They were greeted at the door of the cabin by the smell of warm beignets and strong coffee. While the battle of the Sheridan's had been raging in the yard, apparently Pepper had been inside slaving over a hot stove. The old black man greeted Serena with a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder.
«You come on over here, Miz 'Rena. You looks like you could use some my coffee.»
Serena tried to smile. «Could I have you inject it directly into my bloodstream, Pepper? I feel like I haven't slept in a month.»
«Po' Miz 'Rena,» Pepper muttered, shooting a damning glare at Gifford, who sat at the battered red Formica-topped table with a long envelope in front of him.
Serena pulled out a chrome-legged chair and sank down on a green vinyl seat that had cracked and torn and been repaired with duct tape. Gifford had taken the seat by the window that looked directly out onto the yard, and she wondered if he had seen Lucky holding her, but she dismissed the thought. Despite the way Gifford made her feel, she was no longer sixteen years old and under his guardianship. If she chose to have an affair with a man who looked and acted like a pirate, that was her own business.
She glanced around the cabin as Lucky took a seat and fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. Pepper kept up a running monologue in the background, drawling on pleasantly about the crawfish catch as he gathered up mismatched mugs and a big white enamel coffeepot. The coon hounds lay sprawled on the floor like rugs, looking up at Serena with mournful eyes. The furniture seemed haphazardly arranged around their gangly forms, worn and tattered armchairs with stuffing poking through in spots. The walls were unadorned except for mounted antlers and a gun rack grotesquely fashioned from a pair of deer forelegs.
Serena had always thought the cabin looked like her idea of a prison camp barracks with its tarpaper walls, pitted linoleum floor, and absence of niceties. It hadn't changed a lick in twenty-five years. It was the same floor, the same furniture, the same outdated appliances, the same arrangement of foodstuffs on the single shelf above the single cupboard, the same old round-edged black radio playing Cajun music and herbicide ads. Even the condiments on the table looked the same.
Gifford tapped his envelope against the tabletop, drawing Serena s eye away from the half-empty bottle of Tabasco sauce. It was a standard white business envelope with the return address printed in neat black script in the upper left-hand corner: Lamar Canfield,
ESQ. ATTORNEY AT LAW.
«This is yours.»
«What is it?» she asked suspiciously, loathe to reach out and touch the thing. She'd had enough unpleasant surprises to last her.
Gifford pushed it across the table. «Look at it. Go on.»
She looked from her grandfather to Lucky, who was frowning darkly at the old man, and back to the envelope. Feeling as if she were about to take a step that couldn't be taken back, she picked it up and withdrew the folded papers. The document was ridiculously simple considering the power it wielded. It granted her power of attorney over Gifford's affairs, including the disposition of Chanson du Terre. It was stamped and signed on the appropriate lines in Gifford's bold hand and Lamar's, and it had been dated nearly three weeks previous. All it needed was Serena's signature to make it official.
Serena stared at it, feeling manipulated and used.
It really was in her hands-a power she didn't want over a home that wouldn't let her go. Her first impulse was to throw the papers back in Gifford's face, but she didn't. Instead, she folded them neatly and put them back in the envelope. Without a word she stood and walked out.
«Why don't you put a little more pressure on her, Giff?» Lucky said sarcastically. «Then we can all stand around and watch her crack.»
«She'll bear up,» Gifford said, lifting his chin. «She's a Sheridan.»
«So's her sister.»
The old man sniffed and looked away, absently lifting a hand to rub the ear of a hound that had come to silently beg for attention.
Pepper clucked in disapproval as he slid down onto the chair Serena had vacated. «Ain't no wonder she don' stay 'round here, you all the time pushin' her 'round dis way, dat way. Me, I'd go on to Charleston too.»
Gifford scowled at his friend. «Then why don't you?»
«'Cause if n I left, there wouldn' be nobody 'round to listen to all your cussin' 'cept Odille, and she'd up'n kill you one fine day.»
«Smartass.»
Lucky ground his cigarette out in the blue tin ashtray on the table, crushing it with short, angry jabs, then skidded his chair back and stood up.
«I don' like your tactics, old man,» he said in a low, tight voice. He was reacting on instinct, he knew, not with any kind of rationale. Serena had been hurt and upset and that brought all those long-dormant protective feelings rushing to the fore. He didn't like it, but that didn't keep it from happening.
«I did what I had to do.»
«Without a thought to how Serena would feel about it.»
Gifford arched a brow, his dark eyes speculative. «Since when do you give a fig about other people's feelings?»
Lucky said nothing. There was an answer lodged somewhere in his chest, but he refused to let it out or even look at it. He simply gave Gifford a long, disturbing look, then slipped out the door.
Serena was standing on the steps, looking out at the bayou, the infamous envelope tucked under one arm, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked pale and drawn, the dark smudges beneath her eyes a stark contrast to the youthful effect of the ponytail she wore. Lucky slid an arm around her and tilted her sideways against him.
«I don't want to go back just yet,» she said in a small voice.
«Je te blame pas,» Lucky murmured, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. «I don't blame you, sugar.»
«Can we go to your place?»
«Oui. If you like.»
«I need to get away for a while.»
She closed her eyes and pressed her head against him, and he felt that strange swelling, twisting feeling in his chest again.
«I'll take you away, mon 'tite coeur,» he said softly, and led her down the steps toward his pirogue.
Storm clouds were rushing in from the Gulf again as the pirogue slid in beside Lucky s dock. Fat and black, like dyed balls of cotton, they rolled north, thunder rumbling behind them. In a minute it would be raining, pouring, Serena thought as she looked up at the sky. And the minute after that it might be sunny and calm. The weather here seemed forever unsettled, unstable, adding to the impression of the swamp being a prehistoric place. Now, as the leaden clouds poured across the sky above, silence settled like a suffocating blanket all around. The trees went still. The birds went silent.
The rain started to fall as they crossed the yard, and by the time they had entered the house it was pounding down on the tin roof and splashing in through the window screens. Serena moved to close a window, but Lucky pulled her away.
«Let it rain,» he said, walking backward and drawing her with him toward the bed.
She looked up at him uncertainly. «But the floor-«
«Its cypress; nothing can hurt it.»
They undressed each other to the accompaniment of the thunderstorm, slowly and quietly as the rain pounded down outside and the cool moist breeze blew in through the windows.
«I need you,» Serena whispered, head back, eyes closed against the weariness and turmoil that ached through her like a virus. She needed Lucky to sweep it all away, if only for a little while. She wanted to lose herself in the bliss of belonging to him, even if it was only temporary.
«I'm here,» he said.
She sighed as he ran his fingers through her unbound tresses, spreading them across her bare shoulders. Rising on tiptoe, she returned the favor, pulling the leather lace from his queue and combing her hands through his curling black mane. He bound his arms around her, holding her high against his body, and kissed her slowly and deeply, then stood her away from him.