Iron Lace Read Online Free PDF Page B

tide was low. Lucien rolled up his trousers and took off his shoes, then swung himself overboard to drag the skiff to the beach.
    In the distance, despite the afternoon’s bursts of rain, he could see men in wide-brimmed hats offshore, casting circular throw nets. A cold front had come through, and the damp air was tinged with the pleasures of autumn. Two women, their homespun skirts dragging on the wet sand, piled storm-tossed driftwood to season for cooking and heating. Marcelite’s pile was farther up the beach, stacked tall by her own hands and Raphael’s.
    Seven-year-old Raphael, Marcelite’s son by a former liaison, was a good child, a help to his mother, a guardian and companion to his sister. He was as captivated by Angelle as Lucien was, and because of his enslavement to Lucien’s daughter, Raphael had taken a special place in Lucien’s heart.
    Lucien scanned the beach, half expecting to find the boy hiding behind one of the woodpiles, in a game they often played. But Raphael was nowhere to be seen.
    Lucien murmured polite greetings to the women before hemade his way toward the village. The contrast between Chénière Caminada and Grand Isle was as wide as the pass that separated them. The large village on the chénière boasted over six hundred houses and bustled with the daily routines of its inhabitants. The fishermen and trappers of the chénière had large, close-knit families, and little contact with the outside world. Grand Isle was smaller, without a church or a resident justice of the peace. But in the summer months, Grand Isle swelled with the wealthy who escaped the punishing summers of the city and the fever that often came with the heat.
    Lucien passed a small orange grove, its green-tinged fruit bending the branches into graceful arcs. Ahead, a group of frame houses set high on brick pillars lined the grassy path. As he passed, a group of women, chatting together and shelling crabs on the wide gallery of one house, called to him to get inside before it rained again. A small dog stepped into his path and sniffed his shoes, as if hoping to discover a story to share with a larger comrade asleep under the shelter of an overturned pirogue.
    His destination was a leisurely fifteen-minute stroll away, past houses with vineyards and kitchen gardens. On Grand Isle, ridges of ancient, twisted oaks hindered every view, but here Lucien could see much of the village in one glance. The chénière natives had cut down their trees, to better feel the Gulf breezes on hot summer days.
    He had come this way for the first time three years ago. He and a friend had sailed to the chénière from Grand Isle to buy a new fishing net as a gift for his friend’s wife. The net was to be a decoration for an autumn soiree with a seaside theme.
    On arrival, they had been directed to Marcelite Cantrelle’s hut. Lucien had expected a toothless hag who would bargainruthlessly. Instead, he had been enchanted to discover a dark-haired temptress who negotiated with such charm that by the time his friend had his net, he didn’t even realize that he had spent twice the amount he had planned.
    Lucien had gone back to see Marcelite often that first summer. He had found excuses at first—another net, advice on where he might have the most success fishing, a small gift for Raphael. But by the time August arrived, he and Marcelite had come to an unspoken understanding. He visited when he could, and brought her gifts and money. In exchange, she yielded her body exclusively to him. The arrangement suited them both.
    Lucien had come this way many times, but he never failed to become aroused when he knew he would soon hold Marcelite in his arms. Now he rounded a bend, and her house came into view. Constructed of driftwood and thatched with palmetto, the house was as much a creation of local custom and culture as the woman who lived in it. In the distance, Lucien could see her, waiting in the shelter of the water oak. Her shirtwaist gleamed