Chapter 10

Two weeks later, the packing house smelled of oranges and rain. The concrete floor was wet from a morning storm. Junie stood on an overturned crate with the blessing scroll in her hands. The parchment had been repaired with archival tape, the tear still visible. Theo stood beside her, fidgeting with his collar.

“You start,” Junie said.

Theo shook his head. “You’re better.”

“We do it together.”

Across the packing house, workers paused. Renee stood near the sorting table with Paul. Gus sat in a chair by the office door, a blanket over his knees. The trust had voted to sell sixty acres of Bellrose Hall’s eastern parcel to pay legal debts and penalties. The west grove would stay. The house would stay. But the family name had cracked, and everyone in Delta Parish knew it.

Cece was at home, awaiting trial on charges of fraud, forgery, and witness intimidation. Her lawyers had offered a plea. She had refused. She still believed she could talk her way out of anything.

Paul had signed an affidavit against her. Renee had watched him do it at the kitchen table, his hand shaking, his signature the same slant that had witnessed the deed. When he finished, he had looked up at her.

“I don’t know if you can forgive me,” he said.

“I don’t know either,” Renee answered. “But I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

It was the truth. The marriage was not healed. It was held together with tape and honesty and the knowledge that he had stood between his mother and his daughter when it counted. Some nights Renee woke up angry. Some nights Paul slept on the couch. But in the morning, they made coffee and got the kids to school.

Junie unrolled the scroll. The old French words looked intimidating, but she knew them. She had practiced. She had lost the honor once. Now she had asked for it back.

“Read,” Theo whispered.

Junie began. Her voice was clear. Theo joined on the second line, stumbling over the pronunciation, and she slowed down for him. No one stopped them. No one snatched the scroll. The rain on the tin roof was the only music.

Renee watched her daughter and her son, and she thought about the recorder. It was in an evidence bag now, tagged and sealed. The red LED was off. But she could still see it blinking on the orangery floor, under Junie’s fingers, while Cece’s polished shoes came toward her.

She would never forget the sound of her mother-in-law’s voice saying loose end. She would never forget the look on Paul’s face when he heard it. And she would never again dismiss her daughter.

When the blessing ended, Theo held up his hand for a high five. Junie gave it. Gus clapped, slow and proud. Paul clapped too. Renee put her hand on Junie’s shoulder.

“You did good,” she said.

Junie smiled. “I know.”

Outside, the sky was clearing over the bayou. The east parcel would be sold in the spring. The west grove would be replanted. The Vandermeer trust had a new chair, a woman from Baton Rouge who didn’t scare easily. Cece’s chair at the head of the table sat empty, and no one moved it.

At the end of the row, Renee noticed a small brass tag on the windowsill. BH-7. She had given it to the lawyers, but someone had returned it. Maybe Gus. Maybe Junie. She picked it up and closed her hand around it.

It was cold, then warm. Like evidence. Like a beginning.