by Julie Kenner
“I’m sure I will.” Though the words were rote courtesies, Dana found that she meant them. The whole cottage smelled very much like her great-aunt, and the wooden floor was carpeted with handwoven rag rugs. A piano stood in one corner. Antique furniture graced the small living room. The window air conditioner labored to cool the house, but its modest effects were considerably more pleasant than the damp heat outside.
When Dana stepped into the guest bedroom, she was enchanted. The brass bed was piled high with plump quilts and decorative pillows, lace doilies were draped over the dresser and bedside tables, and a carved wooden rocker stood in one corner.
“Here you are,” Augustine said. “The bathroom is just down the hall. If there’s anything you need that I’ve forgotten, tell me. I was about to heat up some gumbo for supper.”
Dana set her suitcase on the floor beside the bed and glanced longingly at the quilts. “Thank you, Aunt Augustine.”
“Call me Gussie. No one has called me Augustine since Jules passed.” She caught the direction of Dana’s gaze. “You take a nap, now, and I’ll come get you when supper’s ready.”
Once Gussie had bustled away to the kitchen, Dana kicked off her mules and collapsed onto the bed. It creaked and settled under her with a contented sigh that matched her own.
It felt marvelous to close her eyes, and for a moment she thought she might actually fall asleep. But a certain persistent image danced behind her eyelids: a tall male form, friendly and hostile by turns, whose turquoise gaze locked on hers as if to convey a silent message of warning.
Of what? Who is Remy Arceneaux, and why did Chad advise me to stay away from him?
She sat up, raking her hands through her hair. The smell of onions and spices wafted through the house, reminding her how hungry she was after a very skimpy breakfast of beignets in New Orleans. Too restless to sit still, she slid off the bed and prowled about the room, touching this object and that, until she came to the dresser and the lovingly framed photo displayed there.
Her first thought was that she was looking at a portrait of herself. She picked up the photo and studied it more carefully. The woman in the picture, arm in arm with Gussie, was alike enough to be Dana’s twin in height, figure, coloring, even in features, but the small details made the difference clear.
The woman in the photo was tanned from forehead to ankles—the kind of tan one got from strong sunshine and not a tanning salon. She wore very little makeup, and her blond hair was drawn back in a careless ponytail, not sculpted into a neat bob like Dana’s. She wore an open-necked, sleeveless plaid shirt, a pair of shorts with numerous overstuffed pockets and scuffed hiking boots. The last time Dana had dressed like that had been for a grade school field trip.
Dana had no lost twins that she knew of; she’d been an only child. But the gas attendant had mistaken her for someone else. And Gussie had given her such an odd look when they’d first met…
“Her name was Sally.”
Gussie stood in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of her apron. She looked from the picture to Dana’s face, and in her eyes were answers to the questions Dana had yet to ask.
“You two are alike as two mudbugs in a ditch,” Gussie said. “That’s why I was surprised when I saw you. I couldn’t tell from that small picture you sent…. I couldn’t have imagined.”
Dana set the picture down. “Someone in town mistook me for her,” she said. “Who is she?”
“Your cousin—my granddaughter.” Gussie sighed and sat down in the rocker, her wide hips just fitting between the curved arms. “You do look like her, but I can see you must be very different.”
“Does she live in this area?”
“Sally…disappeared five years ago.”
Chapter 3
A chill lodged on the back of Dana’s neck. “Disappeared?”
Gussie closed her eyes. “She was so full of life, from the time she was a little girl. She drew everyone to her, like a light. In school, the boys were all in love with her. More than one wanted her for his wife. But she chose to leave Grand Marais. She went to the city, to study at the university.” Gussie smiled. “She wrote me sometimes. She worked very hard, and when she was done, she had a degree in the study of birds—‘ornithology,’ she called it.”
“I didn’t know,” Dana murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
Gussie seemed not to hear. “When her maman was dying…a little more than five years ago…she came home to be with us. She heard about a special bird in our swamps, very rare, and she stayed on to look for it. One day she went into the swamp and never came out again.”
The idea of being lost in those swamps was terrible enough, but to imagine dying there…Dana touched the grinning face in the photo with a fingertip. It seemed unbearably cruel that one so young and happy should have met such a fate.
“They looked for her,” Gussie went on. “They searched the ’chafalaya for days. They never found a sign of her. There were rumors—” she laughed “—there are always rumors. But Sally wasn’t the kind to get herself lost in the swamp or anywhere else. We all knew she wasn’t coming back.”
With rare impulsiveness, Dana knelt and took her hands. After so many years of examining faces from every angle, she knew what lay behind her great-aunt’s impassive expression. Grief—hidden, unhealed, devastating.
“I am sorry,” Dana repeated softly. “I wish I had known her.”
Gussie patted her hand. “I’m sure she would have felt the same. This is the room I kept for her when she visited. She would want you to be comfortable here.” She sniffed. “The gumbo needs stirring.” She got to her feet and hurried out of the room, leaving Dana to contemplate her story.
So much for the placid appearance of Grand Marais. Even small towns could hide a multitude of sins. Was one of them murder? How had Sally died, and why?
Dana wasn’t prepared to intrude on Gussie’s grief just to satisfy her curiosity. Yet she couldn’t help but feel, however irrationally, that she and Sally shared something more than a face.
I could have gone anywhere to “find myself” and put my life back on course—New York, Hawaii, Europe. Is there a reason I felt drawn to come here, where so many of my mother’s family lived and died?
She knew the notion was foolish, that she should put morbid thoughts of poor Sally’s disappearance from her mind. But even when she was full of gumbo and had enjoyed an hour of pleasant, untroubled conversation with Gussie, her mind bounced back and forth between two people, man and woman, each vanished in the endless swamp: Sally Daigle and Remy Arceneaux.
Sleep was out of the question. Sally’s eyes watched her from the photo, as if trying to convey a message from the other side. After a fruitless hour of staring up at the ceiling, Dana climbed out of bed and went to the phone Gussie kept in the kitchen. She thumbed through the phone book in the faint hope that the person she wanted had a listed number.
There it was: Lacoste, Reuben. Chad’s father, no doubt, unless he had other relatives in the area. Dana was prepared to take that chance. She punched out the number and waited tensely as the phone rang.
A sleepy female voice answered with a formal “Lacoste residence.” Dana introduced herself and asked for Chad.
“I’ll see if Mr. Lacoste is available, Dr. St. Cyr,” the woman said, and put Dana on hold. Only a minute passed before a familiar accented voice came on the line.
“Dana?” Chad said. “I didn’t expect the pleasure of hearing your voice again so soon.”
“I’m sorry to be calling so late. I hope I didn’t disturb you?”
“Not at all. I’m at your service, day or night.” He just managed to avoid innuendo in his tone, but Dana could not mistake his interest.
“I know I owe you a dinner, but I have another favor to ask of you.”
“Fire away.”
“I’d like to go into the swamp, and I thought perhaps you might be able to recommend a guide.”
“Go into the swamp? That’s not one of the amuseme
nts I’d expect a woman like you to enjoy.”
In that, he was correct, or would be at any other time. “I have a very specific reason. I’ve learned that my cousin, Sally Daigle, disappeared in that area a few years ago, and I’d like to see where…” Now she was sounding ridiculous. How could she explain this strange, unaccountable feeling she had to learn more of Sally’s fate?
“Sally?” Chad repeated. “No one knows where she was lost.”
At least he wasn’t surprised; of course, he’d reacted when she’d given Aunt Augustine’s last name. He might have known Sally. He, too, might have grieved her passing.
“I know it sounds a little odd, but I’d really like to see what she saw before she…before she disappeared. Call it a whim, if you like. I do realize that I’ll need an experienced guide—”
“You’ve got one. It so happens that I grew up in this area, and I know the swamp as well as anyone except the old-timers who live on the bayou. I’ll take you myself.”
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you—”
“No inconvenience. I knew Sally. She’d have been grateful that you took an interest in her.”
“Perhaps you can tell me more about her.”
Papers rustled. “I’m free tomorrow, if you want to go so soon. Maybe you’d like to rest a few days, get used to the climate.”
“If it’s convenient for you, I’d like to go tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. Tell you what—I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, around six o’clock. It’s a good idea to get started early. The ground is fairly dry this time of year, but there’s still a lot of mud—wear jeans and sneakers and a long-sleeved shirt. Mosquito repellant, too. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I appreciate this, Chad.”
“Think nothing of it. Oh, before I forget—the mechanic is working on your Lexus. It should be fixed in a day or two.”
“That’s terrific, thanks.” Dana rested her hand on her chest, amazed at the rapid beat of her heart. It wasn’t Chad she was thinking of. “I owe you two dinners now.”
Chad chuckled. “We’ll see. Six o’clock tomorrow morning, then.”
Only after she’d thanked him again and hung up did Dana wonder why he’d been so willing to guide her himself, and on such short notice. He wasn’t the type to like getting muddied up. It was natural to assume he wanted more from her than a couple of dinners out, but Dana had no intention of leading him on. She would have to be up-front with him on that score, sooner or later.
Tomorrow’s worries would take care of themselves. At the moment she had to figure out what she could wear into a swamp. Jeans and sneakers were not among the clothing she’d packed. Perhaps Gussie had something she could borrow until she had time to buy whatever the local stores had to offer.
Whatever the inconvenience, she wasn’t going to let such small matters as the “proper” clothing for swamp-walking get in her way. By this time tomorrow night, she hoped to have rid herself of this peculiar obsession with her identical cousin.
If only she could say the same of Remy Arceneaux.
The woman swore with surprising vehemence, pulling her leg out of the sucking mud and shaking it as fastidiously as a cat. Remy didn’t laugh. He’d been tailing her ever since Chad Lacoste got them lost and left her with the boat while he went in search of “help,” and there was nothing humorous in watching this particular female flounder around in the area where Sally had died.
She was Sally’s double. Remy had seen it immediately when he’d met her at the roadside, but he hadn’t realized who she was until she mentioned the name Daigle.
Sally Daigle had been like fire, impulsive and warm. This one was just the opposite. Her hair was a paler blond than Sally’s, and her face, even smudged and streaked, held both reserve and strength of purpose in its delicate, symmetrical contours. Remy had witnessed that strength more than once today when Lacoste had proved his utter incompetence at playing swamp guide.
Fortitude and patience weren’t her only assets. Outlandish as Ms. St. Cyr was, in a tentlike cotton shirt, belted jeans several sizes too big and tight sneakers black with mud, she had an unmistakable elegance in her bearing. Her beauty was not like Sally’s, sculpted in wind and rain and sun. It had been honed and refined by city living, ambition and money.
Once, Remy had lived in the city. He’d nursed aspirations appropriate to a fast-rising young stockbroker who’d ridden out the hard times with almost miraculous skill. He’d walked through the French Quarter with women like this one on his arm.
No, not quite like Ms. St. Cyr. She reminded him of the creeks they had in the north: chilly, clear, likely to freeze your hand off if you made the mistake of dipping it in.
But he couldn’t quite call her cold. Oh, no…he’d seen something in her eyes yesterday that told him she might not be what she first appeared. Those eyes were the color of brandy, the kind that could make a man drunk with a single sip. If it didn’t poison him first.
Maybe that was why he was attracted to her in spite of everything.
Put it back in your pants, Arceneaux. The last thing he needed was a personal interest in a woman who looked like Sally Daigle. Every one of his instincts scraped that it was no coincidence to find Sally’s cousin poking around in this part of the swamp the day after she arrived in Grand Marais.
She came with Lacoste. That’s no coincidence, either.
That was the reason, the only reason, why he’d followed her and why he was about to do something stupid. What in hell will Tris do when he sees her? Do you really want to put him through that again?
Remy plowed the damp earth with the toe of his boot, alarming a copperhead, which dove under a mat of last year’s leaves. Can you just let her go without making her understand?
How could he make her, an outsider, understand, when even the locals regarded the Arceneaux brothers with the deepest suspicion and crossed themselves when they saw Remy or Tris in town?
With a whispered oath, Remy walked up to the bank where she was struggling with the grounded boat. Even that arrogant son of a bitch Lacoste should have known better than to bring a motorboat out where the water was so low. Too much to hope that he would blunder into old Mauvais-Oeil’s territory and get himself eaten by the nastiest gator in this part of the swamp, Evil-Eye.
Ms. St. Cyr looked up as Remy approached, freezing still as a doe caught in headlights. She remembered him, all right. Maybe she’d even had time to hear the rumors.
Remy smiled. “Hello,” he said with a mocking salute. “Seems like every time we meet, you’re in some kind of scrape.”
The woman placed dirty hands on her hips. “Do you have another warning for me, Mr. Arceneaux?”
So she’d learned his name. Lacoste, of course. “I think it’s a little too late for that now, chère,” he said. “What fool told you that you could bring a boat out here in September?”
She didn’t deign to answer but left the boat where it was and battled her way up the bank to dry ground. She rested her back against a cypress stump and folded her arms.
“You, I suppose, know everything there is to know about this swamp?”
“I know that only the main channels are deep enough for a boat this time of year. I’m amazed you got this far.” Casually he walked down to the craft and heaved it onto the bank. “What’s done is done. You’d better come with me and get cleaned up.”
“I’m waiting for my friend. He should return any minute.”
Remy laughed. “I don’t think so. It’s after five, and he’ll be lucky if he gets to the main road by nightfall.” He made a show of looking around at the sluggish water, the thickets of swamp privet and the still-green cypress leaves overhead. “You like snakes and gators, Ms. St. Cyr?”
“About as much as I like strangers who appear and disappear with rude and cryptic comments.”
He lifted a brow. “I still think I’m better company than what you’ll find if you spend the night here. Especially since the mosquitoes are about
to start hunting.”
She glanced at the brown water winding among the water hyacinth and alligator weed, undoubtedly weighing her chances of walking out of the swamp alone. But Remy was certain of one thing; she was no fool, no matter how proud she was. She knew she wasn’t equipped for this. Was she cursing Chad Lacoste under that mask of perfect composure?
“Can you lead me out of the swamp?” she asked. “I can pay for your services.”
“Ah, chère, I’ll just bet you can.” He looked her up and down to see if he could get a rise out of her. Her eyes sparked into a genuine glare.
“Will one hundred dollars be enough?”
“I’d say yes, if it wasn’t so close to sunset. Wouldn’t do it for any amount after dark.”
“Then what do you suggest, Mr. Arceneaux?”
“Guess you’ll have to come to my place.” He grinned at the way she stiffened up like a possum encountering a fox. “Don’t worry, chère. Whatever the movies tell you, we ignorant swamp folk don’t jump on anything that moves.”
Chapter 4
Ms. St. Cyr considered his answer, trying to decide whether or not to take offense. “I’m not concerned about that, Mr. Arceneaux—”
“You might as well call me Remy.”
“—Mr. Arceneaux, but I can’t help but wonder at your offer of hospitality after your behavior yesterday.”
If she wanted an explanation now, she wasn’t going to get it. Maybe he could find a way to warn her, and maybe he couldn’t, but he planned to be the one asking questions.
“If I was rude, I apologize,” he said. “I can offer you supper, a clean bed, privacy, and a ride back to town in the morning. You’ll be safe as a baby gator in its mother’s jaws.”
She frowned. “I still don’t understand—”
“You don’t know much about people around here, chère, even if you’re kin to the Daigles. It’ll take an hour on foot to get to my place. You coming?”
