I held my breath. If he was going to ask me if I loved him . . .
"You love someone else," he said instead. "Don't you?" I turned from him and looked down, but he reached out to lift my chin.
"Don't look away, please. Tell me the truth."
"Yes, Louis, I do. But how did you know this?"
"I heard it in your voice, in the way you held back whenever you spoke softly to me. I felt it just now in your kiss, which was the kiss of a good friend and not the kiss of a lover."
"I'm sorry, Louis, but I never meant to . ."
"I know," he said, finding my lips with his fingers. "Don't think you need make excuses. I don't blame you for anything and I don't expect anything more from you. I am still forever in your debt. I hope only that whoever you love is deserving of your love and will love you as strongly as I would."
"So do I," I said.
He smiled.
"Now let's not get melancholy. As we French Creoles say, Je ne regrette rien, eh? I regret nothing. Besides, we can always be good friends, can't we?"
"Oh yes, Louis. Always."
"Good." He beamed a bright smile. "I can't ask for any better Christmas present. And now," he said, rising, "your second gift. Mademoiselle Dumas," he requested, holding up his arm for me to take, "permit me to escort you, sil vous plait."
I took his arm and we walked out of the dining room and into the music study. He brought me to the settee first and then he went to the piano and took his seat. "Your symphony is complete," he announced.
I sat there and listened to him play the most wondrous and beautiful melodies. I felt swept away by the music; it was truly a magic carpet taking me to the most marvelous places in my imagination and in my memory. Sometimes the music reminded me of the sound of the water flowing through the canals in the bayou, especially after a heavy downpour; sometimes I heard the morning songs of birds. I saw sunsets and twilights and dreamt of blazing night skies when the stars were so bright they lingered for hours on the surface of my eyes even as I slept. When the music ended, I was disappointed it was over. Louis had outdone anything I had heard him do before.
I rushed to him and threw my arms around his neck. "That was wonderful! Too wonderful for words!"
"Hey," he said overwhelmed by my reaction.
"It's incredibly beautiful, Louis. Really. I have never heard anything like it."
"I'm so glad you like it. I have something special for you," he said, and he reached under the stool to bring up another gift-wrapped box, this one much larger. I unraveled the ribbon quickly and peeled off the paper to open the lid of the box and look in at a record.
"What is this, Louis?"
"It's my symphony," he said. "I recorded it."
"You recorded it? But how . . ."
I gazed at the label on the record. It read, "Ruby's Symphony, composed and played by Louis Turnbull."
"Louis, I can't believe it."
"It's true," he said, laughing. "They brought the machinery to the house one day and I recorded it right in this studio."
"It must have cost a lot of money."
He shrugged. "I don't care what it cost," he said.
"It's such an honor. I'll play it for anyone who'll listen. How I wish Daddy was still alive to hear this," I said. I didn't mean to inject the note of sadness, but I couldn't help it. My heart was so full, and I didn't have anyone I loved with me to share it, not Grandmere Catherine, not Daddy, not Paul or Beau.
"Yes," Louis said, his face darkening. "It's painful not to have people you really love with you when something nice happens. But," he added cheerfully, "all that will end for both of us now. I'm hopeful, aren't you?"
"Yes, Louis."
"