Jillian frowned. If an emergency had come up, Charlotte would have called.
She hoped he hadn’t had any trouble on the road or, God forbid, an accident. Just the thought was enough to erase the calming effects of the sunset and trap the breath in her chest.
But, Jillian reasoned, if Michael had had an accident, he’d have called. Or someone would have. They knew so many state troopers and emergency personnel around town that someone could have tracked her down if something horrible had happened.
But just in case, Jillian glanced inside her purse to make sure her cell phone was on. Yes, the phone was on and, yes, the battery was sufficiently charged. She resisted the urge to call him. The office phones rolled over to the answering service when the staff left. Even if his personal cell phone was on, which she knew it wouldn’t be, Jillian would only frustrate herself. Michael had said he would be here. She’d simply trust he had a good reason for not calling to say he was running late.
That was the last chance she got to dwell on Michael, anyway, because the old blue Lincoln pulled into the circle drive, following signs leading it straight to the office where she stood on the porch beneath a slightly sagging overhang.
This log cabin had been built by Camp Cavelier’s original owners and had seen every season since the camp had opened on this Mississippi bluff. She and Michael were the camp’s first owners who were not actually members of the founding family. It was a position that came with historic obligation and a lot of tradition, responsibilities Jillian intended to live up to.
But as she was learning firsthand since assuming the role, she needed help. Full-time help. And an up-close glimpse of the Lincoln coming to a stop in front of the stairs wasn’t inspiring much confidence. She smiled as the doors swung wide and the members of the Baptiste family from a bayou town south of New Orleans emerged.
These people were clearly related. Three shared glossy black hair; all shared dark eyes, elegantly refined features and deep gold skin. The distance of generations didn’t dim the beauty of these people. She had to force her gaze from the two young men and their sister to greet the elderly woman, who made Jillian hope to look so good at seventy-something.
Of course, this beautiful older woman also looked as if she’d just stepped off a Mardi Gras float, dressed as she was in a roomy skirt in Day-Glo orange and a shawl of a complementary yellow only slightly less radiant than the sun. To complete the ensemble, she’d woven matching ribbons through her hair, pulling the wildly curling gray locks back from her face.
“Mrs. Baptiste-Mercier, it’s a pleasure. I’m Jillian Landry. We spoke on the phone.” Smiling her most welcoming smile, she stepped off the last riser and extended her hand.
“Call me Widow Serafine.” The woman’s smooth round face split into deep creases as she smiled and she clasped Jillian’s with a strength that matched her size. “Every one else does. And you’re as pretty as I knew you’d be. I said to myself, ‘Serafine, any lady with that warm honey voice is surely Southern and one real beauty.’”
Her smoky gaze took Jillian’s measure in a frank glance, and there was something penetrating, almost fierce about the look. But her smile widened, leaving Jillian feeling sure about the compliment.
“Thank you.” She turned her attention to the three younger Baptistes, who clustered around Widow Serafine in pack-like fashion. “These are your…grandchildren?”
She hadn’t been entirely clear on the relationship from their one and only telephone conversation.
Widow Serafine shook her head. “Of a sort. My sister Virginie’s brood. Baptistes through and through, even if they haven’t accepted it yet.” She motioned to one, a roguishly attractive young man with a guarded expression. “Raphael’s the oldest. He’s twenty. Has a way with horses and cars. And his kin. He keeps them in line. Don’t know what I’d do without him, truth be told. This here’s Philip, the middle—Come on, boy, pay your respects to Mrs. Jillian.”
Mrs. Jillian?
Okay.
Philip sidled forward with the lanky grace of a boy who hadn’t quite grown into his body yet. He eyed her with an inscrutable expression, and she smiled in reply.
“Marie-Louise is the baby. She’s just graduated from high school, but she won’t turn eighteen until the end of the month. Hope that won’t be a problem.” She frowned. “I can sign any documents so she can work legal until then if need be. Wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”
Jillian wasn’t worried about trouble, or documents, which seemed to be jumping the gun when they hadn’t yet interviewed.
Lucky for her, she didn’t have to figure out how to diplomatically address this oversight because Widow Serafine herded her “sort-of” granddaughter to the front of the pack so Jillian got a good look.
“Marie-Louise will help me keep up the place,” Widow Serafine explained. “And cook. She’s a right Rachael Ray—talented, sensible and pretty as sin. Loves to work in the kitchen while she’s daydreaming about falling in love.” Widow Serafine winked. “Giving her brothers a run for their money keeping the young bucks away, I tell you.”
To confirm her statement, Raphael scowled. Philip nodded.
Marie-Louise just smiled, an easy smile that Jillian liked straight away. She was young, but such a beauty with that glossy black hair curling around her oval face and those almond-shaped eyes. Her sundress was simple and stylish, not suggestive like so many of the juniors’ fashions nowadays. Even so, it couldn’t hide a body that the young bucks would no doubt go ga-ga for.
“I’m pleased to meet you all,” Jillian said. “Shall we tour the place before it gets dark? I can tell you about the camp and what’s involved with the caretaking jobs.”
Before she moved off the bottom step or even opened her mouth to launch into a rehearsed spiel about how Camp Cavelier resided on fifty peaceful acres nestled between the Mississippi River and Lake Lily, Jillian found herself staring at the back of Widow Serafine’s head as she motioned to the car.
“Mrs. Jillian’s going to take us around. Let’s get those groceries settled in the fridge so we don’t attract every raccoon hungry enough to smell supper.”
Groceries?
Jillian watched in growing amazement as Raphael popped open the trunk and his younger siblings crowded around to unload what turned out to be exactly what Widow Serafine claimed. Groceries, and a week’s worth by the looks of it.
Had this woman misunderstood the telephone conversation? Could she possibly have confused being interviewed with being hired for the caretaking positions?
Jillian had been quite clear on the point, she was sure, but before she had a chance to question the elder Baptiste, she found herself holding a paper sack filled with what appeared to be a healthy variety of fruits and vegetables.
“Would you mind?” Widow Serafine asked. “Didn’t think that cottage you mentioned on the phone would have a stocked pantry, so we stopped by the market on the way through town. Now where will we be setting up house?”
This was a perfect time to address the misunderstanding. Jillian would simply explain that she’d envisioned moving this process along more traditional lines starting with an interview then following up on references before committing to employment.
That was certainly how she’d conducted business in the past when hiring staff for Michael’s practice or appointing people to various board positions on the Main Street Rehabilitation project. The process was tried and true and had always served her well. Obviously the Baptistes did things differently in the bayou.
And exactly where was Michael when she could have used his help? He’d have turned on that high-beam smile and charmed this old granny, buying Jillian some time to figure out how best to handle this unexpected situation.
As it was, she stood there wide-eyed and speechless—a rarity for someone not prone to wide eyes or speechlessness.
Widow Serafine proved much more astute because she clearly recognized the trouble and countered by launching into the tale of what h
ad led her family to Camp Cavelier.
Hurricane Katrina.
When the storm had taken a turn at the last possible second to spare New Orleans a direct hit, landfall had happened directly over Bayou Doré—the Baptiste’s world for the better part of two centuries since they’d worked for the privateer Captain Lefever.
Widow Serafine stood there with her sister’s grandkids all clutching grocery sacks, and explained how the family had been rebuilding ever since the hurricane. But these three children had been so unsettled that they hadn’t seemed to be helping to make a difficult situation any better.
According to her, Raphael, Philip and Marie-Louise had never entirely settled in with the family in the five years since their granny had passed. They seemed to have taken on Virginie’s onus as black sheep and held it close no matter how friendly and inviting their extended family had been.
Widow Serafine explained that when she had seen Jillian’s ad for camp caretakers, she knew this was exactly what these three kids needed—a place to call their own. Virginie had raised her grandkids on a huge working ranch near Shreveport where she’d been the housekeeper.
With the stables and outdoor work, Camp Cavelier would be a familiar-type place where these black-sheep Baptistes could finally settle in. A place that would give them a purpose. And Widow Serafine had left her home to come with them because that was her duty to her baby sister.
The fact that Jillian hadn’t yet offered them the jobs didn’t appear to be of concern.
Before she could address that singularly important issue, Widow Serafine paused in her tale to draw a breath, fixed her gaze absently above Jillian’s head and said, “Well, that roof won’t hold up through the first summer rain. Philip worked with my son-in-law’s roofing company during the summer between ninth and tenth grades. He’ll get right on that. You hear, Philip?”
“I hear, Widow.”
While balancing her armful of groceries, Widow Serafine reached out a hand and beaned Philip on the back of the head, hard enough to make him wince. “Show some respect, boy.”
Philip peered over his bags, looking embarrassed but contrite. “I’ll get to fixing that roof straight away, ma’am.”
Jillian inclined her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth, not when she felt as if she’d been run over by a train.
“Looks like more than that roof will need to be fixed around here,” Raphael added. “We saw the sign out at the road. The whole thing’s rotting out.”
Jillian didn’t get a chance to reply before Widow Serafine informed her proudly, “When Raphael isn’t working on cars, he works with my son who does carpentry and millwork.”
It certainly sounded as if the young man was a hard worker, and Jillian forced herself to look casual, knew she needed to do more than stare and let Widow Serafine run roughshod over her. Even if a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach warned she wouldn’t easily sidestep this old granny’s strong will.
“Your application says you have experience with horses, too, Raphael,” she said cordially.
“I’ve been a stable assistant since I’ve been six years old, ma’am. Well, until we moved in with the widow.”
“He has a way with horses. This one does.” Widow Serafine nodded in approval. “Shame we didn’t have any in Bayou Doré. But Raphael branched out and learned new skills.”
“That’s always a good idea,” was all Jillian thought to say.
“Looks like you need a jack-of-all-trades around here.”
There was no denying Widow Serafine’s statement, so Jillian just smiled, buying herself more time to figure out how best to redirect this conversation.
No such luck.
“You have a whole stable full here at the camp, don’t you, ma’am?” Raphael asked. “Read on the Internet that you teach the campers how to ride all summer long.”
“You researched the camp on the Web?”
“Needed to know the place before we sent in our applications,” Raphael said.
Jillian couldn’t miss the gravity in those simple words. This young man took his responsibilities very seriously. In her preliminary research of this family, she’d spoken to the ranch owner where these kids had grown up. The man had assured her the Baptistes had been a family of dedicated workers, which was why she’d scheduled this initial interview.
Or what was supposed to have been an interview.
“Your Web site had most of the information,” Raphael continued. “Found out Camp Cavelier is the oldest resident camp on the Mississippi. It was named after the man who led the expedition that made the first documented contact between the Natchez Indians and Europeans.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Rene Robert Cavelier.”
“Told you the boy was enterprising,” Widow Serafine proclaimed proudly.
The fact that this young man had been thorough enough to research the camp certainly seemed to bear up that claim. Jillian wasn’t sure if she felt better about the situation or not, but when they all fell silent, she knew they were waiting for her to make the next move.
What could she say? “Take your groceries and go back to the hurricane-ravaged bayou where you came from?”
So she stood there, clutching her own bag in the growing darkness, staring at her interviewees and recognizing the fierce pride in their manner.
That sinking feeling in her stomach eased up a bit.
This was apparently one of those times when things weren’t going to work out exactly as planned. She would simply have to have faith that there was a reason, and that reason would turn out to be a good one.
“Well then, if you’ll follow me,” Jillian finally said, managing to sound normal. “The cottage is just past the cabins.”
“Lead the way.” Widow Serafine’s eyes twinkled.
Jillian couldn’t help but wonder what she’d just gotten herself into. She also wondered what Michael would think about this unusual situation.
Or if he would think about it at all.
She knew the answer to that question—no. If she didn’t tell him about it, he’d never know. And since he hadn’t been here, he’d just have to live with her decision, wouldn’t he?
2
NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Michael finally steered his SUV past Camp Cavelier’s weatherworn sign. His headlights sliced through the darkness to illuminate the winding dirt road and throw the surrounding forest into gloom.
During the drive, he’d imagined several scenarios at arriving nearly two hours late for Jillian’s interview—all of them involving a very unhappy Jillian. But dealing with her annoyance wasn’t his primary concern at the moment. Not when he pulled up to find the office dark.
He’d have to find her to know how annoyed she was.
Circling into the lot in front of the building, Michael pulled his SUV beside a Lincoln Town Car that had seen better days. Most likely the potential caretakers. He put his car into Park and got out.
He didn’t think Jillian would tour people through the camp in the dark. Even flashlights wouldn’t afford enough light to see much, as he well knew from combing these woods as a kid.
Camp Cavelier was an institution. So many campers flew in from all over the country that the camp ran a shuttle service to the airport. Most local kids, too, spent summers as resident campers. He and Jillian had been no exception, which was precisely why he was now an owner of the property.
A grudging owner, he amended.
Jillian and her causes—they’d be the death of him yet.
Shaking his head, Michael headed up the steps, hoping she’d left a note and some clue as to where he could find her. He was in enough hot water without wasting more time hunting her down. Then something caught his eye…
Her purse.
She’d left it sitting on the bench, and he flipped it open to find her car keys and cell phone inside, which explained why she hadn’t been answering her phone. He viewed the display. Sure enough, there was a log of her four missed messages.
&nb
sp; All from him.
Damn it, but he should never have sat back at his desk tonight. He should have grabbed his wallet and headed out, as he’d told Charlotte he’d do. Or he should have accepted Jillian’s offer to wait for him to make the drive together.
Or maybe they should never have taken on this camp at all. They were just too busy to do right by the place.
The presence of the unfamiliar car drove home a sharp reminder that the interviewees were strangers. Michael’s only consolation was that she wasn’t entirely alone on the property. Camp Cavelier was more than a seasonal camp—these hallowed acres also played home to a small working farm. Year round, schools scheduled field trips, various organizations booked group tours and families hosted children’s birthday parties.
Ike Fleming had been running the farm since Michael and Jillian had taken their own school field trips. He was even older today than he’d seemed back then, which was saying something since he’d always looked seriously old and seriously big—a mountain of a man. But he was a warm body, at least, and a warm body that packed a loaded shotgun when patrolling the area at night.
Of course, Ike’s eyesight had to be failing by now….
An inspection of the office didn’t yield up any note from Jillian. Job applications scattered over a desk, assuring him that she’d stuck to her original plan. Helping himself to a flashlight, he locked her purse in his car then took off in the direction of Ike’s cottage on the south side of Lake Lily.
The dark night didn’t bring back memories of summers spent boating, horseback-riding or working the farm, although he had many. As a young camper, he’d not only communed with nature and wildlife in a place where technology wasn’t allowed, but had formed friendships that had weathered the passage of time.
Including a love affair with his wife.
But tonight Michael wasn’t remembering when he and Jillian had ducked out of a trail ride to make out in the hayloft, or the time they’d stolen out of the cabins late at night to skinny-dip in the lake.
No, tonight these well-worn trails only yielded grisly images of what could happen to a woman alone in the dark. By the time Michael saw the dull glow of Ike’s porch light, his heart was pounding unnaturally hard.
If You Could Read My Mind Page 2