Midnight Bayou

skidded to a halt at his feet.
    Rufus punctuated those ear-splitting barks with rumbling growls, liquid snarls and a very impressive show of teeth. Since he doubted he could beat the dog off with a bunch of daisies, Declan opted for the friendly approach.
    “Hey, really, really big Rufus. How’s it going?”
    Rufus sniffed at his boots, up his leg and dead into the crotch.
    “Oh man, let’s not get that personal right off.” Thinking of those teeth, Declan decided he’d rather risk his hand than his dick, and reached out slowly to give the massive head a little shove and pat.
    Rufus looked up with a pair of sparkling brown eyes, and in one fast, fluid move, reared up on his hind legs and planted his enormous paws on Declan’s shoulders.
    He swiped a tongue about the size of the Mississippi over Declan’s face. Braced against the side of the truck, Declan hoped the long, sloppy licks were a greeting and not some sort of tenderizing.
    “Nice to meet you, too.”
    “Get on down now, Rufus.”
    At the mild order from the front doorway, the dog dropped down, sat, thumped his tail.
    The woman standing on the porch was younger than Declan had expected. She couldn’t have been far into her sixties. She had the same small build as her granddaughter, the same sharp planes to her face. Her hair was black, liberally streaked with white, and worn in a mass of curls.
    She wore a cotton dress that hit her mid-calf with a baggy red sweater over it. Stout brown boots covered her feet with thick red socks drooping over them. He heard the jangle of her bracelets as she fisted her hands on her narrow hips.
    “He liked the smell of you, and the sound of you, so he gave you a welcome kiss.”
    “If he didn’t like me?”
    She smiled, a quick flash that deepened the lines time had etched on her face. “What you think?”
    “I think I’m glad I smell friendly. I’m Declan Fitzgerald, Mrs. Simone. I bought Manet Hall.”
    “I know who you are. Come on inside and sit for a spell.” She stepped back, opened the rickety screen door.
    With the dog plodding along beside him, Declan walked to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Simone.”
    She studied him, a frank and cagey stare out of dark eyes. “You sure are a pretty one, aren’t you?”
    “Thanks.” He held out the flowers. “You, too.”
    She took the flowers, pursed her lips. “You come courting me, Declan Fitzgerald?”
    “Can you cook?”
    She laughed, a thick foggy sound, and he fell a little in love. “I got some fresh corn bread, so you can see for yourself.”
    She led the way in, down the wire-straight center hall. He caught glimpses of the parlor, of bedrooms—one with an iron crucifix over a simple iron bed—a sewing room, that all managed to be cozily cluttered and pin-neat.
    He smelled furniture polish and lavender, then a few steps from the kitchen, caught the country scent of baking.
    “Ma’am? I’m thirty-one, financially solvent, and I got a clean bill of health my last physical. I don’t smoke, I usually drink in moderation, and I’m reasonably neat. If you marry me, I’ll treat you like a queen.”
    She chuckled and shook her head, then waved to the kitchen table. “Sit yourself down there and stretch those long legs under the table so they don’t trip me up. And since you’re sparking me, you can call me Miss Odette.”
    She uncovered a dish on the counter, got plates out of acupboard. While she cut squares of corn bread, Declan looked out her kitchen door.
    The bayou spread, a dream of dark water and cypress knees with the shadowy reflection of trees shimmering on the surface. He saw a bird with bright red wings spear through the air and vanish.
    “Wow. How do you get anything done when you could just sit here and look all day?”
    “It’s a good spot.” She took a pitcher of dark tea from an old refrigerator that was barely taller than she was. “My family’s been here more’n a hundred-fifty years. My grandpapa, he had him a good still out back that stand of oaks. Revenuers never did find it.”
    She set the glass, the plate in front of him. “Manger. Eat. What your grandpapa do?”
    “He was a lawyer. Actually, both of them were.”
    “Dead now, are they?”
    “Retired.”
    “You, too, huh?” She got out a fat, pale blue bottle as he took the first bite of corn bread.
    “Sort of, from the law anyway. This is wonderful, Miss Odette.”
    “I got a hand with baking. I like daisies,” she added as she put them