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The dining room was cozy, with Evelyn’s round mahogany table nearly filling the space. A sense of formality settled upon them with the announcement of dinner. Taylor shared stories from his time in Mexico, and Evelyn recounted events that had occurred during his absence. The meal was simple, with a few delicacies she had acquired. Celestine, with her bandana tignon, bustled in and out, engaging in lively patois conversations with Taylor, whom she had known since childhood.
After dinner, Taylor stepped out to buy cigarette papers. When he returned, Celestine had served black coffee in the parlor.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come back,” Taylor remarked. “If you tire of me, just say so.”
“You never tire me. Remember our hours at Grand Isle? We grew accustomed to each other and being together,” Evelyn replied.
“I haven’t forgotten anything from Grand Isle,” he said, rolling a cigarette. His silk tobacco pouch, embroidered with intricate designs, caught Evelyn’s eye.
“You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,” she noted, examining the embroidered pouch.
“Yes, but it got lost.”
“Where did you get this one? In Mexico?” she asked.
“A Vera Cruz girl gave it to me; they’re quite generous,” he replied, lighting his cigarette.
“Mexican women must be quite beautiful, with their black eyes and lace scarfs,” Evelyn remarked.
“Some are picturesque, others not so much, just like women everywhere,” Taylor observed.
“What was the girl like who gave you this pouch? Did you visit her house?” Evelyn inquired, curious about his experiences in Mexico.
“She was ordinary, not important. I knew her casually,” he explained.
“Did you visit many homes? I’d like to hear about the people you met and the impressions they left,” she pressed.
“Some people leave fleeting impressions, like ripples from an oar,” Taylor mused.
“Was she one of those?” Evelyn asked.
“It wouldn’t be fair for me to say,” Taylor replied, putting the pouch away.
Hamilton entered, delivering a message about a postponed card party. Taylor rose, acknowledging Hamilton’s presence.
“Oh, Williams, back from Mexique, I hear,” Hamilton greeted.
“Fairly well,” Taylor replied.
“Stunning girls in Mexico, aren’t they?” Hamilton remarked.
“Didn’t they embroider slippers and such for you?” Evelyn asked.
“Oh, not quite. I was more taken by them than they were by me,” Hamilton admitted.
“Less fortunate than Taylor, then,” Evelyn quipped.
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“Always less fortunate than Taylor,” Hamilton joked. “Have you been sharing tender confidences?”
“I’ve stayed long enough,” Taylor said, bidding farewell to Evelyn. “Please send my regards to Mr. McPherson.”
After Taylor left, Hamilton remarked, “Williams is a fine fellow. I never heard you mention him before.”
“I met him last summer at Grand Isle,” Evelyn replied, pushing the photograph toward Hamilton. “Do you want this back?”
“What use do I have for it? Toss it,” Hamilton replied nonchalantly as she placed the photo back on the table.
“I won’t be going to Mrs. Merriman’s,” Evelyn declared. “If you see her, let her know. But I might as well write to her. I’ll express my regrets about her child and advise her not to count on me.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Hamilton agreed. “Can’t blame you; what a dull crowd!”
Evelyn opened the blotter, got paper and pen, and started writing. Meanwhile, Hamilton lit a cigar and read the evening paper he had tucked in his pocket.
“What’s today’s date?” she asked.
Hamilton supplied the date. “Will you mail this for me later?”
“Of course,” he replied, reading snippets from the paper while she tidied the table.
“What do you feel like doing?” he inquired, setting aside the paper. “A walk? A drive? It’s a lovely night for either.”
“I just want quiet. You go enjoy yourself. Don’t stay,” Evelyn insisted.
“I’ll leave if I must, but I won’t enjoy myself. You know I feel alive only when I’m near you,” Hamilton confessed as he stood to bid her good night.
“Is that your standard line with women?” she teased.
“I’ve used it before, but I don’t think I’ve meant it quite like I do now,” he admitted with a smile. However, her eyes held a distant, dreamy gaze.
“Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,” he said, kissing her hand before departing.
Alone, Evelyn drifted into a reverie, reliving every moment with Taylor since his arrival at Mademoiselle Reisz’s door. She recalled his words, his expressions—how sparse they were for her longing heart. A vision of a captivating Mexican girl surfaced, stirring a pang of jealousy. She wondered when Taylor would return, realizing he hadn’t promised to. Despite being with him, hearing his voice, and feeling his touch, he somehow felt closer to her in Mexico.
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The morning dawned with a golden glow, filling Evelyn’s room with warmth and the promise of something extraordinary. She lay awake, her eyes bright with anticipation. “He loves you, poor fool,” echoed in her mind. If only she could firmly believe in that sentiment, everything else would pale in comparison. She chided herself for her despondency the night before, realizing that Taylor’s reserved behavior likely stemmed from understandable reasons. They were obstacles that love could overcome, barriers that would crumble before the power of their passion, a sentiment she hoped he would come to understand in due time.
She imagined Taylor’s morning routine—his attire, his stride down familiar streets, his interactions at work, his lunch break, perhaps even his subtle search for her presence amidst the bustling cityscape. She envisioned their potential meeting in the afternoon or evening, his casual demeanor as he rolled his cigarette, exchanged words, and departed, much like the night before. Yet the thought of having him by her side was tantalizing. She resolved not to dwell on his reserved nature if he chose to maintain it.
Evelyn breakfasted in a half-dressed state, interrupted by a delightful note from Raoul expressing love and sharing news of adorable piglets. Her husband’s letter arrived, promising an upcoming journey abroad made possible by successful Wall Street ventures. A midnight note from Hamilton arrived, expressing devotion and hoping for reciprocal feelings.
She responded cheerfully to the children and her husband, maintaining a friendly yet distant tone, as reality seemed to slip away, replaced by a sense of acceptance toward whatever Fate had in store. Hamilton’s note went unanswered, tucked away out of sight.
Evelyn immersed herself in work, visited only by a picture dealer inquiring about her potential Parisian studies. Taylor’s absence weighed heavily on her, each day beginning with hope and ending with disappointment. Tempted to seek him out, she restrained herself, avoiding places he might frequent.
One evening, Hamilton proposed a drive to the lake on the Shell Road. The spirited horses and swift pace exhilarated Evelyn, and they returned to her dining room early in the evening for refreshments. Hamilton’s visits were becoming more frequent, driven by an understanding of Evelyn’s hidden desires.
That night, as Evelyn drifted to sleep, there was neither despair nor hope in her heart, just a quiet acceptance of the present.