Ghost River by Jon Coon (romantic books to read .TXT) 📗

answered as if she’d just shot a hole in his favorite balloon. “They aren’t poisonous, promise.”

“No snakes. No arguments.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gabe took a quick shower and joined them at the dinner table. He was still exhausted and starved. Yet it had been a good day. Later he fell asleep on the couch while Carol was telling him about her conversations with Alethea. When he awoke well before dawn, he realized she had covered him with the sleeping bag, and he was still in his clothes. It was still dark when he made coffee and let the dogs out. The sky was clearing. Stars winked through the trees, and he thought about his forthcoming meeting with Clayton Mayweather.

CHAPTER 17

0700

At dawn Alethea and Cher were ready to go home. Hugs were exchanged, and the cruiser, covered with mud, returned to her cabin, but high water blocked the road. Looking down the drive, they could see the waterline had come over the porch to the bottom of the windows. Most of the roof was gone, as was the outhouse. Two large live oaks had fallen, and Alethea’s chickens roosted in the branches. Souriciere was nowhere in sight.

“Looks like I’m going to need a house to go under that new roof,” Alethea said sadly.

“The good news is we’re looking at twenty years of firewood. My back hurts just thinking about it,” Gabe said. “What would you like to do now?”

“Go to New Orleans, I guess. Casilda’s in the Garden house. I could take a bus, or she can come and get me.”

“Nonsense. Let me call in, and I’ll drive you. I can be back by tonight.”

West on I-10, Gabe hit cruising speed, tilted his seat back a bit and yawned.

“Hard day yesterday?” she asked.

“Yeah, but it could have been worse.”

“Fatalities?”

“Only one so far. An old engineer in a truck that went in when the bridge collapsed.”

“What were people doing on that bridge in the storm?” she asked.

“Two McFarland guys. Being on that bridge deserved a Darwin awards nomination. I saved the driver, but the other one didn’t make it.”

“Did you bring him out too?”

“Not yet, as soon as I get back. I’m hoping he knows things that will help.”

“Do you still have the dreams, Gabriel?”

“Not for a while now, thank God.”

“Yes, thank Him. Carol asked me questions about Katrina. She said you changed.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That it was hard, and she needs to ask you if she wants to know more.”

“Thanks.”

“She loves you, you know, and like we said before, she’s going to want you to take Charlie’s place.”

“That’s a problem. Charlie wanted me to promise I’d take his place, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. If she knew about me, she’d probably forget that idea in a heartbeat.”

“Maybe. You need to be careful, for sure. It’s much too soon.

There’s the other thing . . .” he said.

“Yes?”

“How is Cas?” he asked.

“She’s still in love with you if that’s what you mean. First loves are hard to forget. She still doesn’t understand your leaving.”

“Neither do I. The closer we got the more I panicked. I thought I loved her, I did, but I couldn’t breathe. Does that make any sense?”

“It’s not uncommon. Especially for one with your history.”

“You never said anything.” He hardened his grip on the steering wheel.

“She’s of age. It was your business, but I was worried.”

He turned in the seat to look at her. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to have—?”

“A normal relationship? What’s normal?” Her tone was gentle, maternal.

“Being able to breathe, for starters.”

“I don’t know, Gabriel. Truly, I don’t know.” She put a hand on his arm and let it rest there for a while. “Maybe, but if I could answer that I’d buy lottery tickets.” She withdrew her hand and looked out the window.

They were quiet for the next hundred miles to Biloxi. They stopped for breakfast, and two hours later they were driving down St. Charles along the streetcar tracks, toward Tulane University. Past the world-famous Commander’s Palace restaurant on Washington and Coliseum and two more blocks to an antebellum two-story, which looked like something from the pages of Architectural Digest.

Casilda came out of the porch swing, leaving her book and glass of mint tea, to kiss her mother and give Gabe a lingering hug. It was the first time he’d held her since his visit after Katrina. She’d been eighteen and had just started college at Tulane, where her mother was a legend.

“Let me look at you,” Gabe said and eased her away. “More beautiful than ever.” She was. Light olive skin, shiny dark hair, full figure. The image of her mother forty years ago. White slacks and a loose-fitting flowered blouse perfectly matched the setting of the large porch with wicker furniture, hanging ferns, and potted plants. She pulled against him as if she had no intention of letting go.

“For an old guy, you’re not so bad yourself, sha,” she teased. “For an old, old guy,” she repeated with a smile.

“If you two can pry yourselves apart, Cher needs to walk, and I need help with this luggage,” Alethea said with a frown.

As they passed through the foyer with a grand staircase leading to the second-floor bedrooms, they passed a stunning portrait that dominated the room.

Hanging over an elegantly inlaid sideboard decorated with several candleholders, a honey-skinned woman with kind eyes and delicate features, who might have been a younger Alethea, greeted her house guests warmly. She wore a dark dress, a red shawl, and a bright yellow and red-patterned tignon head wrap, like the one Alethea wore to Charlie’s funeral.

Gabe remembered Alethea laughing when she explained there was some question of the painting’s authenticity. There was no doubt in Alethea’s mind. This 1835 work was the original portrait of her great grand-mére, the voodoo queen, Marie Laveau. The other, on display at the Cabildo Museum, one of the main historical buildings forming iconic Jackson Square, was only an excellent copy.

Gabe stopped to admire Marie. Her elegance set the tone for