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"Gladys Tate?" I nodded. "I never saw her around here, but I heard she's a tough lady. Actually," he said after a moment, "the boys say she's the one who wears the pants in that family. Whenever Mr. Tate does come around here, he looks whipped. It's none of my business, so I don't pay much attention, as long as we all get what's coming to us when it's coming to us."

"I returned to my great-grandmere's old shack, and, Jack, someone has been there since Daddy and I were there. Whoever it was tore the place apart."

"Tore it apart? What do you mean?"

I described the furniture, the walls. "Why would someone do that to an old, deserted place?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said with a look of worry. "It's strange." He thought a moment and shrugged. "Did you have anything to eat, drink?"

"I went into town and had some lunch in a place called Grandmere's Kitchen."

"Ella's place? Food's great, isn't it?"

"She went to school with my mother. I didn't tell her why I was really here," I said. "Nor did I say anything about the shack."

"Well, it won't take long for the truth to get out and around. My daddy says a phone's a waste of money in the bayou. One person tells another something, and it's passed on before the words die on the originator's lips."

"Cajun people are really close, aren't they?"

"One big family," he said proudly. "We have our feuds, though, same as any people."

"I'm half Cajun," I said, "but I feel as if I'm in another country."

"My grandmere used to say you can become Cajun only three ways: by the blood, by the ring, or by the back door. I tell you what," he added, gazing at me, "you got grit like a Cajun. Not many fancy New Orleans girls would come here all alone, I bet, no matter how important it was."

"I don't know what else to do. My mother's not home; my brother's getting worse and worse; Daddy's laid up with a broken leg . . ."

Jack nodded thoughtfully.

Suddenly I realized the storm had stopped. The house was cemetery quiet, and the air was still. "It's over," I said gratefully.

Jack shook his head. "The eye is passing over us. More to come," he predicted, and sure enough, moments later the wind began to whistle through the house again, the shutters slammed and pounded, and the rain splattered and drummed over the trembling windowpanes. Upstairs, a blast of air blew out a pane. We heard it shatter on the floor.

I cringed. Jack held me closer. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he thought it was his own.

"It'll be all right," he said again. I felt his lips on my hair, his warm breath against my cheek. The terror of the hurricane, the long storm of sadness that had been raining over us, and the desperation of our situation made me long for the calm and the security I found in Jack's arms. He was soft and loving and very sensitive.

I buried my face in his shoulder, unable to keep back the flood of tears. He held me tightly and comforted me as I sobbed. We hadn't known each other long, but his sincerity made that sho

rt period seem more like years. The wind howled, the rain stung the house, more things toppled and smashed, another window shattered. It seemed that the world was opening and we would fall into the gaping hole. The sky grew purplish and dark. The kerosene lamp flickered precariously.

"Wow," Jack whispered, and I knew that even he, someone who had been born and lived here all his life, was impressed with this particular storm. The house continued to shake. Everything on hinges was rattling. We clung to each other like two desperate swimmers clinging to a raft in a tossing sea. The wind rose and fell, sending wave after wave of rain against the house.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ended. Mother Nature relaxed and stepped over us, the storm trailing after her as she made her way northward to remind someone else how powerful she could be and how much we should all respect her. Jack eased his tight embrace around me, and we both sighed with relief.

"Is it finally over?" I asked, still skeptical.

"Yes," he said. "It's over. I just hate to go out there in daylight tomorrow and see the mess. You all right?"

I nodded, but I didn't leave his side. My heartbeat had slowed, but the numbness I had felt earlier in my legs was still there. I didn't think I could stand up. Jack stroked my hair with his left hand.

"How many of these storms have you been through?" I asked.

"A few, but this was a humdinger."

"I was born during a storm," I told him. "My mother told me about it and how my uncle Paul was there to help with the delivery."

"So that explains it," Jack said.