grand entry just like the one at the back of the house.” He shakes his head as we walk outside. “Front of the house to you.”
“What?” Maybe it is me. Maybe I’m the one who fell on my head and just doesn’t remember.
He points to the columns and transom above the doors. “Originally, the front and back were identical.”
“What?” He puts a hand on the small of my back and we walk to the passenger side of his truck. “Why?”
“River side and road.” He opens the door and helps me inside. “If guests arrived by river, they had the same view of the house and grounds as guests arriving by buggy from the roadside.”
He closes the door and I’m still confused.
“There isn’t a road back here,” I point out as he gets in the driver’s side. “It’s on the other side of the house. The front side.”
“It is now, but it used to be on this side.” He fires up the truck and cool air flows from the vents. “The old road was closer to the house than the river, and both sides of the house had fountains and gardens to impress people when they arrived.” We drive slowly down the old cobblestone road toward the cemetery. “A flood in the late eighteen hundreds forced the bayou this way and cut off part of the old road.”
“So the front of the house became the back.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s still the back.”
“But the kitchen is in the back.”
“When the kitchen got moved inside, it made sense to put it in front since folks arrived by boat.”
No. I was right the first time. He’s the one who fell on his head as a kid, but it might explain why the front-door key unlocked the back door on the day we first arrived. “Where are we going?”
“You’re going to love it.”
Mom’s being horrible and I suppose I can use a little time away from the house. All I see out my side window is the cemetery. “I don’t love the cemetery, if that’s where you’re taking me.”
He looks across the cab at me. “Just relax.”
“That’s a problem for me.”
“I noticed.”
“I can probably relax more if I know where you’re taking me.”
“Practice some breathing or something.”
Five meditation apps haven’t helped with that. “I smell the bayou. It stinks.”
“That’s nothin’ this time a year. Wait a few more weeks. Poo-yi.” We follow a bend in the road and the trees get thicker. “This’ll be great. Trust me.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He glances across the cab. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you. For all I know, you’re a serial killer.”
“Ahh, boo. You hurt my feelings.”
“I doubt it.”
He pulls the truck off the road and stops in a clearing of jagged tupelo stumps and cypresses that I remember climbing up on as a kid. I was joking about the serial killer thing, but the trees are now covered in moss and the place looks weird and creepy.
Simon jumps out and reaches behind the seat. “You can get down,” he says, and tosses a can of bug spray onto the seat.
I point to my loop-toe sandals. “I’m not wearing shoes for a hike.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’m not very outdoorsy.”
“Uh-huh.” His seat flips forward and disappears from view. “Come see.”
“See what?”
I hear his long-suffering sigh. “Come here.”
I open the passenger-side door. “You should have said that.”
“Mais la! You’re a pain in the ass.”
He’s trying to be nice, and I don’t want to be a pain in the ass, so I walk around the front of the truck… and he’s holding fishing poles. This has got to be a joke. “We’re fishing?”
“Take about.” He pulls a Minnie’s Bait and Tackle ball cap from behind the seat and puts it on my head. “That’s my lucky hat. Don’t worry about the guts.”
“There’s guts on this thing?” My voice sounds kind of squeaky. I don’t like guts, but I leave the hat on my head instead of touching it with my fingers.
“Lucky guts.”
“I hate to deprive you of your lucky guts hat. You should wear it.”
“It looks better on you, city girl.” He laughs and holds up the bug spray. “Now close your eyes.”
He sprays every inch of me, then hands me the can. “Get the back of my neck really good.” I do as he says; then he grabs a cooler and hands me a tackle box that has seen better days. I don’t see blood or anything suspicious, but I’m sure it too was christened with lucky