Dejected, my head lowered, I turned from the house and started to walk away when suddenly, seemingly coming from out of the thin air, a small, fire engine red, convertible sports car squeaked to an abrupt stop right in front of me. The driver hopped over the door. He was a tall young man with a shock of shiny golden hair that now fell wildly over his smooth forehead. Despite his blond strands, he had a dark complexion which only made his cerulean eyes glimmer that much more in the glow of the street lamp. Dressed in a tuxedo, his shoulders back, his torso slim, he appeared before me like a prince—gallant, elegant, strong, for the features of his handsome face did seem carved out of some royal heritage.
He had a strong and perfect mouth and a Roman nose, perfectly straight, to go along with those dazzling blue eyes. The lines of his jaw turned up sharply, enhancing the impression that his face had been etched out to duplicate the face of some movie star idol. I was breathless for a moment, unable to move under the radiance of his warm and attractive smile, which quickly turned into a soft laugh.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "And what sort of costume is this? Are you playing the poor girl or what?" he asked, stepping around me as if judging me in some fashion contest.
"Pardon?"
My question threw him into a fit of hysterics. He clutched his side and leaned back on the hood of his sports car. "That's great," he said. "I love it. Pardon?" he mimicked. "I don't think it's so funny," I said indignantly, but that just made him laugh again.
"I'd never expect you to choose anything like this," he said, holding his graceful hand out toward me, palm up. "And where did you get that bag, a thrift shop? What's in it anyway, more rags?"
I pulled my bag against my stomach and straightened up quickly.
"These aren't rags," I retorted. He started to laugh again. It seemed I could do nothing, say nothing, gaze at him in no way without causing him to become hysterical. "What's so funny? These happen to be my sole belongings right now," I emphasized. He shook his head and held his wide smile.
"Really, Gisselle, you're perfect. I swear," he said, holding up his hand to take an oath, "this is the best you've ever come up with, and that indignant attitude to go along with it . . . you're going to win the prize for sure. All of your girlfriends will die with envy. Brilliant. And to surprise me, too. I love it."
"First," I began, "my name is not Gisselle."
"Oh," he said, still holding a grin as if he were humoring a mad woman, "and what name have you chosen?"
"My name is Ruby," I said.
"Ruby? I like that," he said, looking thoughtful. "Ruby . . . a jewel . . . to describe your hair. Well, your hair has always been your most prized possession, aside from your real diamonds and rubies, emeralds, and pearls, that is. And your clothes and your shoes," he cataloged with a laugh. "So," he said, straightening up and changing to a serious face, "I'm to introduce you to everyone as Mademoiselle Ruby, is that it?"
"I don't care what you do," I said. "I certainly don't expect you to introduce me to anyone," I added and started away.
"Huh?" he cried. I started to cross the street when he walked quickly behind me and seized my right elbow. "What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked, his face now contorted in confusion.
"I'm going home," I said.
"Home? Where's home?"
"I'm returning to Houma, if you must know," I said. "Now, if you will be so kind as to let me go, I—"
"Houma? What?" He stared at me a moment and then, instead of releasing me, he seized my other arm at the elbow and turned me fully around so that I would be in the center of the pool of light created by the street lamp. He studied me for a moment, those soft eyes, now troubled and intense as he swept his gaze over my face. "You do look . . . different," he muttered. "And not in cosmetic ways either. I don't understand, Gisselle."
"I told you," I said. "I'm not anyone named Gisselle. My name is Ruby. I come from Houma."
He continued to stare, but still held me at the elbows. Then he shook his head and smiled again.
"Come on, Gisselle. I'm sorry I'm a little late, but you're carrying this too far. I admit it's a great costume and disguise. What else do you want from me?" he pleaded.
"I'd like you to let go of my arms," I said. He did so and stepped back, his confusion now becoming indignation and anger.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. I took a deep breath and looked back at the house. "If you're not Gisselle, then what were you doing in front of the house? Why are you on this street?"
"I was going to knock on the door and introduce myself to Pierre Dumas, but I've changed my mind," I said.
"Introduce yourself to . . ." He shook his head and stepped toward me again.
"Let me see your left hand," he asked quickly. "Come on," he added, and reached for it. I held out my hand and he gazed at my fingers for a moment. Then, when he looked up at me, his face twisted in shock. "You never take off that ring, never," he said, more to himself than to me. "And your fingers," he said, looking at my hand again, "your whole hand is rougher." He released me quickly, as quickly as he would had my hand been a hot coal. "Who are you?"
"I told you. My name is Ruby."
"But you look just like . . . you're the spitting image of Gisselle," he said.
"Oh. So that's her name," I said more to myself than to him. "Gisselle."
"Who are you?" he asked again, now gazing at me as if I were a ghost. "I mean, what are you to the Dumas family? A cousin? What? I demand that you tell me or I'll call the police," he added firmly.
"I'm Gisselle's sister," I confessed in a breath.
"Gisselle's sister? Gisselle has no sister," he replied, still speaking in a stern voice. Then he paused a moment, obviously impressed with the resemblances. "At least, none I knew about," he said.
"I'm fairly sure Gisselle doesn't know about me either," I said.
"Really? But . . ."
"It's too long of a story to tell you and I don't know why I should tell you anything anyway," I said.
"But if you're Gisselle's sister, why are you leaving? Why are you going back to . . . where'd you say, Houma?"
"I thought I could do this, introduce myself, but I find I can't."
"You mean, the Dumas don't know you're here yet?" I shook my head. "Well, you can't just leave without telling them you're in New Orleans. Come on," he said, reaching for my hand. "I'll bring you in myself."
I shook my head and stepped back, more terrified than ever.
"Come on," he said. "Look. My name's Beau Andreas. I'm a very good friend of the family. Actually, Gisselle is my girlfriend, but my parents and the Dumas have known each other for ages. I'm like a member of this family. That's why I'm so shocked by what you're saying. Come on," he chanted, and took my hand.
"I've changed my mind," I said, shaking my head. "This isn't as good an idea as I first thought."
"What isn't?"
"Surprising them."
"Mr. and Mrs. Dumas don't know you're coming?" he asked, his confusion building. I shook my head. "This is really bizarre. Gisselle doesn't know she has a twin sister and the Dumas don't know you're here. Well, why did you come all this way if you're only going to turn around and go right back?" he asked, his hands on his hips.
"You're afraid, aren't you?" he said quickly. "That's it, you're afraid of them. Well, don't be. Pierre Dumas is a very nice man and Daphne . . . she is nice, too. Gisselle," he said, smiling, "is Gisselle. To tell you the truth, I can't wait to see the expression on her face when she comes face-to-face with you."
"I can," I said, and turned away.
"I'll just run in and tell them you were here and you're running away," he threatened. "Someone will come after you and it will all be far more embarrassing."
"You wouldn't," I said.
"Of course I would," he replied, smiling. "So you might as well do it the right way." He held out his hand. I looked back at the house and then at him. His eyes were friendly, although a bit impish. Reluctantly, my heart thumping so hard I thought it would take my breath away and cause me to faint before I reached the front door, I took his hand and let him lead me back to the gate and up the walk to the grand galerie. There was a tile stairway.