The Buck Stops Here (22 page)

He moved the conversation toward hotel arrangements. Though his mother was currently living across the lake from New Orleans in an area known as the North Shore, the charity itself was in New Orleans proper, so he thought it would be best if I stayed there.

“I took the liberty of making a reservation for you at a place right down in the French Quarter. They know me there, so you should be well taken care of.”

I had no doubt that was true. Tom seemed to “know” someone just about everywhere I went. He gave me directions to the hotel, and then we concluded our call. After I hung up, the car felt empty, lonely, and silent.

I continued driving, and as I neared Gulfport, Mississippi, I started seeing signs for a factory outlet mall. When I got there, I took the exit, bought a late lunch, and did some shopping. Having left all of my clothes and belongings back home, I felt justified in purchasing what I thought I would need for about a week’s worth of investigating in New Orleans—including some new suits and several pairs of shoes. My final stop in the mall was a luggage store, where I bought a rolling suitcase and a hanging bag. In the parking lot, I stood beside my car, clipped the tags from the new luggage, and loaded everything up so that when I reached my hotel I would be able to go right in without fumbling for all of my belongings.

After about another hour on the road, the terrain began to change, with the land getting flatter and the trees growing more gnarled. At one point, the low, flat road suddenly raised up onto a bridge, and from the view at the top, I felt as though I were in some sort of alien landscape. The horizon stretched as far as the eye could see, pure swamp in every direction.

The closer I got to New Orleans, the more lush and overgrown everything was, the tree limbs practically dripping with moss and vines. It was beautiful in an odd, wild sort of way, and I had a feeling that if the people who lived here all packed up and moved away tomorrow, it wouldn’t be long before the foliage simply took over, covering all traces of the inroads that civilization had made.

The interstate finally led me out over open water and then to the other side of the bridge, where a long canal was lined with what looked like a string of fishing camps. I continued forward, the tall buildings of the city slowly appearing in the distance. Eventually, I found myself in a densely populated area, wide and flat and complicated. It took a good 20 minutes and a few wrong turns, but I made my way to the French Quarter. There, the streets were narrow and lined with beautiful old pastel-hued buildings, most of them embellished with fancy curlicues of black wrought iron. Window boxes overflowed with flowers, balconies lined upper floors, and people milled along sidewalks as if they had all the time in the world to get where they were going, despite the fact that it was 10:15 at night.

As it turned out, the hotel I sought was on a one-way street going in the other direction, so I overshot it a bit and then came back at it, putting on my blinker as I reached the valet parking. The service was friendly and efficient, and soon I was at the front desk, asking for the key to my room.

“Yes, Mrs. Webber, we’ve been expecting you,” the man behind the counter told me, his manner completely obsequious. He refused my credit card, insisting that everything was already taken care of. “And please don’t hesitate to ask for
anything
,” he added. “Mr. Bennett was very insistent that we accommodate whatever needs might arise.”

I was too tired to fight or even protest. If Tom wanted to pay, let him pay.

The bell captain took my bags and escorted me from the ornate lobby into a large inner courtyard filled with greenery, fountains, and subtle, artfully placed lighting. The building itself was fairly new, the man explained, but designed in the old New Orleans style. I thought it was incredible, with rich, textured brick walls, a cobblestone walkway, and a pool and Jacuzzi tucked away among the foliage. My room was at the very end of the walkway, with its own outdoor sitting area. The bell captain unlocked double French doors and then turned on the light inside to reveal accommodations that seemed the very height of luxury. The room was gorgeous, with high ceilings, antique furniture, and what looked like an authentic oriental rug on the floor.

“This is the La Salle Suite,” he said, turning on several lamps as he walked through. “We have one other suite as large and elegant as this, but Mr. Bennett was quite insistent that you be given this one. He said you would like the name.”

I smiled in spite of myself. La Salle was an explorer who had once traveled a journey of about 3000 miles by canoe. As a canoer myself, I thought so highly of what he had done that I named my dog after him.

The man led me past a wet bar and the bathroom and then down a short hallway to the bedroom. It was as beautifully appointed as the sitting room had been, with a thick brocade bedspread on a giant four-poster bed. Framed on the wall over the bed was a silkscreen of a Louisiana swamp, with a lone canoer paddling through the water at sunset. Gorgeous.

We walked back into the other room as the man told me about the amenities of the hotel, as well as surrounding tourist attractions.

“Oh, and that’s from Mr. Bennett,” he said, gesturing toward a huge basket of fruit on the counter.

After he left—refusing any tip—I read the card that had come with the fruit basket. It said,
May you love my city as much as I love you. Tom
.

Feeling incredibly sad, I helped myself to an apple and then wandered through the rooms again, taking in my surroundings. The place was beautiful, that was for certain.

Before I turned in for the night, I carefully hung up all of my new clothes, laying out what I would need for the next day. In one afternoon I was going to meet Tom’s mother, his ex-fiancée, and his sister, who also happened to be the wife of the man who killed my husband. If I could, I would have rather put on a suit of armor.

I skipped my prayers and went to bed with a heavy heart, dreading whatever surprises the next day would bring.

Twenty-Five

The next morning, though it was as difficult to find my way out of the French Quarter as it had been to make my way in, I finally located the interstate, headed east, and took a different way across the lake this time, over the Causeway, one of the longest bridges in the world. It wasn’t high like the bridge that crossed the Chesapeake Bay near my home, but it was beautiful nevertheless, and the water it crossed over was grayish blue and choppy. I watched New Orleans disappear in my rearview mirror, and then I drove along for a number of miles before I could see the far shoreline materialize ahead of me. I experienced an odd, disconnected feeling being between land masses with neither one visible, and that feeling turned to one of relief as I drove from the bridge and onto solid land again.

I drove past majestic oaks dripping with moss, beautiful old homes on huge lots, and what seemed like a new strip mall every other block. I reached the church in time for the service and was rewarded with a visiting youth group doing an unusual and highly percussive version of “Footsteps of Jesus.” The sermon was of the same title, and I squirmed in my seat a bit as the minister spoke about following the narrow and often difficult path that Jesus had laid out for us. Sometimes it was easier
not
to think about where our footsteps might be going.

After church I was met with a number of friendly greetings as I tried to pick out Tom’s mother in the crowd. I finally spotted her outside, waiting near the stone bench where Tom had told me to meet her. She was tall and attractive, her hair a blondish-white and swept into a French twist on the back of her head. She wore a light green dress and carried a cream purse that matched her shoes. In her right hand she held a cane, and I was reminded that she was still recovering from last fall’s stroke.

“Mrs. Bennett?” I said, walking toward her.

Her face broke into a lovely smile, and the resemblance to her son was so strong that it actually made me ache.
How I wished he were here with me!

“You must be Mrs. Webber,” she said excitedly, reaching out to shake my hand. She spoke with a gentle Southern drawl that was oddly soothing.

“Call me Callie, please.”

“And I’m Irene,” she replied. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. My daughter Beth should be along in a minute. She went to get her girls out of Children’s Church.”

I felt a twinge of nerves at the thought of meeting the girls. Would they resemble their father?

“I wish I had known you’d be coming to church,” Irene said. “You could’ve sat with us.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if I would get here in time.”

We made small talk, discussing the sermon and the visiting youth group who had provided the special music. Then we were interrupted by a child who ran to Irene and began tugging on her hand.

“Grandma, come on,” she said. “You have to sign up to do cookies for the spring picnic.”

The girl was about eight years old, with blond hair and freckles. Irene introduced the child as her granddaughter, Leah, and though she had manners enough to pause in her mission and say hello, she was soon busy again trying to drag Irene off to a sign-up table.

“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll just wait here on this bench.”

I sat down and watched as the two of them went inside, the grandmother with the slightly impaired gait and the child with the boundless energy of an eight-year-old. Sure enough, Leah looked a lot like her father, with the same tiny stature and blond hair. Still, she was a cute little thing; soon, perhaps, I would be able to look at her and see just her, rather than him.

Another girl of about the same age approached, though this one had darker hair and a fuller face. The woman with her was about my age, and I realized she must be Beth, Tom’s sister. Though she wasn’t unattractive, she was dressed plainly and wore no makeup, and her hair hung straight to her shoulders from a center part. She seemed vaguely “computer geeky,” and I found her shyness ironic. According to Paul Tyson, Beth’s specialty was designing human interfaces on the computer—and yet she didn’t seem to know how to interface in person at all.

“Hi, I’m Beth Sparks,” she said, her eyes glancing at me and then darting away. “Are you from Tom’s foundation?”

“Yes, I’m Callie Webber. How do you do?”

“Fine, thank you. This is my daughter Madeline. Maddie.”

“Hello, Maddie,” I said, taking in her cherub face. “I just met Leah.”

“We’re twins,” the girl said in reply. “People usually don’t believe us when we say we’re twins, because we’re fraternal, not identical.”

“I can see that.”

“Maddie, Mrs. Webber works for your Uncle Tommy,” Beth said.

At that, the child’s entire face lit up.

“He’s my favorite uncle in the whole world,” she declared.

“He’s your
only
uncle,” her mother reminded her softly.

“Oh, that’s true,” the girl said laughing.

Irene and Leah rejoined us at that point, and Irene suggested I follow them to the restaurant, which was in a neighboring town. I did just that, enjoying the lush scenery as we went. Though a part of me was dreading every single moment of the rest of this day, another part of me was embracing it. At last I was in the company of Tom’s family. In another reality, where nothing had gone wrong, these people might have become my people as well.

We entered a town called Madisonville and then drove over a short drawbridge, turning right just on the far side of the river. After several blocks, we pulled into the crowded parking lot of a restaurant.

“I’m glad we called ahead,” Irene said to Beth as we walked inside. “It’s packed today.”

The two girls walked in first, Leah nearly bouncing and Maddie much more sedate. The hostess led us to our table, which was right by the window and looked out at the river. It offered seating for eight, and Irene announced that the Wilsons would be joining us. Though I would have much preferred dining without anyone else along, I knew I might as well get to know the whole bunch of them at once.

Irene insisted that I take the seat nearest the window, so I did, admiring the incredible view. The river was dark and lazy, lined on both sides with unusual trees dripping with moss.

“Is that the Mississippi River?” I asked, and everyone surprised me by laughing.

“That’s the Tchefuncte,” Irene said, pronouncing it Chu-func-tuh. “The Mississippi is just a little bit bigger than that.”

“The Mississippi River is brown and disgusting,” Leah announced.

“With giant boats in it,” Maddie added.

We studied the menu while we waited for the rest of our party. I didn’t know much about the cuisine of the area, and the menu offered a confusing array of blackened seafood, jambalaya, and crawfish. Irene was explaining the difference between étouffée and gumbo when a couple with a small child approached us.

We stood as I met Phillip Wilson, his wife Veronica, and their four-year-old son, Tucker. Though we made polite conversation, all I could think about was that Veronica wasn’t just pretty, she was drop-dead gorgeous. She looked a little like the Veronica in the Archie comics, all sleek black hair and red pouty lips. Much to my surprise, I wasn’t happy about that at all.