Free Sun God by Nan Ryan Page A

he gently sat her down on a blanket spread on the shaded grass.
    “F-fine … fine,” she managed between coughs, and smiled appreciatively as he helpfully patted her back.
    But soon the coughs ceased and the back pats changed to caresses. Then the kisses began and in moments the afternoon’s refreshing swimming excursion turned into the stirring, sensual exploration that could only lead to growing frustration.
    Or to fulfillment.

Eight
    H ER NEAT, UPSWEPT HAIR was still a light golden hue. Not a single strand of gray marred its shimmering blondness. Her tall, willowy frame was as slim as when she was a girl. Her pale, oval face was remarkably unlined, the skin as dewy fresh and flawless as when she had been a vain young Texas beauty.
    Only the eyes gave her away.
    A respected New Orleans spinster, Miss Margaret Ann Sullivan was still considered a handsome woman. Her eyes had not faded from the vivid blue they had always been. But in their indigo depths was that telling expression; a knowledge of life gained solely from living it, a quiet sadness that comes only with the passing of years, the loss of youthful dreams. The silent acceptance of one who has quietly settled with life.
    Margaret Sullivan had lived, since age twenty-five, in comfortable loneliness in a luxurious, two-story white mansion on tree-lined St. Charles Avenue in the Crescent City’s enchanting Garden district.
    The immaculate house belonged to her. Her older brother, Walter, had generously bought it for her the year she left Texas, the summer of 1839 when she was twenty-four years old. Now she had passed her forty-first birthday and all those years had been spent in this white, iron-lace-trimmed house.
    She had never been back to Texas.
    For more than a decade Margaret Sullivan had held a research position in the genealogy department of the university library at nearby Tulane. Not that she needed money. Walter Sullivan was a very wealthy man and saw to it that his only sister was well taken care of.
    Margaret spent her days at the library, where she enjoyed her work. She loved the absorbing research and the bright young students and the pleasant three-block walk to the vine-covered university.
    She loved having a reason to get out of bed each morning.
    At the stroke of three every afternoon, Margaret Sullivan put on her hat and gloves, unfurled her parasol, and walked home. And always, as she ascended the steps to the wrap-around gallery, she offered up a silent prayer that when she walked into the foyer, she would see a letter lying in the silver calling card basket atop the hall table.
    If she saw no letter, she proceeded directly up the stairs to her room, changed her clothes, and came back down. She went into the sunny drawing room where the curtains were of purest white lace-embroidered and oyster damask, the fine gray carpet was Brussels, and the oyster fireplace imported Carrera marble. She sat down on the silk-covered couch to wait.
    Within minutes her housekeeper, Stella, entered bearing a gleaming silver tea service. When Stella had placed the tray on the tale before Margaret, the aging black woman shrugged sturdy shoulders and said apologetically, “No letter today, Miss Meg.”
    Margaret smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
    “Yessum, tomorrow.” Then Stella would add sorrowfully, “Sho is quiet ’round here since Miss Amy gone back to Texas. Yes, suh, mighty quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me.” Muttering, she would go back to her kitchen while Margaret leisurely sipped her tea.
    A letter was waiting one sweltering day in July when she reached home, weak from the three-block walk in the humid Louisiana heat. Her eyes fell on the square white envelope with the small, neat handwriting and immediately she felt revived.
    Smiling, she took off her gloves and hat, dropped them carelessly on the table, and snatched up the letter. Like a young, excited girl, she flopped down on the second step of the carpeted staircase and eagerly ripped open the