Rising Tides by Emilie Richards Page B

away.
    “I know.”
    “Do you?” She rinsed her hands and dried them, rubbing Jergens lotion into them in a final ritual. “Did you love the man or the saint, Ben? Because they weren’t the same.”
    “Maybe that’s part of the reason we’re here. To discover how much of each he was.”
    “Why are you here?”
    “To discover how much of each I am.”
    She realized she had been avoiding his eyes. She gazed into them now, searching for answers. Nothing there explained his words. “Would you mind putting the shrimp in the refrigerator when you’re finished?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”
    Upstairs, her room was still hot. At sixteen she had been far too reserved to sleep without clothes, no matter what the temperature. Now she peeled off everything and stretched out against the relatively cool surface of the sheet. She didn’t expect to sleep at all, but sleep came quickly. And in her dreams she heard applause.

CHAPTER FOUR
    D awn knew she wasn’t the daughter her mother had hoped for. As an infant she had cried frequently. As a little girl she had been a timid shadow who suffered from nightmares and fears that almost paralyzed her. She had spent many of her early years with her grandmother, and only Aurore’s patience and praise had helped build her courage.
    Aurore’s huge house on Prytania Street in New Or leans had been filled with wonder. The rooms had been pools of light, with walls painted in seascape pastels and ceilings so high they floated like clouds above her head. Satyrs’ faces had hidden in the decorative plaster arches that separated the rooms, and gnomes and elves had peeked from the gleaming legs of tables and chests.
    Her own room had had cypress floors so slick with wax that she could skate across them in ankle socks. Aurore had agreed that violet would be a lovely color for the walls and daffodil yellow exactly the right choice for bedspread and curtains. Dawn could go to her room when the world seemed too large or small and come out to find it was just the right size again.
    Her room, the house, the gardens of camellias and wisteria,none of it would have meant anything if Aurore hadn’t been there to share it. Her earliest memory was of sitting in her grandmother’s lap in the courtyard just off Aurore’s bedroom. The sun had been warm, and a breeze had tickled her cheek. Bees had buzzed around Lady Banksia roses as her grandmother whispered their secrets.
    “Bees,” she’d said, “only make noise to warn you away. Flying from flower to flower is their work. They’re asking you to let them do it. See? They’re saying please.”
    She’d listened in the haven of her grandmother’s arms, and the bees had no longer frightened her. Aurore had smelled like the flowers in her courtyard. Her hair had been laced with light, and her eyes had been the pale blue of Dawn’s own. Dawn had known that in her grand mother’s arms, she would always be protected.
    There was no protection now. Grandmère was gone, and in her place were questions about a life that, on the surface, had never seemed extraordinary. But what an extraordinary thing her death had become.
    Dawn lay in bed and watched morning light creep through the sheer curtains of the cottage bedroom. She heard a soft rapping at her door, guaranteed not to wake her if conflict and turmoil hadn’t done so already. She pictured Ben on the other side, the Ben who had talked with her in the kitchen last night.
    She rose and put on a robe, but her father was at the door. She stepped aside to let him through, but he shook his head. “I’m going for a walk on the beach. Would you like to come?”
    She was touched that, despite everything, Ferris would want her company. So rare had their private moments been that she had kept them in a mental scrap book throughout her childhood. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.”
    He kissed her cheek before he left. She fumbled as she dressed, all thumbs and