too fast to be pulled over and not too slow to attract attention. Alert and silent, he continued to glance in the rearview mirror. His full lips pursed in a way that gave nothing away.
* * * *
A road sign boasted Grande Isle right before they crossed over the wide-open Caminada Bridge. She shivered in the damp heat, hit by an unexplainable sense of déjà vu along with a strange yet familiar sense of coming home.
They drove through downtown Grand Isle, past a few eating establishments and gas stations. When Sam turned down a narrow winding road guiding them to a middle section of the island, Marcie was swept up in the majestic beauty of old towering, windswept oak trees and oleanders that seemed to grow at each rustic Creole cottage.
Then out of nowhere, they past downed trees and vacant lots that looked more like a war zone, piles of busted wood and rotted foundations.
Sam slowed and turned right down a long dirt driveway surrounded by massive oaks leading up to an old clapboard cottage, completely secluded. He parked in front of old, weathered plank steps that led up to a screened-in front porch. Sam climbed out of the Camaro and shoved the door closed. Holding his head high, he walked around the front of the car. He pulled in his broad shoulders, deep in thought and contemplation. Sam opened her door and held out his hand. He was an enigma. And she couldn’t understand the jerk in her belly and why her heart flipped by such a simple gesture.
A selfconscious wave passed over her. She felt sticky, dirty and just plain gross. She longed for a bath filled with scented lavender oil, surrounded by white candles. The peaceful thought faded instantly when she stood in front of the tiny run down cottage with boarded up windows. Sam pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her up the rickety steps to the screen door.
“I haven’t been back in a while. As you can see, I’m one of the lucky ones. Not much damage to mine after Katrina swept through. Many places were condemned, abandoned or torn down. No way to save them; we passed those along the coast, some inland too.”
Marcie ducked under his arm and stepped cautiously across a creaky unpainted porch. Sam wasn’t as careful. He squeezed around Marcie and tried to open the heavy oak door, but a secured lock held. For some reason, he seemed satisfied and bent over with a pick, inserting a silver prong in the lock. He had a strong focus. His tongue slipped out the side of his mouth. The lock clicked. Sam grinned.
“Forgot my key, if you recall, we left in a hurry. Viola, in you go, madam.” He pushed open the door and gestured her in with the sweep of his hand.
This sparse cottage consisted of furnishings from the 60’s, maybe earlier. Marcie walked into a tiny square box style kitchen, with a small banged up second hand dining table and two rickety wood chairs shoved against the wall behind the door.
Sam removed plywood from each window, allowing the late day sun to infiltrate this quaint cottage. Against the back wall of the rustic kitchen, a set of steep stairs led up to a door. Marcie wandered up the narrow stairs. Something about the attic urged her to open the door. So she turned the small ivory doorknob, but nothing happened. A turn of the century brass lock appeared implanted in the wood frame above the doorknob. She couldn’t tell if it was stuck or locked.
“You got a key to open this door?”
“What are you doing up there?” Sam stood at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m curious, Sam. What’s up here?”
“I don’t know, probably a bunch of junk.” He turned his back, clearly not interested, and pulled open the ancient rounded fridge door. A pungent stench quickly filled the room. Sam gagged.
Marcie trotted down the stairs, waving her hand in the air to disperse the offensive odor.
“Shit, that stupid ass.”
Her stomach heaved, so she breathed through her mouth.
“I pay a guy to look after the place lives in Jefferson Parish.
* * * *
A road sign boasted Grande Isle right before they crossed over the wide-open Caminada Bridge. She shivered in the damp heat, hit by an unexplainable sense of déjà vu along with a strange yet familiar sense of coming home.
They drove through downtown Grand Isle, past a few eating establishments and gas stations. When Sam turned down a narrow winding road guiding them to a middle section of the island, Marcie was swept up in the majestic beauty of old towering, windswept oak trees and oleanders that seemed to grow at each rustic Creole cottage.
Then out of nowhere, they past downed trees and vacant lots that looked more like a war zone, piles of busted wood and rotted foundations.
Sam slowed and turned right down a long dirt driveway surrounded by massive oaks leading up to an old clapboard cottage, completely secluded. He parked in front of old, weathered plank steps that led up to a screened-in front porch. Sam climbed out of the Camaro and shoved the door closed. Holding his head high, he walked around the front of the car. He pulled in his broad shoulders, deep in thought and contemplation. Sam opened her door and held out his hand. He was an enigma. And she couldn’t understand the jerk in her belly and why her heart flipped by such a simple gesture.
A selfconscious wave passed over her. She felt sticky, dirty and just plain gross. She longed for a bath filled with scented lavender oil, surrounded by white candles. The peaceful thought faded instantly when she stood in front of the tiny run down cottage with boarded up windows. Sam pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her up the rickety steps to the screen door.
“I haven’t been back in a while. As you can see, I’m one of the lucky ones. Not much damage to mine after Katrina swept through. Many places were condemned, abandoned or torn down. No way to save them; we passed those along the coast, some inland too.”
Marcie ducked under his arm and stepped cautiously across a creaky unpainted porch. Sam wasn’t as careful. He squeezed around Marcie and tried to open the heavy oak door, but a secured lock held. For some reason, he seemed satisfied and bent over with a pick, inserting a silver prong in the lock. He had a strong focus. His tongue slipped out the side of his mouth. The lock clicked. Sam grinned.
“Forgot my key, if you recall, we left in a hurry. Viola, in you go, madam.” He pushed open the door and gestured her in with the sweep of his hand.
This sparse cottage consisted of furnishings from the 60’s, maybe earlier. Marcie walked into a tiny square box style kitchen, with a small banged up second hand dining table and two rickety wood chairs shoved against the wall behind the door.
Sam removed plywood from each window, allowing the late day sun to infiltrate this quaint cottage. Against the back wall of the rustic kitchen, a set of steep stairs led up to a door. Marcie wandered up the narrow stairs. Something about the attic urged her to open the door. So she turned the small ivory doorknob, but nothing happened. A turn of the century brass lock appeared implanted in the wood frame above the doorknob. She couldn’t tell if it was stuck or locked.
“You got a key to open this door?”
“What are you doing up there?” Sam stood at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m curious, Sam. What’s up here?”
“I don’t know, probably a bunch of junk.” He turned his back, clearly not interested, and pulled open the ancient rounded fridge door. A pungent stench quickly filled the room. Sam gagged.
Marcie trotted down the stairs, waving her hand in the air to disperse the offensive odor.
“Shit, that stupid ass.”
Her stomach heaved, so she breathed through her mouth.
“I pay a guy to look after the place lives in Jefferson Parish.
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