she stood on the porch beneath a slightly sagging overhang.
This log cabin had been built by Camp Cavelier’s original owners and had seen every season since the camp had opened on this Mississippi bluff. She and Michael were the camp’s first owners who were not actually members of the founding family. It was a position that came with historic obligation and a lot of tradition, responsibilities Jillian intended to live up to.
But as she was learning firsthand since assuming the role, she needed help. Full-time help. And an up-close glimpse of the Lincoln coming to a stop in front of the stairs wasn’t inspiring much confidence. She smiled as the doors swung wide and the members of the Baptiste family from a bayou town south of New Orleans emerged.
These people were clearly related. Three shared glossy black hair; all shared dark eyes, elegantly refined features and deep gold skin. The distance of generations didn’t dim the beauty of these people. She had to force her gaze from the two young men and their sister to greet the elderly woman, who made Jillian hope to look so good at seventy-something.
Of course, this beautiful older woman also looked as if she’d just stepped off a Mardi Gras float, dressed as she was in a roomy skirt in Day-Glo orange and a shawl of a complementary yellow only slightly less radiant than the sun. To complete the ensemble, she’d woven matching ribbons through her hair, pulling the wildly curling gray locks back from her face.
“Mrs. Baptiste-Mercier, it’s a pleasure. I’m Jillian Landry. We spoke on the phone.” Smiling her most welcoming smile, she stepped off the last riser and extended her hand.
“Call me Widow Serafine.” The woman’s smooth round face split into deep creases as she smiled and she clasped Jillian’s with a strength that matched her size. “Every one else does. And you’re as pretty as I knew you’d be. I said to myself, ‘Serafine, any lady with that warm honey voice is surely Southern and one real beauty.’”
Her smoky gaze took Jillian’s measure in a frank glance, and there was something penetrating, almost fierce about the look. But her smile widened, leaving Jillian feeling sure about the compliment.
“Thank you.” She turned her attention to the three younger Baptistes, who clustered around Widow Serafine in pack-like fashion. “These are your…grandchildren?”
She hadn’t been entirely clear on the relationship from their one and only telephone conversation.
Widow Serafine shook her head. “Of a sort. My sister Virginie’s brood. Baptistes through and through, even if they haven’t accepted it yet.” She motioned to one, a roguishly attractive young man with a guarded expression. “Raphael’s the oldest. He’s twenty. Has a way with horses and cars. And his kin. He keeps them in line. Don’t know what I’d do without him, truth be told. This here’s Philip, the middle—Come on, boy, pay your respects to Mrs. Jillian.”
Mrs. Jillian?
Okay.
Philip sidled forward with the lanky grace of a boy who hadn’t quite grown into his body yet. He eyed her with an inscrutable expression, and she smiled in reply.
“Marie-Louise is the baby. She’s just graduated from high school, but she won’t turn eighteen until the end of the month. Hope that won’t be a problem.” She frowned. “I can sign any documents so she can work legal until then if need be. Wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”
Jillian wasn’t worried about trouble, or documents, which seemed to be jumping the gun when they hadn’t yet interviewed.
Lucky for her, she didn’t have to figure out how to diplomatically address this oversight because Widow Serafine herded her “sort-of” granddaughter to the front of the pack so Jillian got a good look.
“Marie-Louise will help me keep up the place,” Widow Serafine explained. “And cook. She’s a right Rachael Ray—talented, sensible and pretty as sin. Loves to work in the kitchen while she’s daydreaming about falling in love.” Widow Serafine winked. “Giving her brothers a run for their money keeping the young bucks away, I tell you.”
To confirm her statement, Raphael scowled. Philip nodded.
Marie-Louise just smiled, an easy smile that Jillian liked straight away. She was young, but such a beauty with that glossy black hair curling around her oval face and those almond-shaped eyes. Her sundress was simple and stylish, not suggestive like so many of the juniors’ fashions nowadays. Even so, it couldn’t hide a body that the young bucks would no doubt go ga-ga for.
“I’m pleased to meet you all,” Jillian said. “Shall we tour the place before it gets dark? I can tell you about the camp and what’s involved with the caretaking jobs.”
Before she moved off the bottom step or even opened her mouth to launch into a rehearsed spiel about how Camp Cavelier resided on fifty peaceful acres nestled between the Mississippi River and Lake Lily, Jillian found herself staring at the back of Widow Serafine’s head as she motioned to the car.
“Mrs. Jillian’s going to take us around. Let’s get those groceries settled in the fridge so we don’t attract every raccoon hungry enough to smell supper.”
Groceries?
Jillian watched in growing amazement as Raphael popped open the trunk and his younger siblings crowded around to unload what turned out to be exactly what Widow Serafine claimed. Groceries, and a week’s worth by the looks of it.
Had this woman misunderstood the telephone conversation? Could she possibly have confused being interviewed with being hired for the caretaking positions?
Jillian had been quite clear on the point, she was sure, but before she had a chance to question the elder Baptiste, she found herself holding a paper sack filled with what appeared to be a healthy variety of fruits and vegetables.
“Would you mind?” Widow Serafine asked. “Didn’t think that cottage you mentioned on the phone would have a stocked pantry, so we stopped by the market on the way through town. Now where will we be setting up house?”
This was a perfect time to address the misunderstanding. Jillian would simply explain that she’d envisioned moving this process along more traditional lines starting with an interview then following up on references before committing to employment.
That was certainly how she’d conducted business in the past when hiring staff for Michael’s practice or appointing people to various board positions on the Main Street Rehabilitation project. The process was tried and true and had always served her well. Obviously the Baptistes did things differently in the bayou.
And exactly where was Michael when she could have used his help? He’d have turned on that high-beam smile and charmed this old granny, buying Jillian some time to figure out how best to handle this unexpected situation.
As it was, she stood there wide-eyed and speechless—a rarity for someone not prone to wide eyes or speechlessness.
Widow Serafine proved much more astute because she clearly recognized the trouble and countered by launching into the tale of what had led her family to Camp Cavelier.
Hurricane Katrina.
When the storm had taken a turn at the last possible second to spare New Orleans a direct hit, landfall had happened directly over Bayou Doré—the Baptiste’s world for the better part of two centuries since they’d worked for the
