glimpse of Lena and the big black dog she’d called Rufus.
He contacted workmen and craftsmen, ordered materials, and in a frenzy of enthusiasm, bought a full-sized pickup truck straight off the lot.
The first night he was able to build a fire in thedown-river parlor, he toasted the occasion, and himself, with a solitary glass of Merlot.
There’d been no more sleepwalking, but there had been dreams. He could remember only snatches of them upon waking. Music—often the tune had seemed to be lodged in his brain like a tumor. Or raised voices.
Once he’d dreamed of sex, of soft sighs in the dark, of the lazy glide of flesh over flesh, and the need rising up like a warm wave.
He’d woken with his muscles quivering and the scent of lilies just fading from his senses.
Since dreaming about sex seemed to be the best he could manage, he put his energies into the work.
When he did take a break, it was to pay a call, and he went armed with a bouquet of white daisies and a rawhide bone.
The bayou house was a single-story cypress, shotgun style. Tobacco-colored water snaked around it on three sides. A small white boat swayed gently at a sagging dock.
Trees hemmed it in where the water didn’t. The cypress and live oak and pecan. From the limbs hung clear bottles half-filled with water. And nestled into the gnarled roots of a live oak stood a painted statue of the Blessed Virgin.
There were purple pansies at her feet.
A little porch faced the dirt drive, and there were more potted flowers on it along with a rocking chair. The shutters were painted a mossy green. The screen door was patched in two places, and through the checkerboard net came the strong, bluesy voice of Ethel Waters.
He heard the deep, warning barks of the dog. Still, Declan wasn’t prepared for the size and speed as Rufus burst out of the door and charged.
“Oh, Jesus,” was all he managed. He had an instant to wonder if he should dive through the window of thepickup or freeze when the black mass the size of a pony skidded to a halt at his feet.
Rufus punctuated those ear-splitting barks with rumbling growls, liquid snarls and a very impressive show of teeth. Since he doubted he could beat the dog off with a bunch of daisies, Declan opted for the friendly approach.
“Hey, really, really big Rufus. How’s it going?”
Rufus sniffed at his boots, up his leg and dead into the crotch.
“Oh man, let’s not get that personal right off.” Thinking of those teeth, Declan decided he’d rather risk his hand than his dick, and reached out slowly to give the massive head a little shove and pat.
Rufus looked up with a pair of sparkling brown eyes, and in one fast, fluid move, reared up on his hind legs and planted his enormous paws on Declan’s shoulders.
He swiped a tongue about the size of the Mississippi over Declan’s face. Braced against the side of the truck, Declan hoped the long, sloppy licks were a greeting and not some sort of tenderizing.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Get on down now, Rufus.”
At the mild order from the front doorway, the dog dropped down, sat, thumped his tail.
The woman standing on the porch was younger than Declan had expected. She couldn’t have been far into her sixties. She had the same small build as her granddaughter, the same sharp planes to her face. Her hair was black, liberally streaked with white, and worn in a mass of curls.
She wore a cotton dress that hit her mid-calf with a baggy red sweater over it. Stout brown boots covered her feet with thick red socks drooping over them. He heard the jangle of her bracelets as she fisted her hands on her narrow hips.
“He liked the smell of you, and the sound of you, so he gave you a welcome kiss.”
“If he didn’t like me?”
She smiled, a quick flash that deepened the lines time had etched on her face. “What you think?”
“I think I’m glad I smell friendly. I’m Declan Fitzgerald, Mrs. Simone. I bought Manet Hall.”
“I know who you are.
He contacted workmen and craftsmen, ordered materials, and in a frenzy of enthusiasm, bought a full-sized pickup truck straight off the lot.
The first night he was able to build a fire in thedown-river parlor, he toasted the occasion, and himself, with a solitary glass of Merlot.
There’d been no more sleepwalking, but there had been dreams. He could remember only snatches of them upon waking. Music—often the tune had seemed to be lodged in his brain like a tumor. Or raised voices.
Once he’d dreamed of sex, of soft sighs in the dark, of the lazy glide of flesh over flesh, and the need rising up like a warm wave.
He’d woken with his muscles quivering and the scent of lilies just fading from his senses.
Since dreaming about sex seemed to be the best he could manage, he put his energies into the work.
When he did take a break, it was to pay a call, and he went armed with a bouquet of white daisies and a rawhide bone.
The bayou house was a single-story cypress, shotgun style. Tobacco-colored water snaked around it on three sides. A small white boat swayed gently at a sagging dock.
Trees hemmed it in where the water didn’t. The cypress and live oak and pecan. From the limbs hung clear bottles half-filled with water. And nestled into the gnarled roots of a live oak stood a painted statue of the Blessed Virgin.
There were purple pansies at her feet.
A little porch faced the dirt drive, and there were more potted flowers on it along with a rocking chair. The shutters were painted a mossy green. The screen door was patched in two places, and through the checkerboard net came the strong, bluesy voice of Ethel Waters.
He heard the deep, warning barks of the dog. Still, Declan wasn’t prepared for the size and speed as Rufus burst out of the door and charged.
“Oh, Jesus,” was all he managed. He had an instant to wonder if he should dive through the window of thepickup or freeze when the black mass the size of a pony skidded to a halt at his feet.
Rufus punctuated those ear-splitting barks with rumbling growls, liquid snarls and a very impressive show of teeth. Since he doubted he could beat the dog off with a bunch of daisies, Declan opted for the friendly approach.
“Hey, really, really big Rufus. How’s it going?”
Rufus sniffed at his boots, up his leg and dead into the crotch.
“Oh man, let’s not get that personal right off.” Thinking of those teeth, Declan decided he’d rather risk his hand than his dick, and reached out slowly to give the massive head a little shove and pat.
Rufus looked up with a pair of sparkling brown eyes, and in one fast, fluid move, reared up on his hind legs and planted his enormous paws on Declan’s shoulders.
He swiped a tongue about the size of the Mississippi over Declan’s face. Braced against the side of the truck, Declan hoped the long, sloppy licks were a greeting and not some sort of tenderizing.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Get on down now, Rufus.”
At the mild order from the front doorway, the dog dropped down, sat, thumped his tail.
The woman standing on the porch was younger than Declan had expected. She couldn’t have been far into her sixties. She had the same small build as her granddaughter, the same sharp planes to her face. Her hair was black, liberally streaked with white, and worn in a mass of curls.
She wore a cotton dress that hit her mid-calf with a baggy red sweater over it. Stout brown boots covered her feet with thick red socks drooping over them. He heard the jangle of her bracelets as she fisted her hands on her narrow hips.
“He liked the smell of you, and the sound of you, so he gave you a welcome kiss.”
“If he didn’t like me?”
She smiled, a quick flash that deepened the lines time had etched on her face. “What you think?”
“I think I’m glad I smell friendly. I’m Declan Fitzgerald, Mrs. Simone. I bought Manet Hall.”
“I know who you are.
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