Bayou My Love: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

sorting out what was real and what was not.
    He
led me through the living room, the back bedroom and the sitting room, and I
tried to remember the last time I talked to Vergie. The few times I’d prodded
my father to explain why I couldn’t see her any more, he had quickly changed
the subject. After my mother left, the summer visits had stopped. Why had I cut
all ties simply because my father had? At sixteen, I could have called her. I
could have written letters. I could have stood up to my father.
    Why
had I never stood up for what I wanted?
    The
dog was at my heels, her eyes fixed on me.
    “Don’t
mind Bella,” Jack said. “She’s just trying to herd us.”
    “What?”
    “It’s
what old swamp dogs do. Stop you from getting lost forever.”
    Her
bobbed tail wagged.
    I
followed Jack as he climbed the stairs, distracted by the sway in his shoulders
and his hips. He had an easy way about him, but he seemed as solid as the earth
beneath us. His hands were solid too—those of a man who knew exactly what he
was capable of, exactly how he could mold bare materials into what he wanted.
    I
loved feeling hands like those on my skin.
    “There’s
a good bit to be done here, I guess,” he said, pausing in the upstairs hallway.
“I helped her with small things, like the cabinets and floors, but I didn’t get
into any big projects.”
    The
banister was cool under my fingers. It was as big around as my thigh, carved in
a Victorian style with simple lines. The spindles were square, not those dainty
round ones that most people went for.
    “I
could probably be done in a couple of weeks,” I said, peeking into the first
upstairs bedroom. The bed was made up with a patchwork quilt, an antique desk
and chair by the window. The curtains rippled like water in the breeze. It
looked like it had been empty for years.
    He
laughed, shaking his head. “A couple of weeks? You won’t find people around
here who’ll work that fast.”
    “No
people. Just me.”
    He
stopped cold. “You’re going to fix all of this by yourself?”
    “Sure.”
I wandered through the next room, a makeshift study and library. When I turned
back to him, he was slack-jawed.
    “What,
you’ve never seen a woman fix a house?” I get a kick out of watching people’s
reactions when I tell them what I do. It was like the idea of a woman wielding
a hammer and paintbrush for purposes that didn’t include hanging pictures or
painting with watercolor was too much to fathom. “I do this for a living,” I
said.
    His
mouth curled into a crooked smile that must have broken half the hearts in the
parish. “Guess they don’t make many like you any more, either,” he said.
    “I
was sort of a tomboy growing up.”
    “Could
have fooled me.” His eyes drifted down to my feet, then back up to meet mine.
    That
look made me more aware of how my clothes stuck to me in this relentless heat.
Not expecting to meet a soul today, I’d thrown on a thin camp-style shirt and
an old pair of jeans with holes in the knees. Clothes were one of those details
Dad claimed I overlooked. I rolled the sleeves up higher and placed my hands on
my hips, staring him down.
    “I
wouldn’t have taken you for the manual labor type,” he said.
    “I
still like to get dirty. Some things never change.”
    He
smiled and motioned for me to follow him down the hall. I noted the cracks in
the plaster, the ancient light fixtures with their painted glass, the way
Jack’s broad shoulders strained the seams of his shirt.
    His
playfulness was disarming. He was so good-natured, even when he was about to be
evicted. It felt easy to be with him, and for me that was rare.
    “I
think I have the answer,” he said, leading me toward the back bedrooms. “It’s
win-win. You’ll like it.”
    “Go
on.” One of the remaining bedrooms had a bed and dresser, an antique highboy
with ball-and-claw feet. The last room was empty of furniture but full of
boxes.
    “How
about I stay here while you do whatever work