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Sometimes, when Evelyn visited Mademoiselle Reisz, the little musician was out, either giving a lesson or making a necessary household purchase. Evelyn knew where the key was hidden in the entryway. If Mademoiselle Reisz was away, Evelyn would usually let herself in and wait for her return.
One afternoon, after knocking and receiving no response, Evelyn unlocked the door and entered the empty apartment. Her day had been exhausting, and she sought solace, a refuge, and a chance to talk about Taylor with her friend. She had spent the morning working on her canvas, a young Italian character study, without her model. Despite completing her work, she faced numerous interruptions from both her modest housekeeping duties and social visits.
Madame Rogers had visited, avoiding the main thoroughfares. She complained that Evelyn had been neglecting her lately and was curious to see the little house and its management. She also wanted to hear about the dinner party, as Monsieur Rogers had left early. She praised the champagne and grapes Evelyn had sent over, mentioning how they had refreshed her weak appetite. She also questioned where Mr. McPherson and the boys would stay in such a small house and made Evelyn promise to come to her during her hour of need.
“Any time, any time of the day or night, dear,” Evelyn assured her.
Before leaving, Madame Rogers said, “In some ways, you seem like a child, Evelyn. You act without the reflection necessary in life. That’s why I want to advise you to be careful while you’re living here alone. Why don’t you have someone stay with you? Wouldn’t Mademoiselle Reisz come?”
“No, she wouldn’t want to, and I wouldn’t want her here all the time,” Evelyn replied.
“Well, you know how people talk. Someone mentioned Ace Hamilton visiting you. It wouldn’t matter if Mr. Hamilton didn’t have such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Rogers said his attentions alone could ruin a woman’s name.”
“Does he boast of his successes?” Evelyn asked, indifferently, as she squinted at her painting.
“No, I don’t think so. He’s a decent fellow in that regard, but his character is well known among the men. I shouldn’t have come today; it was imprudent.”
“Mind the step!” Evelyn called out.
“Don’t neglect me,” Madame Rogers pleaded. “And don’t mind what I said about Hamilton or having someone stay with you.”
“Of course not,” Evelyn laughed. “You can say anything to me.” They kissed goodbye. Madame Rogers didn’t have far to go, and Evelyn watched her walk down the street from the porch.
Later that afternoon, Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp made their “party call.” Evelyn felt it was unnecessary but accepted their invitation to play vingt-et-un at Mrs. Merriman’s. She was to come early for dinner, and either Mr. Merriman or Mr. Hamilton would take her home. Evelyn accepted, though she often felt tired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman.
By late afternoon, Evelyn sought refuge at Mademoiselle Reisz’s and waited alone, feeling a sense of peace in the shabby, unpretentious room. She sat by the window, which overlooked the rooftops and the river. The window frame was filled with flower pots, and Evelyn picked dry leaves from a rose geranium. The warm day and the pleasant breeze from the river were soothing. She took off her hat and placed it on the piano, continuing to pick at the leaves and dig around the plants with her hatpin.
Once, she thought she heard Mademoiselle Reisz approaching, but it was a young black girl delivering a small bundle of laundry. The girl deposited it in the adjoining room and left. Evelyn then seated herself at the piano and softly picked out the bars of a piece of music with one hand. Half an hour passed. Occasionally, she heard people moving in the lower hall. She was absorbed in her music when there was another knock at the door. She vaguely wondered what people did when they found Mademoiselle Reisz’s door locked.
“Come in,” Evelyn called, turning her face toward the door. This time, it was Taylor Williams who entered. She tried to stand but felt overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions, so she remained seated on the piano stool, exclaiming, “Why, Taylor!”
Taylor approached her, clasping her hand, seemingly unaware of his actions. “Mrs. McPherson! How do you—oh! You look wonderful! Is Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you.”
“When did you come back?” Evelyn asked, her voice unsteady as she wiped her face with her handkerchief. She felt awkward on the stool, and Taylor gently suggested she take the chair by the window.
Mechanically, she moved to the chair while he sat on the stool. “I returned the day before yesterday,” he said, leaning his arm on the piano keys, producing a discordant crash.
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“Day before yesterday!” she repeated aloud, and then to herself, “day before yesterday.” She had imagined him seeking her out the moment he arrived, but he had been back for days and only stumbled upon her by chance. Mademoiselle must have lied when she said, “Poor fool, he loves you.”
“Day before yesterday,” Evelyn repeated, breaking off a spray of Mademoiselle’s geranium. “If you hadn’t met me here today, would you have—when—did you plan to see me?”
“Of course, I would have come to see you. There have been so many things—” He nervously turned the pages of Mademoiselle’s music. “I started back with the old firm yesterday. There’s as much opportunity here as there was there. The Mexicans weren’t very congenial.”
So he had returned not for her, but because the Mexicans were not congenial and business was as profitable here as there. She remembered sitting on the floor, turning the pages of his letter, searching for the untold reason.
Evelyn hadn’t noticed how he looked, only felt his presence. Now, she deliberately observed him. He hadn’t changed much in the few months he had been away. His hair, the same color as hers, waved back from his temples as before. His skin was no more tanned than it had been at Grand Isle. When he looked at her, his eyes held the same tender caress, with added warmth and entreaty, the same glance that had penetrated her soul and awakened it.
A hundred times, Evelyn had imagined Taylor’s return and their first meeting. She always pictured him seeking her out at once, expressing his love. But here they sat, ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves, and he twirling on the piano stool, saying, “I was surprised to hear of Mr. McPherson’s absence. It’s a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz didn’t tell me. And your moving—mother mentioned it yesterday. I thought you’d go to New York with him or to Iberville with the children instead of dealing with housekeeping here. And you’re going abroad, too, I hear. We won’t have you at Grand Isle next summer. It won’t seem the same. Do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often mentioned you in her few letters.”
“Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you left?” Evelyn asked, a flush spreading across his face.
“I couldn’t believe my letters would interest you.”
“That’s an excuse; it isn’t the truth.” Evelyn reached for her hat on the piano and adjusted it, carefully sticking the hatpin through her hair.
“Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?” Taylor asked.
“No, she tends to stay out late if she’s gone this long.” She drew on her gloves, and Taylor picked up his hat.
“Won’t you wait for her?” Evelyn asked.
“Not if she’ll be back late,” he said, suddenly aware of his discourtesy. “And I’d miss the pleasure of walking you home.” Evelyn locked the door and placed the key back in its hiding spot.
They walked together, navigating the muddy streets and sidewalks cluttered with the displays of small tradesmen. Part of their journey was spent on the streetcar, and after disembarking, they passed the McPherson mansion, which appeared dilapidated and half-torn apart. Taylor, unfamiliar with the house, observed it with curiosity.
“I never knew you in your home,” he remarked.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she replied.
“Why?” he asked, but she remained silent.
They rounded the corner, and Evelyn felt as if her dreams were finally coming true when Taylor followed her into the little house.
“You must stay and dine with me, Taylor. I’m all alone, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. There’s so much I want to ask you.”
She removed her hat and gloves. Taylor hesitated, making excuses about his mother expecting him and some vague engagement. Evelyn struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dark. Seeing her face in the lamplight, pained and devoid of its usual softness, Taylor threw his hat aside and sat down.
“Oh! You know I want to stay if you’ll let me!” he exclaimed. Her face softened, and she laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“This is the first moment you’ve seemed like the old Taylor. I’ll go tell Celestine.”
She hurried away to instruct Celestine to set an extra place, even sending her off to find some added delicacy she hadn’t considered for herself. She emphasized the importance of carefully dripping the coffee and ensuring the omelet was cooked perfectly.
When Evelyn returned, Taylor was idly flipping through magazines, sketches, and the various items strewn across the table. He picked up a photograph and exclaimed, “Ace Hamilton! What on earth is his picture doing here?”
“I tried to sketch his head one day,” Evelyn explained, “and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing materials.”
“I should think you’d give it back to him if you’re done with it.”
“Oh! I have so many such photographs. I never think of returning them. They don’t mean anything.” Taylor continued to examine the picture.
“Do you really think his head is worth drawing? Is he a friend of Mr. McPherson’s? You never mentioned you knew him.”
“He isn’t a friend of Mr. McPherson’s; he’s a friend of mine. I’ve always known him, but it’s only recently that I’ve gotten to know him well. But I’d rather talk about you and hear what you’ve been seeing, doing, and feeling in Mexico.” Taylor tossed the picture aside.
“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beaches of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy streets of the Chênière; the old fort at Grande Terre. I’ve been working like a machine and feeling like a lost soul. Nothing was interesting.”
Evelyn leaned her head on her hand, shading her eyes from the light. “And what have you been seeing, doing, and feeling all these days?” he asked.
“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beaches of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy streets of the Chênière Caminada; the sunny old fort at Grande Terre. I’ve been working with a little more comprehension than a machine, but still feeling like a lost soul. Nothing was interesting.”
“Mrs. McPherson, you are cruel,” he said with emotion, closing his eyes and resting his head back in his chair. They sat in silence until old Celestine announced dinner.