Not One of Us(19)

And I felt so much older, too—my emotions in sync with the bayou night’s atmosphere, weighed down by past pain and buried secrets. But I was determined. Resolved to remember the good, all that had been pure and innocent and hopeful. It was there that the memories still lived, despite the mysterious aftermath of my missing lover. And tonight, I wanted to relive each past meeting, each kiss and touch and murmured word of love that had passed between Deacon and me.

I’d been so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost collided with the ancient smoke shed. A mossy wall gleamed just a couple of feet ahead, illuminated by my flashlight’s elliptical beam. I reached out my hand, my fingers touching the wet condensation on the moldy concrete blocks. Arcing the flashlight to the right, I followed the outline of the structure to the front. A rotted wooden door angled against the opening. After checking for snakes, I pushed it to the side and aimed my light at the interior.

It was empty. All that remained was the old bricked-up pit in the corner used a century ago for smoking hogs and venison. Empty pine shelves lined one wall of the small building. The floor was in surprisingly good shape. Mrs. Cormier once had a grand whim to convert the building into a pottery studio, but after the expense of replacing the dirt floor with oak planks and ordering a kiln and supplies, she’d quickly lost interest in the project and left it abandoned.

I entered farther into the room. Whatever had happened to the kiln and pottery supplies, not a trace of them remained. I checked behind the pit, and sure enough, folded inconspicuously behind it was a rough wool blanket. Heat flooded my body, and my heart pinched. I kicked at it with my boot—who knew what kind of spiders, snakes, or critters might have bedded in there? When nothing scurried out of the material, I knelt down and picked it up. Could it possibly hold some faint scent of Deacon, left over from the many nights we’d lain together on top of this very blanket? Feeling foolish, I nonetheless held the coarse fabric to my nose and sniffed. It stank of wet rot and mold. Still, I refolded it carefully and returned it to its rightful home.

I sank to the floor and wrapped my arms around my knees, my head sinking onto my thighs. The cold crept up all the way from my ass to my spine. I thought of the first night I’d met him out here. The way, earlier, he’d lightly pecked my cheek when he dropped me off at the door to my home, the gleam in our eyes, knowing that in less than an hour we’d meet here, extending the kisses and exploring each other’s bodies until we sneaked home again before daylight.

It was a wonder we’d never been caught.

Although, in the end, there was always a reckoning.

I don’t know how long I sat there, remembering long, slow kisses and the heat and wonder of skin against skin. All the fervent vows and promises we’d made. All the plans and dreams. I’d never doubted Deacon’s love. In the years since, with all the rumors flying about the Cormiers still being alive and living incognito, I knew it wasn’t true. We were young and rash, but Deacon would never, ever have cut me out of his life so cruelly. He would have sent word to me somehow, sent for me to leave the bayou and join him wherever he was hidden.

At last, I slowly rose, my back and hips cramped from sitting so long in the cold. I considered extending my foray down this adolescent memory lane to the one spot in the woods I never revisited. Yet, no matter the years that passed, I was certain I could find that exact location even if I were blindfolded.

I straightened and walked across the floorboards, my footsteps echoing like gunshots in the ghostly silence. No, I decided. Not tonight. I didn’t think I was up to it yet. Perhaps I never would be.

Outside, I was shocked to find coral and violet rays bursting from the eastern horizon. Time to hurry home. My lips curled in sad irony. How many times had I said the same thing to myself as I’d left this shed and waved goodbye to Deacon? And the last time I’d said goodbye had been nothing special—there’d been no premonition or anything in his manner to indicate it would be the last time I saw him alive.

I tucked the small flashlight into my back pocket, not needing it anymore. As I turned to find the tangled path, a moving pattern of olive and gray caught the corner of my eye. I whirled around, and it was gone. I waited, and seconds later, I heard the faint sound of twigs crunching underfoot. Whoever or whatever roamed the woods was coming my way.

People have a way of disappearing around here.

Raymond Strickland’s words howled in my head with their unique color of eggplant purple edged in black. My throat clogged with sudden fear, and I froze where I stood—a frightened bunny exposed to lethal prey. My legs were rooted to the ground with a nightmare paralysis.

A figure emerged from the copse of pines. The man was decked head to toe in camo, a twelve-gauge shotgun propped against his shoulder. Judging by his gaping mouth, I guessed he was as surprised to run into me as I was to see him.

I let out a shaky laugh. “I forgot. Turkey season started this week, didn’t it?”

“Yesterday.” His voice was a boxy medium brown, the color of rich dirt. “Came in with some buddies from Wetumpka. There’s three of us out here this morning. Be careful, Miss.”

“Right. Thanks for the warning.” With the start of turkey season and only six weeks out from the Blessing event, I should expect to see more hunters and tourists.

Bayou Enigma’s annual Blessing of the Fleet was our town’s biggest event of the year. And ever since Uncle Buddy was elected to the county commission four years ago, he’d made sure to throw business my way, including this event. My freelance event planning job had turned out to be profitable beyond my expectations, but the Blessing ceremony was a big deal for my bottom line too.