The Saint Louisans Read Online Free Page B

their parents had been a feeding frenzy for the local press. St. Louis is a small town in this respect, and the Desouche rumblings were common knowledge, but I was here to heal as well as comfort.
    â€œWe’ll work it out,” I said.
    Margot’s eyes and tone implied a mystery. She was wanting to bond with me in some unique way. Needing more information, I went along.
    â€œStay with me until the end,” she said. “I want to get to know you in the time that is left. Money is no object. Please, Lee. I don’t want to seem arich woman trying to buy you, but,” she stopped as her eyes moistened, “I’m alone.”
    I leaned toward her, my fingers curled around hers. “No, you’re not.”
    Relieved, she sat up straight, her posture like that of the portrait.
    â€œI haven’t led a useless life,” she said, returning to the voice of society. “I accept my end, but not to die alone. It would be incomplete.”
    Die. A word avoided in America because of its finality. Most Americans ‘pass away,’ but Margot Desouche was old money, and preferred the old language. She was direct and to the point, hardly a batty recluse, or a St. Louis version of Mrs. Havisham.
    The Desouches donated to charities, as did all the French families. The Church was generously provided for. But Margot asked for me, and under her benign dignity, I saw hungry eyes. “This is a journey we’ll share,” I said.
    â€œI knew you’d be good.” She looked at me in a kind, but strange way, and then saw me glance at a small plaster cat painted in milky brightness that studied us with neutral eyes, left paw raised as if to say goodbye. “You like it? Pierre gave it to me.” She held it up.
    â€œIt’s Manekeneko,” I replied, ‘the beckoning cat.’ In Japan, people beckon to you by raising their hand like so. It’s good luck to have one around. It even has an epic poem written about it.”
    Margot’s eyes twinkled. “You like Japan?”
    â€œYes. A friend of mine, an old friend, Doc Pickwick, read me a book about Japan,
The Tale of the Genji
. Written by a Lady Murasaki in the 1100s, and I’ve been fascinated ever since.” I placed a booklet before her. “Now, we should discuss your diet, as well as a regimen—”
    â€œ
The Tale of the Genji
talks of Prince Genji,” Margot smiled. “A study of his love affairs. It’s full of poetry contests, people going out to view the moon, cherry blossoms, the snow, the three things Japanese must see.” Margot sighed and placed the cat back on the table. “Pierre’s crazy about it. Whenever we’d go to the Japanese Garden at Shaw’s Garden, he’d stare at the Koi swimming under the bridge. ‘Like aquatic autumn leaves,’ he’d say. This was when he was younger, but he changed. Children … they all change.” Her sadness ended in a blink. “Now, Lee, let me ask you about your cape. I haven’t seen one like that in years.”
    â€œNo, most nurses don’t wear them anymore, but a friend gave it to me.”
    â€œShe must have been a good friend.”
    â€œNot at first. I disliked her. I was a real ass. The cape was handed down to me.”
    â€œPlease tell me. I want to know.”
    â€œIt’s a long story; maybe some other time.” I waved my hand and shifted in my chair.
    â€œNo, Lee,” she reached out and touched my hand, “I’d really love to hear it now, if you have time.”
    I was struck by her insistence, and, from what I could tell, her genuine interest. So I gave in and started at the beginning, thirty years ago, when I was finishing my nursing degree at Saint Louis University; or majoring in Chaos 101, so it seemed. Reading texts like
Nursing Research Methodology
back-to-back with fourteen hour shifts. Two children in tow and a marriage that had assumed room temperature. I