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Daddy listened and then said it wasn't a bad idea. "They don't know anything about real estate," he told her.

He knew how much Mommy wanted to be part of the restoration and made it easier for her. I was happy because that meant I would have that many more opportunities to spend time with Jack.

Something subtle began to happen to me as I made more and more visits to the bayou. In the beginning I believed my horrible experience with Buster Trahaw and my frightening time in the swamps had left me with such a bad taste for the bayou that I would never see anything pretty or pleasant about it again. But when I was with Jack and he and I walked over the grounds or drove on the back roads, it was different.

Just as I was eager to show him my city world, he was eager to show me nature, to point out the different flowers and animals. He had a Cajun guide's eye and could spot sleeping baby alligators, brown pelicans, marsh hawks, and butcher birds. I would have to stare and stare and sometimes be taken by the hand and nearly brought right up to them before I saw what he saw. Then I would nearly burst with astonishment.

I saw the bayou during every season, met many of the local people, and got to know and like them. I felt they liked me too, especially because Jack was bringing me around. I enjoyed their stories and their expressions and earthy humor. It was always a refreshing change from the hubbub of city life and the complexities of college.

In the late fall of the following year, Jack surprised me and Mommy by showing us what he had been doing during his spare time: he had been restoring the old shack. Now it truly looked like the toothpick-legged Cajun home in my fantasy. The new tin roof gleamed in the sunlight. He had replaced and stained the railings on the gallery and the steps, removed the broken floorboards, replaced the windows, and cleaned up and trimmed the grounds. He had even restored the racks where Mommy and Great-Grandmere Catherine used to sell their handicrafts and gumbo to the tourists.

Mommy beamed. She clapped her hands with joy and amazement and went through the shack declaring her astonishment and pleasure. Jack had repaired the old rocker, too. Mommy said she could stand back and easily imagine her grandmere sitting in it again. While she relaxed on the gallery and reminisced, Jack and I walked to the water. He held my hand.

"See that current there?" He pointed. "Watch. In a minute you're going to see a big snapper. There she is. See her?"

"I do, Jack. Yes."

I took a deep breath and looked down the canal to where it turned into the deeper swamps. Jack saw the direction my eyes had taken.

"You can get to Cypress Woods from here in a pirogue," he said. "I'll take you for a ride next time."

"My uncle Paul used to take my mother that way," I said. "She told me so. You think there's some power that makes us want to retrace the steps our parents took?"

"Power? I don't know. Maybe. I don't worry about it. I do what feels right, feels good," he said. "Is that too simple for you?"

"No." I laughed. "You still think I'm too brainy, don't you?"

"Well . . . you're getting better," he teased. "And growing more beautiful with every passing day."

I looked at him for a moment and then we kissed. On the front gallery, Mommy was sitting in Great-Grandmere Catherine's restored rocker, drifting back through time and reliving her youth. I was sure she heard and saw again the people she had loved.

And I realized how important it was not to lose the precious moment when it came.

"For a while, Jack Clovis, you had me wondering where I belonged."

"Oh. Where do you belong?" he asked, his dark eyes searching mine.

"In your arms."

"Even here?"

"Especially here," I said. He put his arm around me. A flock of rice birds rose from the marsh and flew past us, so close we could feel the breeze from their flapping wings. It was just the way it had always been in my old nightmare.

Only now the demons were gone.

And I was truly safe.