Page 49 of Feral
“That sounds awesome. I’ve never been to a plantation before but I’ve read about their incredible history. Makes you wonder how different life was back then, huh?”
“Sure does.” A few minutes later I spot his Lexus parked on the side of the half-empty road. “I never thought I’d get to see you again, you know.”
He takes out his keys from his jeans pocket and the car beeps to life. I walk over to the passenger side but he beats me to it, opening the door for me.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “I never thought I’d see you again, either. I guess you never know what life’s going to throw your way, right?”
“You can say that again,” he says with a hearty chuckle. A moment later, he's behind the wheel, turning the engine on. I scratch my neck, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden and he turns to cast a knowing look at me. “You can talk to me, you know. About my dad, I mean. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
“Your father is a good man, Bastien. I like him. I like the way I feel when I’m around him.”
And that’s an understatement. But he doesn’t have to know more.
He takes a left turn, then it’s open road ahead. “I just worry about him. He’s been behind bars for too long. That shit messes with a man’s head. Makes him do things he wouldn’t normally do.”
I turn to look at him then, but he avoids my gaze. “You think I’m just one of his whims? Is that what you’re trying to say? That he’ll use me and then toss me? Or are you afraid that it’s the other way around?” There’s anger lacing my voice and I hate that I have to justify my relationship with his father.
“I barely know you, Gemma,” he finally says, turning to look at me. “My dad’s been through a lot. I don’t want to see him get hurt again.”
I swallow and look out of the window at the passing pedestrians and beautiful buildings.
“I won’t hurt him,” I whisper and it’s the truth.
The rest of the ride goes by in silence and soon he parks the car in a gravel lot marked ‘Shadows Visitor Center’.
He turns off the engine and looks over at me. “We’re here.”
I open the door and step outside, taking in the breathtaking scenery.
When he told me the grounds were beautiful, he wasn’t lying; this place looks downright magical. I take a deep breath, let it out, and promise myself to enjoy this personal guided tour.
“Where are we?”
“We’re in New Iberia. Shadows on the Teche is right across the road; see that two-story brick building with the white columns?”
I nod and he goes on. “That’s where our tour starts. Let’s go.”
He crosses the road, and I follow him through the white picket fence to what can only be described as a feast for the eyes. The open grounds are adorned with several little statues and benches, perfectly located to view the land and Bayou. The pea gravel and carefully paved pathways only add to the appeal of this property. He has slowed down, matching my pace, while I take in every little detail. When we finally reach the front of the house, I just stand and admire it from afar.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she? I figured you’d like it.”
I marvel at the well-preserved structure, its impressive white pillars, contrasting with the red brick wall and white painted doors.
“Can we go in?” I ask, wanting to see the inside of this magnificent home.
“Of course, we can. That’s why I brought you here. The house was built back in 1834. It belonged to David and Mary Weeks, wealthy growers of sugar cane back in the day. It stayed in the same family for four generations. That’s crazy, huh? Just imagine this place back in the day.”
“What happened to them?” I wonder aloud.
Bastien opens the front door, and we start walking inside the house, its eerily haunting beauty instantly transporting me to a different time. “The Weeks family began to suffer from a series of tragedies almost at once after the completion of the house.” We are now walking into a large room with a black and white checkered marble floor. “This is the dining room and the portraits you see on the wall are of Mary Weeks and her second husband.”
“Not of David Weeks, huh? That's strange.” I follow him to the second story and into what once must have been the children's room, the faded flowery wallpaper flattering and well-preserved. My eyes fall on a beautiful hand-embroidered white dress laid out across one of the beds. I reach down and touch it, wondering who it belonged to when Bastien reads my mind.
“See the little girl’s portrait above the fireplace? That’s Lily Weeks, daughter of the eldest son of David Weeks. She was eight years old in this picture and that’s the exact same dress she was wearing there.”
I turn to look at the picture of the beautiful girl, then at the dress and a feeling of awe engulfs me.
“My God, Bastien. There is a lot of history in this house. That’s incredible.”
