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He took my hand and helped me step into his canoe.

Then he pushed off from the bank and turned the

pirogue to begin poling away. Someone had taught

him well. His strokes were long and efficient. In

moments we were gliding through the water. "How

am I doing? Will I make a Cajun fisherman yet?" "You might," I said.

As we continued he described some of the work

he had been doing since he had left the bayou, but

how his mind always drifted back to me and to this

natural paradise.

"And my cook loved your mother's herbs. She

says your mother must be a great traiteur."

"She is," I said. "Pierre, where are we going? I

don't . ." I paused when he turned the pirogue toward

shore. There was a small dock nearly completely

hidden in the overgrown water lilies and tall grass,

and beyond it, what I knew to be the old Daisy shack,

deserted ever since John Da

isy had died of heart

failure. He had been a fisherman and trapper. After he

had died, his wife had moved into Houma to work and

married a postman.

Pierre docked the canoe. "We're here," he said.

"Here? This is the old Daisy place," I said.

"Not anymore. I bought it a couple of weeks

ago."

"What? Are you serious? You bought it?" "Oui, " he said. "Come see. I had it fixed up a

bit. It's no New Orleans apartment, but it's cozy." "But how did you do this without anyone

knowing?"

"There are ways when you spend enough," he