Midnight Bayou

the mud-splattered windshield into the driving winter rain and was glad she wasn’t there to gloat.
    Not that Colleen Sullivan Fitzgerald ever stooped to a gloat. She merely raised one perfect eyebrow into one perfect arch and let her silence do the gloating for her.
    She’d told him, very succinctly, when he’d stopped by before driving out of Boston, that he’d lost his mind. And would rue the day. Yes, he was pretty sure she’d said “rue the day.”
    He hadn’t sunk as low as ruing—yet—but studying the jungle of weeds, the sagging galleries, the peeling paint and broken gutters of the old plantation house, he was no longer confident of his mental health.
    What had made him think he could restore this rambling old derelict into its former splendor? Or, more to the point, that he should? For God’s sake, he was alawyer, a Fitzgerald of the Boston Fitzgeralds, and more tuned to swinging a nine-iron than a hammer.
    Rehabbing a town house in his spare time over a two-year period was a far cry from relocating to New Orleans and pretending he was a contractor.
    Had the place looked this bad the last time he’d been down here? Could it have? Of course that was five, no, six years before. Certainly it couldn’t have looked this bad the first time he’d seen it. He’d been twenty and spending a crazed Mardi Gras interlude with his college roommate. Eleven years, he thought, dragging his fingers through his dark blond hair.
    The old Manet Hall had been a niggling germ in his brain for eleven years. As obsessions went, it was longer than most relationships. Certainly longer than any of his own.
    Now the house was his, for better or for worse. He already had a feeling there was going to be plenty of worse.
    His eyes, as gray, and at the moment as bleak, as the rain, scanned the structure. The graceful twin arches of the double stairs leading to the second-floor gallery had charmed him on that long-ago February. And all those tall arched windows, the whimsy of the belvedere on the roof, the elegance of the white columns and strangely ornate iron balusters. The fanciful mix of Italianate and Greek Revival had all seemed so incredibly lush and Old World and southern.
    Even then he’d felt displaced, in a way he’d never been able to explain, in New England.
    The house had pulled him, in some deep chamber. Like a hook through memory, he thought now. He’d been able to visualize the interior even before he and Remy had broken in to ramble through it.
    Or the gallon or two of beer they’d sucked down had caused him to think he could.
    A drunk boy barely out of his teens couldn’t be trusted. And neither, Declan admitted ruefully, could a stone-sober thirty-one-year-old man.
    The minute Remy had mentioned that Manet Hall was on the block again, he’d put in a bid. Sight unseen, or unseen for more than half a decade. He’d had to have it. As if he’d been waiting all his life to call it his own.
    He could deem the price reasonable if he didn’t consider what he’d have to pour into it to make it habitable. So he wouldn’t consider it—just now.
    It was his, whether he was crazy or whether he was right. No matter what, he’d turned in his briefcase for a tool belt. That alone lightened his mood.
    He pulled out his cell phone—you could take the lawyer out of Boston, but . . . Still studying the house, he put in a call to Remy Payne.
    He went through a secretary, and imagined Remy sitting at a desk cluttered with files and briefs. It made him smile, a quick, crooked grin that shifted the planes and angles of his face, hollowed the cheeks, softened the sometimes-grim line of his mouth.
    Yes, he thought, life could be worse. He could be the one at the desk.
    “Well, hey, Dec.” Remy’s lazy drawl streamed into the packed Mercedes SUV like a mist over a slow-moving river. “Where are you, boy?”
    “I’m sitting in my car looking at this white elephant I was crazy enough to buy. Why the hell didn’t you talk me out of it or have me committed?”
    “You’re here? Son of a bitch! I didn’t think you’d make it until tomorrow.”
    “Got antsy.” He rubbed his chin, heard the scratch of stubble. “Drove through most of last night and got an early start again this morning. Remy? What was I thinking?”
    “Damned if I know. Listen, you give me a couple hours to clear some business, and I’ll drive out. Bring us some libation. We’ll toast that rattrap and catch up.”
    “Good. That’d be