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"I guess I had better think about going back to New Orleans before it gets too late, Jack."

"I hate to see you make that trip after what you've been through. Can't you stay one more night, rest up, and then go home? What difference will a few more hours make? You need some rest, Pearl. Just sprawl out on the sofa there and take a nap. I'll finish up what I have to do at the well and then make us a good dinner."

"I don't know. I should get home, Jack. Daddy needs me, and I've been away from Pierre too long."

"All right," he said after a moment's thought. "You'll rest and have dinner, and then I'll drive back to New Orleans with you. Bart can have Jimmy Wilson take over my work tomorrow. I'll catch a bus back."

"I can't ask you to do that for me, Jack," I protested.

"You're not asking. I'm telling you," he said. "You're in Cajun country now, and when a Cajun man speaks . ."

"Yes?" I said, smiling.

"Sometimes a Cajun woman listens," he replied and we both laughed. The fatigue he'd predicted struck me. I yawned and fought to keep my eyes open.

"Just get over there and lie down for a while, hear?" he ordered.

"Yes, sir," I said, saluting. But I did what he said and sprawled on the sofa. I closed my eyes, vaguely listening to hint clean up the cups and dishes. Before he left the trailer to check on his work, I was asleep, and I didn't wake up again until long after he had returned, made dinner, and set the table for us. It was already quite dark outside. I was shocked at how long I had slept. Jack didn't know I was awake. He lit a candle and stood there for a moment gazing down at the small flame. The illumination threw a soft glow over his face, and when he turned, the candlelight was reflected in his eyes.

"Hey, how are you?" he asked.

"A little groggy. How long did I sleep?"

"A while," he said coming over to me. He sat beside me and took my hand.

"I guess you were right. I was a lot more tired than I thought."

"Hungry?"

I nodded. The aroma of the food churned my empty stomach.

"Good. Tonight I have a real Cajun feast: baked stuffed red snapper with brown oyster sauce," he bragged.

"How did you learn to be such a good cook?" I asked, amazed.

"What are you talking about? I'm a Cajun," he replied as if that explained it. "Don't you know people say Cajuns can eat anything they catch and make it taste good?"

"I've heard that said, yes. What can I do to help?"

"You can sit down and eat. Everything's done," he said. I got up, washed my face, and joined him at the table. He poured us some white wine, and then I ate ravenously again. Jack sat there watching me gobble down his delicious dinner, a small, tight smile on his lips.

"Jack Clovis," I said pausing between bites, "this is delicious. Did you really prepare all this?"

"Well . . ."

"I thought so," I said. "Where did you get it?"

"I picked it up at a restaurant," he confessed, "and just warmed it up. But I had you convinced, didn't I?"

"That's because I trusted you," I said.

He stopped smiling and reached for my hand. "If I ever tell you a lie, Pearl, I'll tell you the truth in the next breath, and I'll never tell you a lie that could hurt you," he promised.

"It's all right, Jack. I'm not angry. I'm too hungry," I said, and he laughed.

He put on some zydeco music, and we finished our dinner with rich Cajun coffee and strawberry shortcake. I was so stuffed I couldn't move, but I felt content and well rested.

"Now are you going to listen to me and stay overnight?" he asked.