Gift of Wonder. Lenora Worth

“This place is the very essence of green.”

      “I’m talking about green houses—it’s the new thing, don’t you know? And when you think about it, the Bible does tell us to harm neither the earth nor the seas. It’s all about conserving energy, making the most of the sun and the water. Making sure houses are a bit safer next time a big one comes through.”

      Alice knew what a “big one” meant. They lived on a bayou that fed into the Mississippi River fifty miles north of New Orleans. The risk of another major storm brewing in the Gulf, even this late in the year, was never far from their minds. Fall in Louisiana was prime hurricane season.

      “You really think that’s why he’s over there muttering to himself?” She twisted to stare at the man across the way. He had yet to look up. “Do you think he’s a contractor?”

      “I sure hope not,” Lorene said. “You did run that last one out of town on a rail.”

      “That’s because he was a cheater and a crook,” Alice replied. And he’d sure had her fooled, right up till their wedding day. He was also a liar who’d left her at the altar after she’d questioned his motives. “I won’t tolerate any more con artists sniffing around here.” She directed her gaze back across the water. “I can’t take that again.”

      “Go find out who he is,” Lorene said, shaking her head. “Or better yet, do an article on him for the Bayou Buzz. I’m sure Dotty would approve.”

      “Not if I don’t have my facts straight, she won’t. She’s still a tad bitter about my canceled wedding, too.”

      “Well, then, this time just make sure you get all the facts right up front,” Lorene replied. “We all get fooled sometimes, you know.”

      “And like I said, I don’t intend to let it happen again,” Alice replied.

      “Then go over there and ask the man what he’s doing.”

      Alice stood straight up, then pushed a hand through her curly, sandy-blond bob. Her savvy editor and publisher, Dotty Tillman, would love to get a scoop on any kind of new industry coming to town. And since Alice was senior reporter for the monthly magazine—well, she was the only reporter for the small-budget local publication—she’d certainly want to write the article. But she had to be sure. And what better way to be certain than to get the news straight from the horse’s mouth? But this time she’d handle things much differently. This time she’d stay professional and aloof. And she’d make sure this one was honest.

      Deciding that, she turned to her sister. “That’s not a bad idea—me going over there to have a talk with him. I’ve been trying to find something interesting for next month’s cover story. At least I can find out why he’s here. You know, just to separate fact from fiction. Off the record, since it’s Sunday.”

      “That is your job,” Lorene countered, grinning prettily. “Even if it is Sunday. And I’ll finish up here and head in to get supper going before Jay comes home.”

      “That is your job,” Alice shot over her shoulder with a mimic as she headed down the steps and out into the tree-shaded yard. “Even if it is Sunday.”

      Her sister’s laughter echoed after her. They both kept the tradition of quiet Sundays at home by going to church then taking this one afternoon to spend time with each other. That had been important when their parents were alive. And it still was, now that their parents were buried in the old cemetery at the Rosette Church down the road and they were both grown up and living separate lives in this big, old, rambling Creole-style house.

      Separate, but together, with each sister having her own space now that Lorene was married. Since there were plenty of rooms to choose from in the twelve-room house, Alice had taken one end of the upstairs and redone it into an efficiency apartment, using the old outside stairs as a private entrance. Lorene and Jay had redone the bottom floor and the rest of the upstairs across the wide hallway. It worked for both sisters, and Jay didn’t mind as long as he had Lorene to come home to every night.

      A perfect setup.

      Even if she’s married and happy and I’m still single and…searching, Alice thought, memories of her almost-wedding hitting her as she glanced out across the dark bayou water.

      And that’s when the stranger across the way finally looked up and right into Alice’s eyes.

      

      Jonah had read and reread the story about the old plantation house across the bayou. Had heard the amazing tale of how the stubborn Bryson sisters had refused to leave the house when a major storm had hit a couple of years ago. The water had risen to the upstairs front porch and stopped, or so the story went. Two of the ancient live oaks had toppled over. But not onto the beautiful two-hundred-year-old house. No, the big oaks had fallen away from the house. The bottom floor ruined, a few shingles ripped away, some leakage in the old upstairs kitchen, bramble and branches everywhere and a couple of snakes and baby alligators on the loose, but…Rosette House had survived and the Bryson legend had endured.

      He knew the story of Rosette House—constructed on a sugarcane plantation in the early eighteen hundreds, almost destroyed by the Civil War, but rebuilt by a family member who came back to Louisiana to mend his war wounds and to start again. That created a turn-of-the-century success story about the feisty female ancestor of the two women who lived here now. Rosette Benoit Bryson had arrived a bride from New Orleans, come to live on the once-nameless bayou her new groom had formally named after her, in the rebuilt house he’d also named after her. The man sure had been smitten.

      And while Rosette Bryson’s story had captivated Jonah since he’d first recognized the familiar house in the picture in the paper, he wasn’t sure what to expect as he watched the pretty blonde in the jeans and old Tulane sweatshirt sauntering across the weathered wooden footbridge. He was pretty sure this was the woman who’d written that historic account in the local Bayou Buzz magazine—an account that had been picked up by the Times-Picayune, where he’d read it with a growing interest a few months ago. But he wasn’t about to tell her that he’d seen the house long before he’d ever read her account of it. His heart boomed against his ribs as he watched her. Her story had started him on this impulsive quest to find out about his own past while he tried to build a whole new community. Did he dare ask her if she knew the Mayeaux?

      No, not yet. He had plenty of time to research his family tree. To waylay the dread in that, he thought back over the story he’d read. Poor Sam Bryson had only lived five years after he’d brought his bride here. Rosette had gone on to farm the land, build a church in memory of her late husband, start a town in order to run her sugarcane mill and raise his sons to be fine, upstanding citizens—and she’d lived to be ninety-six. Very impressive.

      As was the woman walking toward him now with a hesitant smile on her heart-shaped face. Obviously one of the famous Bryson girls.

      The single one, from what he’d heard in town.

      

      “Hey there,” Alice said, suddenly shy. He was even better looking up close. His gray eyes reminded her of the Spanish moss at night, full of mystery, shimmering with possibility.

      “Hi,” he said, stepping forward to greet her. “I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing.”

      “Thought did cross my mind.” She shrugged, pushed at her worn college sweatshirt. “I mean, we don’t often get people all suited up and running around the swamp talking to themselves. Who are you?”

      “Direct. I like that.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jonah Sheridan.”

      She took his hand. “Like Jonah and the whale?”

      He actually chuckled, but he shook her hand and then released it, leaving a warm impression. “Something like that, yes. Or at least I’m feeling that way right now.”

      She liked that he seemed nervous. It gave her the upper hand. “Relax. We don’t see many whales on the bayou.”

      “That’s