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of a man cooking for her had taken some getting used to, not that Louis had cooked for her that many times. But ever since he’d kissed her on her birthday back in October, their relationship had been a bit strained and had taken a subtle change of direction.
    That he hadn’t kissed her since that night nor had he even acted like he might want to do so had contributed to the uneasiness she felt when around him. The whole situation bothered her and confused her so much so that she no longer knew how to act when she was around him.
    She knew she was being a coward, but, unlike her niece’s generation, which was forward and open about such matters, she simply couldn’t get past her upbringing to work up the courage to approach the subject or discuss the issue with him. The women of her generation had been raised to believe that the man should be the aggressor and that only trashy women made the first move. Of course, that was all hogwash, and if she was honest with herself she’d admit that the real reason she couldn’t just come right out and confront him was because she still wasn’t sure how she felt about him.
    At times she truly liked Louis—liked him a lot. And she respected him. But there were other times when his chauvinistic attitude and know-it-all ways irritated her no end.
    Louis shut the driver’s door. Then he tapped on the window. “Well?” he mouthed. “How about it?”
    Charlotte rolled down the window. “Ah—I...” Now be gracious, Charlotte. Mind your manners. “Sure.” She forced a smile. “Why not? That’s very nice of you,” she hastened to add.
    Louis nodded. “Good. Supper will be ready around six.” He pointed to the seat belt. “Don’t forget to buckle up.”
     
     
     
    Charlotte’s home was located on Milan Street, just outside the Garden District. The family mansion that Patsy Dufour had inherited was located on Prytania Street and was reputed to be one of the oldest homes in the Garden District, if not the oldest.
    Traffic was light on Prytania, and the drive to Patsy’s house took less than ten minutes, not near enough time for Charlotte to sort out her confused feelings about Louis or his dinner invitation. To do that might take a lifetime, and Charlotte figured that with the advent of her sixtieth birthday back in October, more than half of her lifetime was already over—unless some scientist somewhere discovered a way to stop the aging process right away, which wasn’t likely.
    Patsy Dufour’s raised cottage-style home had seen many modifications during its hundred and sixty years of existence. The one-story house was raised above ground on brick piers, forming what was called a basement by the locals who lived in the below-sea-level city of New Orleans. Each new addition to the home had changed it over the years; a whole wing of rooms had been added along one side as well as galleries.
    The house had been in Patsy’s family for generations, and it, along with the furnishings and the grounds surrounding the house, were her pride and joy.
    Years ago, when Patsy had first inherited the old house, it had been designated as a national historic landmark by the Department of the Interior. Ever since, Patsy had become a connoisseur of historical correctness as well as an avid gardener, and for most of Patsy’s adult life she’d totally devoted herself to the upkeep and historical integrity of the house and its grounds.
    Located on one of the largest lots in the Garden District, the Dufour home was surrounded by a white picket fence. On the inside of the fence there was a thick wall of various tropical plants, so thick that the house was almost hidden from the prying eyes of the many tourist tours that roamed the Garden District.
    The first thing that Charlotte noted when she approached the house were the trucks parked along the curb. At least once a year Patsy did a major landscaping project, and, judging from the equipment and various plants in the truck beds, she was