Free Iron Lace by Emilie Richards Page A

and he pulled her on his lap. She took the opportunity to finish off the rest of his syrup with the last crumbs of her corn bread. Her solid weight on his lap made him feel grown-up. He liked the scent of her curls, the touch of her chubby fingers against his cheek. Someday Angelle would be old enough to run as far as he did, and no one would tell her that she couldn’t play with him. Already, when he told her about pirates and treasure chests, she listened attentively.
    “Many would go to Picciola’s,” Marcelite said. “There would not be room for everyone.”
    “Angelle and I are small.”
    Marcelite didn’t reply.
    Raphael set Angelle on the floor when she began to squirm. She went to the driest corner of the hut to play with a toy that M’sieu Lucien had given her. He drank the small cup of milk his mother had poured him and waited.
    “Father Grimaud would not turn us away,” Marcelite said at last.
    Raphael thought doubtfully of the long walk to the church. But the church was high off the ground, and much care had gone into building it. Surely, with God’s help, it would stand.
    Marcelite looked up at him and gave him one of her rare smiles. “You are a child, Raphael. You should not worry about these things.” She held out her arms.
    Shyly he circled the table and let her pull him to her. She smelled like jasmine and autumn rain. He laid his head against her breasts and vowed that even if he was a child, if the big wind came, he would get his mother and Angelle to safety.
     
    The same dog who had sniffed Lucien’s shoes yesterday crossed the path in front of him today. Tail tucked between its legs, it slunk toward a house with shuttered windows and began to howl.
    Sailing to the chénière had been so difficult that now it was nearly three o’clock. As Lucien dragged his skiff to shore, he had noticed little that was unusual. The ebb tide had left small sea creatures and shells stranded in isolated pools, and a group of older children scavenged among them.
    But as he neared the village, the sights no longer seemed as innocent. At every house he passed, there were women gathering everything they could carry and taking it inside. Even small children struggled under the burden of rubble that had once littered their yards. The men were outside, too, working to secure boats or make hasty repairs to houses, despite the fact that game birds often gathered on the ridges during storms and hunting on a day like this one would be a pleasure.
    He hailed a young man with a cow tied to the end of a tattered rope. “What is everyone so worried about?” Thunder smothered his words, and he tried again, speaking slowly, since his own French differed so much from the patois spoken on the chénière.
    The young man frowned, as if he resented having to point out the obvious. “There’s a storm coming.”
    “But it’s already October, and there’s a low tide. The storm won’t be a large one.”
    “You know this for a fact?”
    “Then you believe differently?”
    “God himself knows what kind of storm it will be. Me, I think I’ll give him some help saving my cows.”
    Lucien thought of his return trip to Grand Isle. What if the man was right and the storm was a particularly bad one? What would Antoine do if he wasn’t able to return in time for supper? The thought chilled him more than the rain seeping through his overcoat.
    He moved faster along the path to Marcelite’s and wondered how she would fare if the winds were high. Her house might be damaged, perhaps beyond repair. He thought of Angelle and realized she would suffer if the house leaked badly. But she was a strong child, and one drenching wouldn’t harm her.
    What would it do to her mother?
    As he sailed from Grand Isle, he had considered and reconsidered how he would tell Marcelite that he was never coming back. She was not a submissive woman, nor a stupid one. Most of the people on the chénière had little or no education, but Marcelite spoke both