A little harder to accept was the gut-clenching terror he'd felt when he'd surfaced and found himself outside that third-level door. He'd snapped out of the fugue and into a nightmare of panic-one where he'd been certain he'd heard the fading echoes of a baby's restless crying.
He'd run. He couldn't have opened that door if he'd had a gun to his head. So he'd run, with his own bright fear chasing him, to lock himself back in the bedroom. Like a mental patient, he thought now over a lukewarm cup of instant coffee.
At least there'd been no one around to see it.
But if you thought about it, it was a rather auspicious first night. Cold spots, baby ghosts, fugues. It sure beat sitting in his empty town house in Boston, sucking on a beer and watching ESPN.
Maybe he would spend some time digging deeper into the history of the house. His house, he corrected, and with his coffee, he leaned on the damp iron rail of the gallery outside his bedroom.
His view. And it was a beaut once you skimmed over the wreck of the gardens.
Leaves dripped from the rain in steady, musical plops, and the air shimmered with the weight the storm had left behind. Mists crawled over the ground, smoky fingers that trailed and curled around the trees to turn them into romantic and mysterious silhouettes.
If the sun broke through, the glittery light would be spectacular, but it was nothing to sneeze at now.
There was a pond, a small one, choked with lily pads, and fields-some fallow, some already planted for a spring that came so much sooner here. He could see the thin curve of the river that ribboned its way through the deep shadows of the bayou.
A rickety little bridge crossed the water in a hump, then a dirt road pushed into the trees toward a house mostly hidden by them. He could just make out a puff of smoke that rose up to mix with the hazy air.
He'd already been up on the belvedere that morning, and had been relieved to find it, the roof, the chimneys, all in good repair. The last owners had seen to that and this second-floor gallery before they'd thrown in the towel.
It looked as if they'd started on the rear gallery as well, had started preliminary work on closing it into a screened porch.
Which might not be a bad idea. He'd think about it.
Declan wasn't certain if they'd run out of money or energy, or both, but he considered it his good fortune.
He had plenty of money, and just now, watching the steam rising over the weeds and water, plenty of energy.
He lifted the cup to his lips, then lowered it again as he saw a woman-a girl?– slip through the trees toward the curve of the river. A huge black dog lumbered along beside her.
She was too far away from him to make out features. He saw she wore a red checked shirt and jeans, that her hair was long and dark and madly curling. Was she old? he wondered. Young? Pretty or plain?
He decided on young and pretty. It was, after all, his option.
She tossed a ball in the air, fielded it smartly when the dog gave a leap. She tossed it twice more while the dog jumped and ran in circles. Then she reared back like a pitcher in the stretch and bulleted it through the air. The dog gave chase and didn't hesitate, but leaped toward the pond, shagging the ball with a snap of teeth an instant before he hit the water.
Hell of a trick, Declan thought and, grinning, watched the girl applaud.
He wished he could hear her. He was sure she was laughing, a low, throaty laugh. When the dog swam to the edge, scrambled out, he spit the ball at her feet, then shook himself.
It had to have drenched her, but she didn't dance away or brush fussily at her jeans.
They repeated the routine, with Declan a captive audience.
He imagined her walking with the dog closer to the Hall. Close enough that he could wave from the gallery, invite her in for a cup of bad coffee. His first shot at southern hospitality.
Or better yet, he could wander down. And she'd be wrestling with the dog. She'd slip on the wet grass, tumble into the pond. He'd be right at hand to pull her out. No, to dive in after her and save her because she couldn't swim.
Then one thing would lead to another, and they'd have sex on that damp grass, in the watery sunlight. Her body, wet and sleek, would rise over his. He'd fill his hands with her breasts, and …
'Jeez.' He blinked, saw her disappearing into the trees again.
He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or relieved to find himself hard. He'd had sex only once in the six months since he'd broken things off with Jessica. And that had been more a reflex than real desire.
So if he could find himself fully aroused over some ridiculous fantasy of a woman whose face he hadn't seen, that area was coming back to normal.
He could check worry over his manhood off his list of concerns.
He tossed the last swallows of cold coffee away. He didn't mind starting the day with a stray erotic fantasy, but he did mind starting it with bad coffee. It was time to get down to practicalities.
He went back in, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed into town for supplies.
It took him most of the day. Not just to get the supplies, but to reacquaint himself with the city he was going to call his own.
If Boston was a respectable wife, with a few seamy secrets, New Orleans was a sensual mistress who celebrated her darker sides.
He treated himself to an enormous breakfast, so loaded with cholesterol he imagined his heart simply keeling over from the shock.
He bought coffee beans and a grinder. Bagels and beignets. He loaded up on the single-male cuisine of packaged dinners, frozen pizza, dry cereal. Hit the liquor store for beer, bourbon and some good wine.
He loaded it into his car, then struck out again, as much for the joy of wandering the streets as the recollection he needed something to eat on and with. He settled for paper plates and plastic ware, and stopped to watch a street musician set out his trumpet case, prime it with a few coins, then fill the air with a stream of magic.
Declan gave him his first dollar of the day.
He avoided the temptation of the antique shops and the lure of the Quarter. Lunchtime music was already pumping out of clubs and exotic scents wafted from restaurants. He bought himself a muffuletta-that marvel of meat and cheese and oil on Italian bread-to take back home for later.
As he walked to his car again, he noted the tourists with their bags from Cafй du Monde or the Riverwalk shops, the card readers sitting at folding tables around the perimeter of Jackson Square who would tell your fortune for ten dollars a pop. He caught the faint drift of marijuana under the ripening stench of garbage as he walked by an alleyway.
And saw an enormous black woman, smoking in indolent puffs, on the plant– jammed gallery above a shop that advertised erotic candles.
He bought one for Remy of a naked woman with breasts like torpedoes, and grinned over it all the way back to his car.
He drove home energized. He hauled in supplies, stuffed them wherever seemed logical at the time, then began a serious room-by-room inspection of the main level. He made notes on problems, on potentials, on plans and on priorities.
The kitchen was a definite first. He had experience there from his own house in Boston, and from two remodels where he'd assisted friends.
He couldn't claim to cook more than the occasional omelette or toasted sandwich, but he thought of the kitchen as the heart of any home. The latest transition of the Manet Hall kitchen was early eighties-stark white and chrome with a slablike island work counter and blinding white flooring.
The good points were the generous windows, the old and serviceable brick hearth and the pretty coffered ceiling. He liked the enormous pantry, but thought it would serve better as a mudroom. He'd hack down to the original wood flooring, strip off the overly sweet teapot-themed wallpaper, yank out the island in favor of an antique baker's table or some such thing.
Decorating wasn't his strong point. He'd left that to Jessica, who'd favored pale colors and classic lines.
And now that he thought about it, he preferred stronger colors and the charm of the fanciful. He liked details
