echoed through the air, mingling with the sweet, fluty notes of a mockingbird perched on the opposite side of the door. The cacophony was enough to drive Mr. McPherson, a man of refined taste, to distraction.

Unable to focus on his newspaper, Mr. McPherson arose from his seat, his expression a picture of disgust. He traversed the narrow “bridges” connecting the Williams cottages, his footsteps a gentle creak on the wooden planks. As he walked, the parrot’s incessant chatter and the mockingbird’s melodic trills followed him, a constant reminder of the chaos that lay at the heart of the Williams’ household.

Mr. McPherson finally found solace in the quiet of his own cottage, the fourth from the main building and next to the last. He settled into a wicker rocker, his eyes, shielded by wire-rimmed spectacles, scanning the pages of his newspaper with a mixture of boredom and frustration. The day was old, the news stale, and the market reports had already been devoured. He was a man of forty, with a slender build and a gentle stoop, his brown hair parted neatly on one side, his beard trimmed with precision.

As he read, his gaze would occasionally wander, taking in the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding before him. The Farival twins, their fingers dancing across the piano keys, played a lively duet from “Zampa.” Madame Williams, a vision in white, her starched skirts rustling with every step, bustled about, issuing orders to her servants in a voice that carried across the compound. A lady in black, her beads clicking softly, walked with demure purpose before one of the cottages. The sound of children’s laughter and the soft thud of croquet mallets carried on the breeze, mingling with the distant call of seagulls.

Mr. McPherson’s thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a white sunshade, its pink-lined interior a beacon of elegance in the sweltering heat. Beneath its shelter, his wife, Mrs. McPherson, and young Taylor Williams made their way slowly up the path, their faces flushed from their exertions. As they reached the cottage, they collapsed onto the upper step of the porch, their bodies relaxed, their faces aglow with laughter.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“What folly!” Mr. McPherson exclaimed, his voice tinged with amusement. “To bathe at such an hour in such heat!” He himself had taken a plunge at dawn, and the morning seemed long to him.

His wife, her strong, shapely hands extended, surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. The memory of her rings, left in her husband’s care, sparked a silent request, and he produced them from his vest pocket, dropping them into her open palm. She slipped them onto her fingers, the diamonds sparkling like fireflies in the fading light.

As they laughed and chatted, Mr. McPherson’s gaze wandered lazily between them, a look of amused indulgence on his face. The tale of their adventure, told in tandem, lost its luster in the retelling, and he yawned, stretching his slender frame. The heat, the noise, and the chaos of the day finally got the better of him, and he announced his intention to visit Klein’s hotel, where a game of billiards awaited.

“Come along, Williams,” he proposed, his voice dripping with the languid charm of a Louisiana summer afternoon. But Taylor, ever the gentleman, confessed with disarming candor that he would rather linger in the McPherson’s parlor, basking in the warm glow of conversation with the lovely Mrs. McPherson.

Her husband, a man of discerning taste, nodded in understanding as he prepared to take his leave. “When Taylor’s wit begins to flag, my dear Evelyn, do not hesitate to bid him adieu,” he instructed, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Mrs. McPherson, a vision of elegance in her silk gown, hastened to press the ornate umbrella into his hands. “Here, dear, take this to shield you from the sun,” she exclaimed, her voice like honey dripping from the magnolias. He accepted the sunshade with a gallant bow, and, lifting it above his head, descended the steps into the bright, sun-drenched day.

As he walked away, his wife called out after him, her voice carrying on the breeze, “Will you be returning for dinner, dear?” He paused, his shoulders rising in a careless shrug. His fingers strayed to the ten-dollar bill nestled in his vest pocket, a secret stash that held the promise of a thrilling evening ahead. He did not commit to a return, for his plans hung precariously in the balance, dependent on the company he would find at Klein’s and the tantalizing prospect of a high-stakes game. Though he did not voice his thoughts, his wife understood the unspoken language of his eyes, and she laughed, a gentle, knowing sound, as she bid him farewell.

The children, their eyes shining with excitement, clamored to follow their father as he departed. He bent to bestow a tender kiss upon their upturned faces, promising to return with sweet treats and crunchy peanuts, a bounty that would surely delight their young hearts.