Page 6 of One Last Regret

The memory—if that’s what it is—of Annie with her saxophone comes back to mind. I can see as though she stands right in front of me, the furrow of her brow, the earnest pout of her lips, the tension in her shoulders—not stiffness, but a litheenergy, like a snake prepared to strike or a wave about to crash onto the shore. “I believe I understand.”

He smiles sadly. “No, you don’t. No one understands unless they feel it. Not even me.”

“That’s rude, isn’t it, Dad?” Amelia crows triumphantly. “Telling her she doesn’t understand like that.”

Etienne replies tolerantly. “Yes, it is. Forgive me, Mary.”

His eyes look past me as he says this, though. I see in his expression the deep love he has for his father and the deep sadness he still feels at his passing. I glance at Josephine to see her shoulders up by her ears, tension that is absolutely stiffness and nothing like lithe energy. Maybe she’s jealous of the love Etienne feels for his father. I imagine it must be difficult to live in the shadow of a great artist like Marcel Lacroix and even more difficult when one’s children worship that artist and not you.

Philippa returns, this time with oysters on the half-shell served in ice with lemons and chili powder in a dish on the side.

“You must forgive us,” Josephine says, “We are a New Orleans family to the core, and that includes our fascination with spice.”

“No need to be sorry,” I reply, “Although I hope you’ll forgive me if I partake only modestly.”

“Of course, of course. I asked Philippa to make the jambalaya mild with hot sauce on the side just in case.”

I feel an odd relief when I hear we’re having jambalaya for the main course. I am used to fancy dinners, but I am not so fancy an eater myself. The fanciest thing I make at my own home is freshly baked crumpets to enjoy with my tea.

The arrival of the appetizers breaks the spell Marcel’s ghost holds over the table, and the conversation turns to more mundane matters.

“The children have music lessons from seven to nine every morning prior to breakfast,” Etienne tells me. “They’re very goodat waking up on time, so you shouldn’t have any trouble on that front.”

“I’m learning violin,” Amelia says proudly. “Gabriel’s learning piano. He’s really good, but he doesn’t like to show people, so it might be a while before he plays for you.”

Gabriel reddens at his sister’s praise, but I notice a small smile as well. It’s clear that Amelia truly loves her brother. That’s good. Often when one child is outgoing and the other is reserved, there is conflict between them. I am happy to see that isn’t the case here, although I will need to work with Amelia on not speaking for Gabriel and allowing him to work up the courage to speak for himself. All things in their time, though.

“The noise won’t bother you, will it, Mary?” Josephine asks.

“Of course not. I can’t wait to hear them both play.”

“Oh good. I completely forgot to mention the early lessons.”

“Early is good,” I tell her. “We retain what we learn in the morning more easily.”

“That is the opinion of Messrs. Franz and Gilroy,” Josephine says. “Oh, that’s their instructors.”

“Mr. Franz isverygood at violin,” Amelia informs me. “Mr. Gilroy’s good at piano too.”

“I’m sure they would have to be for your father and grandmother to entrust your musical education to them.”

Amelia nods. “Oh, by the way, don’t freak out if you hear music at night.”

The mood at the table instantly changes. Josephine blanches, and Etienne frowns and snaps, “That’s enough of that, Amelia.”

“What? I wasn’t going to—”

“Then don’t,” he says. To me, he explains, in a voice no less stern, “The wind blows sometimes at night, and Amelia’s imagination runs wild. I see no need to indulge such fantasies.”

The instruction is clear.Iam not to indulge such fantasies.

Amelia, sensing that this instruction is more serious than her previous reproofs, hangs her head. “Yes, Dad.”

Gabriel looks down at his food, his cherubic face twisted in a pout. I’m not sure how to respond, so I only say, “I see.”

The conversation turns to lighter subjects, but now that my curiosity is piqued, I can’t help but wonder what this nighttime melody might be and what secrets it might hold.

CHAPTER THREE

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