style="font-size:15px;"> “Would he agree?”
“That he’s been running?” Mae shrugged. “Probably not. I’ll be honest with you, Nicki. You’re going to hear a lot of gossip, most of it bad. But don’t settle on an opinion until you’ve met him. I guarantee there is more to Johnny Bernard than what’s in those reports. And far more than people in this town are willing to see, if they would just open their eyes.”
Nicole could tell her grandmother believed wholeheartedly what she was saying. The question was, why would Gran feel so strongly about this man? What wasn’t she saying?
“Actually, you and Johnny have more in common than you think, Nicki. He’s not the only one the townsfolk have been gossiping about lately.”
Her grandmother eyed Nicole’s short cutoffs, then her hair. Self-consciously, Nicki tried to tame her shaggy blond hair into some semblance of order. “I’m from California, Gran. You know I’m—”
“A free spirit. Yes, I know.”
Nicole smiled, not sure that was the word she would use. Or maybe it was, but in the past year she’d been reeducated on how dangerous being your own person could be. In fact, she’d lived through a nightmare and a half, and wasn’t ashamed to admit her spirit had been broken. Snapped in half, actually.
Three months had passed since the miscarriage, but sometimes it felt like only yesterday. She still didn’t sleep through an entire night, and she continued to experience depression—a condition the doctor believed would pass in time. Only, it wouldn’t; Nicole was sure of it. Time could never wash away the guilt a woman felt over losing her child. Especially in this case, when Nicole hadn’t been so sure she’d even wanted Chad’s child. Not until after the baby was gone.
No, time would never erase her guilt, and she had told the doctor as much. She had told him she wasn’t expecting miracles because, frankly, she didn’t deserve any.
“The good news, Nicki, is that Johnny’s an experienced carpenter. He’ll be the perfect solution for our growing list of house repairs. Unless you’ve suddenly decided to buck up under the heat and learn how to pound nails and replace shingles. If not, I’d say we’re in desperate need of a man around here. Someone who can swing a hammer and isn’t afraid to sweat.”
“And you’re sure he’s not afraid of hard work?”
“Johnny grew up hard, Nicki. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll give us our dollars’ worth. For the past two years he’s been working in Lafayette for a construction outfit. The foreman told me he would hire Johnny back in a minute, no questions asked. He’s that good. And he’s a military man, too. An ex-marine. I suspect he’s got hidden talents we don’t even know about.”
Nicole arched a brow. “And just how do you suppose we can utilize an ex-con who is an expert at warfare to his fullest potential?” She paused as if thinking. Finally, she said, “Funny, but I thought we were discussing restoring Oakhaven, not blowing it up.”
“A regular funny-girl today, aren’t you?” Mae shook her head. “I think you’ll be surprised, my dear. Pleasantly surprised, that is.”
Nicole didn’t like surprises. Especially surprises that involved men. She said grimly, “He’s arriving around four.”
“You’ve talked to him? Wonderful!” Mae’s excitement sent two birds nesting overhead into flight.
“I called the Pass-By Motel,” Nicole admitted. “Sheriff Tucker said that’s where I could find him.” She purposely left out the part about trying to fire him over the phone. “He said he’ll be staying at the boathouse.”
“Yes, that was our agreement. Do you suppose, Nicki, you could send Bick down there to open the windows and air the place out? I’ll scribble a message for Johnny. Bick can leave it on the table, since I can’t get down there to meet him myself.”
Mae’s gaze traveled across the driveway to where a trail led to the boathouse. The trail was a quarter-mile through dense woods—a shortcut to Belle Bayou. “I haven’t seen Johnny in fifteen years,” she offered wistfully. “I intended to visit him in prison, but my lawyer advised against it.”
Judging by the look in her grandmother’s aging eyes, she was sorry she hadn’t. Nicole found herself growing curious. She asked, “Is there some way I can help?”
Her grandmother reached out and patted Nicole’s arm. “You already have—by coming home. First you and now Johnny. It’s perfect.” She paused. “When he left I had no idea it would be years before he came home. I wonder how he turned out in the looks department? If he ended up anything like his father or grandpa, watch out, dear. Gracious, but those Bernard men were handsome.”
Nicole didn’t need to see him to know how he’d turned out. The report on the desk in the study confirmed that Johnny Bernard had gotten his reputation the old-fashioned way: he’d earned every bit of it. And as far as his looks went, she didn’t really care how handsome he’d turned out. They weren’t shopping for a lawn ornament, just a simple carpenter. How he looked on a ladder was of no importance, as long as he could climb one.
She bent forward and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “When you get your note written, I’ll see that Bick takes it with him. What do you say we have some lemonade? I’m dying.”
“You’re always dying,” Mae teased. “Where should we have our lemonade? On the front porch?”
Nicole positioned herself behind Mae’s wheelchair. “I’ve got an original idea. Why not relax in front of the fan in the study?”
An hour later, Nicole learned that Bick had taken himself off to town. Forced to run her grandmother’s errand, she hurried along the wooded trail toward the boathouse. She checked her watch, glad to see that she still had an hour before Johnny Bernard would descend on them. She wasn’t sure how she was going to face him after trying to get rid of him over the phone, but with any luck she wouldn’t have to think about that until later. She would open the windows, leave Gran’s note on the table and be gone before he even set foot on Oakhaven soil.
Within a matter of ten minutes, Nicole was through the woods, standing in a small clearing just west of Belle Bayou. All things considered, she was more intrigued by the moody swamp than frightened by it. It had a certain allure, a quality she had tried many times to capture on canvas.
It was an artist’s paradise, she admitted. The colorful vegetation that grew out of the muck along the banks fascinated her as much as did the huge cypress trees with their gnarly roots and distorted branches. The branches dripping with Spanish moss along the water’s edge reminded her of a travel brochure she’d once seen advertising scenic Louisiana.
Her gaze followed the grassy bank to the old wood and stone boathouse, this being the first time she’d come down to the bayou since she’d arrived from L.A. From an artist’s point of view the place had immense possibilities. It was dark and eerie, straight out of a gothic novel, and when she decided to paint it, she would do so with that in mind.
She started down the overgrown path through the clearing, approaching the aging structure from the north side. She reached for the door’s rusty latch, and as she pulled it open, it groaned loudly in protest. Inside, she ran her hand along the cool brick in search of the light switch. Relieved that it still worked, that she hadn’t been greeted by any creepy-crawly surprises, Nicole followed the ray of light past
