Free Southern Ruby by Belinda Alexandra Page B

lace gown sitting in a rose-covered summerhouse and surrounded by ardent beaus.’
    I grimaced. ‘That’s because we were addicted to Gone with the Wind when we were younger. I don’t know how many times we watched that together.’
    Our kelp noodles and zucchini pasta arrived, and we took a few mouthfuls of the food before Tamara said, ‘So are you going to contact your grandmother in New Orleans?’
    Part of me had wanted to rush off to New Orleans in search of my remaining family as soon as I’d read Grandmother Ruby’s letter. She sounded intriguing, and her mention of a historical family property was like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey for someone who’d specialised in restoration architecture. But old habits die hard. Even thinking about my father’s family made me feel disloyal to Nan. Although she was dead, I couldn’t bear the idea of hurting her.
    â€˜I keep wondering how Nan felt when she got that letter,’ I said. ‘Obviously she didn’t want me to go to New Orleans or she’d have shown it to me. But why did she keep it then? Do you think she was conflicted — torn between her desire to keep me and sympathy for Grandmother Ruby’s request?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ replied Tamara. ‘And you’ll never know either. But you shouldn’t be worrying too much about your nan’s feelings now. You have to decide what you want to do. It’s your life.’
    Easier to say than do , I thought. My whole life had been directed by Nan. I’d studied architecture instead of becoming a musician on her advice. When she had shut down the subject of my father, I’d obeyed her. She might be dead, but that only increased my sense of obligation.
    â€˜Reverend Taylor said at Nan’s funeral that the departed let go of their worldly anger and forgive everyone from their greater perspective,’ I said. ‘Do you think Nan might have forgiven my father and his family?’
    Tamara frowned. I knew she hated any sort of traditional religion. ‘I don’t know, but I do know you were the best granddaughter you could have been to your nan when she was alive. It’s time to make your own path now, Mademoiselle Amandine Desiree Lalande, and figure out who you are for yourself.’
    A week after that conversation, I lay in Tamara’s spare room with the bedside light still on. Since Nan’s death I’d developed a loathing of going to sleep in the dark and preferred to keep reading until I fell asleep.
    I cast my eye over the items in the room — the odd bits and pieces that Tamara and Leanne didn’t want but for some reason couldn’t part with. There was a bicycle that had only been ridden once; a hideous pair of coral pink ceramic table lamps left by the previous renters; and a computer desk with a wobbly top shelf. Tamara’s early experiments in photography lined the walls, including a black-and-white picture of me taken four years ago in the Central Station concourse. I was standing in front of the train timetables with my arms folded, staring down at the lens, my expression proud, haughty and confident. I resembled a young Anjelica Huston. But I’ve never felt proud, haughty or confident in real life.
    I studied my face in the photograph — those high cheekbones and full lips. Somehow the picture gave me the courage to do something I’d been thinking about ever since reading my mother’s letters. I pulled my laptop from under the bed and connected it to the telephone line. The static bonging sound of the dial-up was so loud that I was worried that I’d wake up Tamara and Leanne who were asleep in the next room. I strained my ears but nobody stirred. They were sound sleepers. I had known my father’s name since I was a child as it had been required on all my school applications, but it was only since reading my mother’s letters that I’d learned of