Most surprising was the pink and white explosion of wild roses that climbed riotously up the house supports and practically covered two sides of the house. Sylvie had to smile at that whimsical touch—probably added a century ago by one of Luc’s feminine ancestors. Then she smiled even wider when she noted another feminine touch… this one more recent. Between a gas-powered generator and a huge cistern on the far side of the house was positioned a five-foot-tall plastic statue of St. Jude. Even in this remote hideaway, Tante Lulu wasn’t taking any chances.
On the flight here, Luc had informed her that almost no one knew about this secret hideaway, which had been passed down through five generations of his mother’s family. It had originally been built by Rivard trappers from another time, before the Civil War era. At one point it had even been a safe house for slaves escaping to the North. Sadly, it had been abandoned for more than five decades before Luc took possession of it ten years ago. He doubted his father remembered its existence.
With a sigh of exhaustion, Sylvie grabbed one of the canvas sacks and began to lug it up the steps to the cabin, being careful not to drop her cardboard mouse house. All she needed was two horny rats on the loose in the bayou. She’d never be able to recapture Samson and Delilah.
“The key is above the doorjamb,” Luc yelled, then hastily added, “Check for snakes before you stick your hands anywhere inside the cabin.”
Sylvie shivered with distaste as she opened the front door, but then snakes were a fact of life in South Louisiana. She didn’t like the slimy things, but she didn’t fear them either. A quick examination showed she was safe… for now.
She set the Happy Meal box down, dropped the bag, and proceeded to open all the windows and shutters to air out the musty interior. She gasped with surprise when she got her first good look at the large room. It was a rustic cabin… ancient in age… but it was lovely.
There were straw mats on the wide-planked floors, but precious handwoven Cajun carpets of brilliant blues and pure whites were rolled up in tobacco leaves to preserve them from mildew and moths. On the wooden walls, mosquito netting protected glass-framed prints and primitive tapestries from flyspecks.
The cabin contained only one room, but it was large… at least thirty by thirty. A cozy living room with comfortable, albeit well-worn, chairs and ottomans, along with reading lamps, dominated one side. Opposite was an alcove with a built-in bed. In the back was a kitchen with vintage, but probably useable, appliances and a big cypress kitchen table and chairs. Upstairs was a sleeping loft, which had probably been used by the children of the family at one time when the cabin had been an actual residence.
A sudden humming noise jarred Sylvie from her musings, and she realized that the open refrigerator had suddenly turned on. The overhead fan began to whir, also. Luc must have started the outside generator.
“So what do you think, babe?” Luc asked. He and Remy had just come in, each carrying three of the canvas bags. “It’s not what you’re used to back at your mother’s plantation, but it should suit you for slumming a day or two.”
There he went again, bringing up the differences in their backgrounds… as if it mattered a hill of beans to her. She raised her chin defiantly and said, “This cabin is lovely. And the location is special. I can see why you cherish the place so.”
“Cherish? Who said anything about cherish? It’s just an old fishing cabin,” Luc answered defensively. He wasn’t fooling her, he loved the cabin, but for some reason he wanted to keep the fact hidden from her. He had acted the same way regarding his apartment back in Houma.
“Yeah, he cherishes the place, all right,” Remy offered, plunking a heavy bag of what must be canned goods on the kitchen counter. Then he winked at Sylvie as if they shared some secret about Luc.
Luc and Remy made another trip for more bags.