her belly, Gwen lingered under the spray of the shower to wash and condition her hair. It was half past twelve when she descended the staircase and walked into the boardinghouse lobby. The expansive area was filled with wicker love seats and chairs cradling colorful floral cushions. An elderly woman with long, graying red hair stood behind the counter sorting mail.
Her head came up and she smiled at Gwen. “Bonjour, Miss Taylor. I’m Angelique Jessup. My nephew told me that Shiloh brought you in last night.”
Clutching her purse to her middle, Gwen hoped to muffle the sound of her growling belly. She wondered what else Shiloh had told Willie Jessup about her. Had he disclosed that she was now the new owner of Bon Temps? She also noticed that the older woman hadn’t referred to Shiloh as Sheriff Harper.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Jessup. Perhaps you can tell me where I can get something to eat?”
“You missed breakfast, and we don’t serve supper until six, so the only place open for lunch is the Outlaw.”
Gwen groaned inwardly. “How far is it from here?”
Gesturing with a clawlike fingernail, Angelique said, “When you go out the door, turn to your right and walk toward the water. There you’ll meet someone who’ll take you across to the Outlaw.”
She went completely still before her eyes widened. A boat? Gwen blinked once. “I have to take a boat across?”
Angelique nodded slowly. “You can’t drive because after years of wrangling, the state finally gave us the money to repair the road on the east side of the parish. It will be closed for at least three months, so the only way to get to the Outlaw is by boat.”
“How long will that take?”
“About ten minutes. As soon as you clear a sandbar you’ll see the restaurant.”
Gwen closed her eyes briefly as a spasm tightened her stomach muscles, leaving her light-headed. “Thank you.”
“Bon appetit,” the older woman called out as Gwen headed toward the door.
“Merci,” she said, deciding it was time to begin practicing her limited French. She’d moved to southern Louisiana, the geographical heart of Acadiana, a region where she would hear the authentic dialect of the Acadian people.
The boardinghouse was situated along a block of attached two-story structures with decorative grillwork balconies representative of the region. The facades were shaded by rows of giant oak trees rising more than a hundred feet and trailing a yard of moss below their sweeping branches.
Everything about the bayou was so different from Boston: the architecture, topography, wildlife, flora, climate and people. Gwen felt as if she were being seduced, pulled into an atmosphere from which she did not want to escape. The cloying fragrance of flowering magnolia, honeysuckle and roses mingled with the distinctive smell of the water as she walked in the direction Angelique Jessup had indicated. The heat of the semitropical sun and humidity caressed her exposed skin under the lace-trimmed camisole she’d pulled on over a pair of worn jeans that she should’ve discarded when she emptied her closets.
What once had been a very active social life dwindled to an occasional encounter, most not going beyond the two-date limit. This suited her just fine because she preferred spending time alone, reading, seeing movies, and trying out new recipes to wasting her time with boorish, egotistical men who believed if they were treating her to dinner, then she should become their dessert at the end of the night.
She refused to become any man’s dessert, possession, and definitely not his trophy. If they did not see or treat her as an equal, then she was prepared to spend the rest of her life—alone.
If she hadn’t been so famished, she would’ve enjoyed her stroll. The fragrant odor of flowers growing wild faded as she approached the water. Her steps slowed as she saw La Boule, a boat painted a brilliant red and black, moored at the pier. She moved closer, the spongy earth giving way under the soles of her high-heel sandals.
“You want to cross the water with Etienne, missy?”
Gwen turned to find a wizened old man with a long beard that looked as if he’d glued a profusion of Spanish moss to his chin. He sat on a folding chair under a piece of tarpaulin supported by a quartet of rusting poles. Four late-model cars and six pickup trucks were parked nearby under a large tin shed open on two sides.
She assumed he was asking her whether she wanted him to take her across the bayou. “Yes, I do. How much is the fare to the Outlaw?”
“No pay if you go to the Outlaw,” he mumbled. Etienne pushed off the wooden chair, adjusted the bib of his overalls, and shuffled down to the pier to the ferryboat. Gwen followed.
She made her way onto the ferryboat and sat down on a padded bench. As Etienne started up the engine and backed away from the shore, she stared at the passing landscape. Her breath caught in her chest as she entered an ethereal world that appeared primal and hostile. Moving at a speed less than three knots, La Boule provided her with a panoramic view of the bayou with its lush vegetation and ancient tree limbs before coming to a final rest in the muddy-water stream that meandered and twisted for a hundred and twenty-five miles.
Moving closer to the railing, she peered through a haze of muted gray and greens as a flock of snowy-white egrets settled down on the sandbar Angelique had mentioned. A loud splash garnered her attention; a large turtle swam just below the surface of the water.
She glimpsed the outline of a Greek Revival mansion through a copse of moss-draped oaks, the pristine white structure an exact replica of her home, but on a larger scale. She did not want to think about her ancestors who labored under the yoke of slavery to maintain the grandeur of the antebellum residences and the land from which the owners derived their wealth. The boat slowed, bumping against the wharf and Gwen leaned over the railing, peering up at a building erected on stilts.
Etienne turned the wheel until La Boule was parallel to the Outlaw’s wharf. He cut the engine, left the wheelhouse and tossed a thick rope over a stanchion. He was waiting for Gwen as she disembarked. Cupping her elbow, he led her off the boat.
He smiled, displaying a mouth filled with worn yellow teeth. “Bon appetit.”
She returned his smile, reaching into her cavernous leather bag. She pulled out several bills and pressed them into the ferryman’s hand. “Merci beaucoup.”
Etienne pocketed the money without glancing at what his passenger had given him. “Merci, missy.”
Gwen climbed the wooden steps to the Outlaw as tantalizing smells wafted through the many screened-in windows. Right about now she was hungry enough to eat a critter: alligator, rattlesnake, squirrel, or possum.
* * *
Shiloh glanced up from the newspaper spread out on his left when the waitress placed his order on the table. “Thanks, Juleen.”
Her dark eyes sparkled as she met Shiloh’s gaze. “Do you want me to freshen up your coffee, Sheriff Harper?”
A frown replaced his forced smile. Most St. Martin Parish residents knew not to call him sheriff whenever he was out of uniform, but Juleen Aucoin persisted. The few times he’d spoken to his brother about it, Ian revealed that Juleen was looking to become the next Mrs. Shiloh Harper.
If Juleen believed she was flirting with him, then she’d just struck out—big time. Since his divorce he’d ignored every woman’s attempt to tease, flirt or get him to either date her or share her bed. He wasn’t exempt from making mistakes, but he was proud to admit that he’d never repeated one. He’d fallen in love and married, believing once he exchanged vows it would be happily ever after but it hadn’t been and he’d sworn never to marry again.
“Please leave the pot, Juleen,” he ordered in a soft voice.
Her pink lips parted at the same time a rush of color darkened her pretty face. “It’s the only pot with coffee, Shiloh.”
Shiloh