Whispers of the Bayou (25 page)

“How is Willy doing?”

My eyes widened.

“I’m sorry. I guess you haven’t heard. He died yesterday afternoon.”

Holt looked quite surprised. Turning his face toward the water, he slowly nodded his head.

“Willy was a good guy. Very loyal to the family. This is selfish of me to say, but I’m glad he outlived my parents. They depended on him a lot. It would’ve been tough if he’d gone first.”

“He spoke very highly of them both, especially his beloved Ya Ya.”

Holt smiled. “Yeah, Willy and Mom were always so funny together, especially when we would go out on the boat and she could really let her hair down. They could have entire conversations with just a bunch of sounds.” Holt imitated the two Cajuns talking, alternating in a high and low voice as he said things such as “Kee Yoo!” and “Mais La!”

I laughed, recognizing that the low voice sounded exactly like Willy.

“Anyway,” Holt continued, “it was always my understanding that you were going to have Benochet handle the property sale and settlement for you, on your behalf. I’m guessing you changed your mind and decided to come here for yourself?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” I said. “Willy wanted to talk to me before he died, so I flew down at his request.”

“What will you do now? Are you going to put the house on the market?”

His question was a simple one, the answer obvious, yet I was having a hard time bringing myself to say the words or even nod my head.

“Before I do anything,” I told him finally, “I just want to get a feel for the place, maybe bring back some childhood memories. But, yes, eventually I’ll be putting it on the market.” I wanted to ask if that would be hard for him, seeing his family home sold to some stranger, but I held my tongue.

“Was the place familiar to you at all?” he asked.

I looked out at the water, spotting a log as it floated down the bayou.

“To be honest, I don’t remember anything about Louisiana. I have no memories prior to the age of six. AJ—uh, my Aunt Janet—says I was traumatized when my mother died and that my mind just erased everything up to then. The late seventies are a complete blank to me.”

To my surprise, Holt laughed.

“Join the club!” he said. “Those years are a blank to me too! I was a stone-cold drunk, wasted out of my mind most of the time. In fact, I have
more than a
decade
that’s just one big blur. It’s only through the love of some buddies and the good Lord Himself that I was able to survive and dry out and start my life fresh.”

I glanced around at the tidy house, at the satisfied dog at my feet, at the man who sat across from me. He did look a little swamp-wild with the bushy beard and long hair and all, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for a drunk.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you an alcoholic?”

“
Am.
I
am
an alcoholic. And, sober or not, I will be until the day the Lord calls me home.”

I nodded, thinking how ironic it was that my uncle drew a blank on the same years that I did. The reasons were different, of course, but the effect was probably much the same.

“Have you ever tried to get those memories back?” I asked.

“I did what I could, so that I could make amends,” he replied. “But the bulk of that time is still pretty fuzzy. From what I’ve been able to piece together, I pretty much lived out of bottle from 1976 to 1988.”

I wondered what the full story was, why he started drinking, how he got sober, and how he stayed that way. More than that, I wanted to know why he was in a wheelchair and whether he’d been handicapped his whole life or if some illness or accident had put him there.

“Listen, that’s enough about me. Tell me about you, Miranda. Your dad says you and your husband are real movers and shakers, living in New York City, doing very well…”

“Movers and shakers. I don’t know about that,” I said, smiling shyly. “My husband’s an architect and I’m an art restorer.”

“An art restorer. How fascinating.”

I talked about my position as senior preparator for the museum, how it was my job to receive and evaluate new acquisitions, assign to my staff the various cleaning, repair, and restoration tasks that were needed, supervise their progress, and do the highest level restoration work myself. As I heard myself talk I realized that there was a lot about my job I didn’t like. Administration and supervision were not fun for me, and neither was all the paperwork that went with sorting, arranging, and classifying the museum’s
holdings. The only part of what I did that was actually enjoyable was the hands-on stuff, particularly inpainting, which was my specialty. For the first time I wondered if I had allowed myself to be promoted too far too fast. Just because I had the ability to do a job well didn’t mean that was the job I should be doing.

“My mom—your grandmother—was an incredible artist. I’m sure you got your talent from her. Is that what you studied in school? Art?”

I nodded, telling him a bit about my education, my internships, and my career, finding myself as eager for this man to know me as I was to know him. He seemed genuinely interested in what I was saying, and I kept thinking,
Is this what it’s like to have family? Is this what it’s like to have an uncle?

“You have one child, right?” he asked.

“A daughter. She was here with me, but now she’s on her way to Houston to stay with my in-laws.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I can’t believe I missed her.”

“I thought it would be better for her to go so I could…you know, handle the house matters and deal with the funeral and everything.”

“Makes sense. How old is she now? I’m thinking four? Five?”

“She’s five. Her name is Tess.”

He lifted his head in surprise.

“What’s her name?”

In the distance, I could hear rumblings of thunder. Looking out at the water, I saw that it wasn’t yet raining, but the sky was much darker than it had been before. I turned back to Holt, squinting my eyes.

“Why does everyone around here react that way when I tell them my daughter’s name?
Tess.
Her name is Tess. It’s not that unusual, is it?”

“Tess,” he repeated softly. “I thought you said…” his voice trailed off.

“Cass?” I prodded. “That’s what Willy thought.”

“I guess, yeah.”

The thunder rumbled again, much closer this time. “Anyway,” he told me, looking up at the sky and obviously trying to change the subject, “it looks like I might need to drive you home. I was
having some problems with my van’s alternator earlier, but I might be able to get her up and running long enough to drive you next door and back.”

I glanced toward the old van with the handicapped plate that was parked beside the house. I didn’t want to make him have to go to all that trouble. As the sky grew even darker, I knew I could probably make it if I ran.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, standing. “If the rain starts before I make it back to the house, a little water won’t kill me.”

“I’m not worried about the water. I just don’t want you to get struck by lightning. It would be a darn shame to find you and lose you all in the same day.”

He was kidding, but something about his concern was very touching. I hesitated, feeling utterly torn; I wanted to leave, but I wanted to stay.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine if you hurry,” he added. “But I hope you’ll come back real soon. Maybe even tomorrow?”

Hearing the earnestness in his voice, I actually felt a little choked up. He was my uncle, and he wanted me to come back. He wanted to know me, to spend time with me.

“I would love that,” I said, meaning it.

Impulsively I leaned down and gave him a hug.

Then I took off for home, running down the ramp and around the back of house and through the training area and up the path to Twin Oaks. The rain started when I was about halfway there, the drops fat and cold on my warm arms and face. By the time I reached the stone bench, the skies had opened and let loose with a downpour so intense that I was fully soaked to the skin within seconds.

My mind was a jumbled mess of thoughts, impressions, feelings—and a strange sort of joy. Relishing the moment, I felt the sudden, irresistible urge to explore the house—the whole giant place from top to bottom. I wanted to open every closet, every drawer, search through trunks in the attic and boxes in the basement and everything else in between. I was ready to see what was hidden in the shadows. I wanted answers—answers about Willy, my mother, my life, my tattoo,
myself.

Nearly laughing as I ran through the torrent to the house, I wasn’t even
worried when I saw that Lisa’s car was gone and I was here alone. So intent was I on my mission that I didn’t see the man standing at the back door until I was almost on top of him.

I froze just a few steps away, a sheet of rain forming a wall of water between us, pouring from the gutter over our heads.

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor.

I did not recognize this man, but he was tall and muscular and could easily have fit the description of one of my attackers in New York. Heart in my throat, I glanced wildly around, trying to decide which way to run.

“I’m Aaron West. Livvy Kroft’s brother,” the guy called out loudly to be heard over the noise. “Are you Miranda Fairmont?”

Relief flooded through my veins. This man wasn’t a danger; he was only here to help. With trembling hands, I pulled out the set of house keys, moving to join him in the tight space underneath the overhang.

“Miranda Miller,” I corrected as I fumbled through the keys. “My married name is Miller.”

“Got it. I’m sorry if I scared you. I walked over on the path, so I guess you didn’t realize I was here because my truck is not in your driveway.”

It took a few tries to find the right key, and as we stood there huddled together just protected from the rain, I could smell wood shavings mixed with sweat, hear the rat-tat-tat and whoosh of the water above and around us, and feel the heat radiating from his body. By the time I got the door unlocked, my senses were in overdrive—and not in a good way. Simply
by virtue of the fact that he was a big strong guy, his presence behind me brought back the terror of my attack.

Once I opened the door and we stepped inside, my fear receded significantly. Continuing around the counter to the kitchen, I grabbed an entire roll of paper towels, tugged off a giant wad, and then tossed the roll to him.

“I came here to give you some estimates,” he told me as he pulled off a wad for himself, “but I’d say job number one ought to be those rain gutters.”

I dabbed at my hair, making sure the clip was intact and hiding the bald spot, and then I ran the paper towels down each arm while a puddle collected at my feet.

“I’m so sorry no one was here,” I said. “I was taking a walk and just happened to run into my uncle, who lives next door.”

“That’s okay. I meant to come sooner, but I got busy in the workshop doing a project for my sister.”

We chatted as we continued to dry off, and I was glad to see that he was obviously knowledgeable about woodworking and home repair.

“I can’t believe that much rain can fall that fast,” I said, giving up on trying to dry my outer shirt and peeling it away from the tank top I had on underneath. Carrying the button-down top to the sink, I wrung it out. I set my shirt in a wad on the empty dish drainer so it could drip there for a few minutes and turned my attention to my guest, suggesting that he take advantage of the rains to go up and explore the attic for leaks before doing anything else.

“I have no idea where the attic access is,” I added, “but I’m sure if we look around we can find it.”

He finished wiping the mud from his shoes and turned to me, his face suddenly bright red.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it,” he said, his eyes quickly moving to the ceiling. “In fact, I’ll do that right now.”

Without another word, he moved from the kitchen and down the hall. Startled by his abrupt departure, I could hear the sound of doors opening and closing in the distance and then feet pounding up a flight of stairs. I
was about to call up to him to wait for me when I caught my reflection in the mirror, and at a glance I understood what was going on: Both my white top and the lace bra I was wearing underneath were soaked through and almost completely transparent. Considering all this guy had seen, I might as well have charged admission and called it a show!