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“What are you doing out here, Evelyn? I expected to find you in bed,” remarked her husband, surprised to discover her lying in the hammock. He had escorted Madame Williams back to the house and returned to find his wife outdoors.
Evelyn didn’t respond immediately, her eyes bright and alert as they met his gaze. “No, I’m not asleep,” she replied, her tone clear and composed.
“It’s past one o’clock. Let’s go inside,” he urged, gesturing for her to follow him into their room.
“Evelyn!” he called after a brief pause.
“I’ll stay out here,” she replied calmly, refusing to be hurried inside.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he insisted, his irritation evident. “Why won’t you come in?”
“It’s not cold, and I have my shawl,” she countered, her voice unwavering.
“There might be mosquitoes,” he tried another angle, growing more agitated.
“There are none,” she stated firmly, her determination evident.
He sensed her stubbornness, a rare defiance that he hadn’t encountered before. “This is foolishness. You can’t stay out here all night,” he protested.
With a resolute movement, she settled deeper into the hammock. Her will had sparked a defiance she couldn’t suppress. “I’m staying,” she declared, her tone final.
“This is beyond reason,” he exclaimed, struggling to understand her sudden resolve. “You must come inside now.”
“I’m not going in,” she reiterated, her resolve unyielding. “Please go to bed.”
He hesitated, then slipped on an extra layer of clothing before retreating indoors. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he offered one to her, but she declined. He settled into a rocker on the porch, smoking cigars in contemplative silence. Hours passed as they remained in their separate spaces, each lost in their own thoughts and emotions, the night enveloping them in a quiet standoff of wills.
Evelyn felt like she was emerging from a dream, a surreal yet captivating experience that now gave way to the weight of reality pressing on her. The euphoria that had buoyed her spirit faded, replaced by the heavy pull of sleep.
The quietest hour of the night descended, that breathless moment before dawn when the world seemed to hold its collective breath. The moon, now tinged with copper, hung low in the sky, casting a soft glow over the surroundings. The nocturnal sounds had receded—the owl’s hoots silenced, the water-oaks stilled in their quiet slumber.
Cramped from lying still for so long, Evelyn rose from the hammock, her movements hesitant and unsteady. She leaned against the post for support as she made her way toward the house.
“Are you coming in, Léonce?” she called out, her voice carrying a hint of weariness.
“Yes, dear,” he replied, his attention momentarily drawn to a wisp of smoke from his cigar. “Just finishing up.”
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She slept fitfully, tormented by fleeting dreams that slipped through her grasp upon waking, leaving only a vague sense of unattainable desires. Rising early, she dressed in the crisp morning air that seemed to clear her mind somewhat, though she wasn’t consciously seeking solace or guidance from any source, internal or external. It was as if she had surrendered herself to unknown forces, relinquishing responsibility for her actions.
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The early morning found most still in the embrace of sleep. Only a few souls, destined for the morning mass at Chênière, stirred about. The lovers, their plans set the night before, strolled towards the wharf. A lady dressed in black, clutching her ornate prayer-book and silver beads, followed not far behind. Old Monsieur Farival, ever willing for a new venture, donned his straw hat and trailed the lady, never quite catching up.
The young girl who operated Madame Williams’s sewing machine swept the galleries absentmindedly. Evelyn dispatched her to wake Taylor.
“Tell him I’m going to Chênière. The boat’s ready; tell him to hurry,” she instructed.
Taylor promptly joined her, surprised at her summons. It was a departure from her usual demeanor, but neither of them dwelled on the strangeness of the situation. They made their way to the kitchen for a hasty coffee, served through the window by the cook. Evelyn found the coffee surprisingly satisfying, a thought that hadn’t crossed her mind until then.
“You never seem to plan ahead,” Taylor remarked.
“Why should I when I’ve got you?” she teased. “Isn’t it enough that I woke you up and got us here?”
They took a shortcut across the sands, observing the procession towards the wharf—a peculiar sight with the lovers creeping along, the lady in black gaining ground, and old Monsieur Farival slowly falling behind, accompanied by a young Spanish girl, Mariequita.
Taylor engaged in conversation with Mariequita during the boat ride, their exchange lost to the others. Mariequita, with her expressive gestures and playful demeanor, caught Evelyn’s attention, especially her bare feet with sand and slime nestled between her toes.
As the boat journeyed on, tensions simmered between Beaudelet and Mariequita, Beaudelet annoyed at her presence and the old man’s constant commentary on sailing skills. The lovers, absorbed in their own world, remained oblivious to the dynamics around them, while the lady in black continued her ritual of counting beads, and old Monsieur Farival held forth on his sailing expertise.
Evelyn surveyed Mariequita with curiosity, from her unassuming brown toes to her lively black eyes and back again.
“Why’s she staring at me like that?” Mariequita asked Taylor.
“Maybe she thinks you’re pretty. Should I ask her?” Taylor replied.
“No. Is she your sweetheart?” Mariequita persisted.
“She’s married with two children,” Taylor clarified.
“Oh! Well! Francisco ran off with Sylvano’s wife, who had four kids. They took his money, one child, and stole his boat,” Mariequita rambled on.
“Enough!” Taylor hushed her.
“Does she get it?” Mariequita pressed.
“Shh!” Taylor urged her to stop.
“Are those two over there married—leaning on each other?” Mariequita pointed at a couple.
“Definitely not,” Taylor chuckled.
“Definitely not,” Mariequita echoed, nodding seriously.
The sun climbed higher, its rays beginning to scorch. Evelyn felt the breeze carrying the heat into her skin. Taylor shielded her with an umbrella as they sailed, the sails billowing with the wind. Old Monsieur Farival chuckled at the sails, while Beaudelet muttered under his breath in irritation.
Sailing towards Chênière Caminada, Evelyn felt a sense of liberation, as if the constraints binding her had loosened the night before with the mystical spirit’s presence. Taylor conversed with her incessantly, no longer paying attention to Mariequita, who sulked while tending her basket of shrimps.
“Let’s go to Grande Terre tomorrow,” Taylor suggested quietly.
“What’s there to do?” Evelyn inquired.
“Climb to the old fort and observe the golden snakes and sunbathing lizards,” Taylor proposed.
Evelyn imagined being alone with Taylor on Grande Terre, basking in the sun, listening to the ocean, and watching lizards amidst ancient ruins.
“Or we can sail to Bayou Brulow the next day,” Taylor suggested.
“What for?” Evelyn queried.
“Fishing, perhaps,” Taylor replied.
“No, let’s return to Grande Terre. Forget the fish,” Evelyn decided.
“We’ll go wherever you wish,” Taylor agreed. “I’ll have Tonie assist me with the boat. We won’t need Beaudelet or anyone else. Are you afraid of the pirogue?”
“Not at all,” Evelyn answered.
“Then one night, with the moon shining, I’ll take you in the pirogue. Maybe your Gulf spirit will guide us to hidden treasures on these islands,” Taylor teased.
“And we’ll be rich in a day!” Evelyn laughed. “I’d give it all to you. Pirate gold isn’t for hoarding; it’s for spending wildly.”
“We’d share and scatter it,” Taylor said, his face flushing.
They arrived at the quaint Gothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes, leaving Beaudelet behind to work on his boat while Mariequita, casting a resentful glance, walked away with her basket of shrimps.