THE GUMBO WAS AS GOOD AS I’D EVER tasted. The dark mahogany roux, spicy andouille sausage and okra gave it a distinctive, pungent flavor. I wondered what else she had stashed away in her freezer for stormy days.
When I’d finished my second helping, she picked up my empty bowl and said, “If you hadn’t left the reception, you would have found out the answer was yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, to your dinner invitation. I could tell you were about to ask before that jerk Schwartz interrupted. Too bad. Might have been an interesting evening.” She smiled and turned toward the kitchen, leaving me to think about what might have been.
She returned a few minutes later, all business again.
“Look, Jack, I have work to do. This storm is terrific for my latest project. I think you should try to get some rest. Will you be okay on the sofa?”
I nodded, more than willing to sink into my cushioned refuge again. I dozed for a while before falling into a deep sleep. No dreams, no nightmares, just sleep. I was wakened by a loud clash of thunder that shook me as well as the house. I waited for my heart to return to its normal rhythm, then went to look for Abby.
I found her in her lab and ventured in.
“Well good evening, sleepy head,” she said with a smile.
“That potion you gave me just about knocked me out; what was in it? And if you don’t mind me asking, what you are working on?”
“Mostly herbs, and, well… nothing that you’d recognize,” she answered. “I’m studying the restorative nature of swamp and bayou life, especially after a major weather event. This storm is a godsend, at least for me. Normally a storm moves through the bayou in a matter of hours. But if the weather reports are right, this one is barely moving and will leave tons of water and wind damage in its wake. How these lowlands and their inhabitants recover could give us vital knowledge into how our planet might repair itself from the damage caused by climate change.”
As we walked through the lab, she described what each instrument did and explained that once the Wi-Fi was restored she would be able to download data from at least a hundred sensors placed strategically throughout the swamp.
“The storm is predicted to get worse tonight—we’re right in the middle of its path. Not much we can do but ride it out. At least it will keep the bad guys away. Do you feel up to a glass of wine? And are you hungry? You slept a long time.”
“A glass of wine sounds great. And I’m hungry if you are. I can’t believe I slept so long. Got any of that gumbo left?” I asked, following her toward the kitchen.
“Sorry, no more gumbo. But how about a pulled pork sandwich? My freezer is an amazing place,” she said, laughing at my surprise. “Jack, please go relax on the sofa. I can handle the wine, and the more you rest, the better off you’ll be.”
I returned to my comfy sofa, still feeling unsettled by my surroundings. Last night Clovis and I had enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Galatoire’s. This morning I’d been left to die on a tiny island in the middle of a swamp after a couple of thugs had kicked me half to death. Now I’d been rescued by a scientist whom I’d once met briefly and was riding out the storm with her, in her own home, in the middle of the bayou next door. It was a lot for my mushy brain to absorb.
But as I waited for her, I realized these hours were the calm before the real storm reared its ugly head again. As soon as the weather cleared, the bad guys, whoever they were, would descend to finish the job, the job they’d figured the swamp would do. Abby would be nothing but collateral damage. Not a nice thought.
I heard a door close and turned to see her bringing in a tray of cheese and a California cabernet. She poured two glasses of wine, and I raised mine in a toast.
“This is a very nice wine. How did you manage to get it down here?”
She raised hers in return and said, “I didn’t. I was at Stanford lecturing last summer and took every opportunity I had to visit the wine country and learn about various vineyards. I spent almost my entire honorarium on wine and shipping it back to Louisiana, but it’s been worth it. When I get lonely, a glass of wine cheers me up. I only bring out the good stuff for company, so not very often.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Definitely an unexpected treat. But why do you live here, alone? Why don’t you live in Baton Rouge?”
“You know what they say. You can take the girl out of the swamp, but you can’t take the swamp out of the girl.” Her eyes sparkled as she settled easily onto the sofa, one leg tucked under the other.
I watched her as she cut a few slices of cheese. Her eyes were narrow, framed by dark thick eyebrows that curved all the way to the edge of her eyes. She’d told me that her nickname was Cat, and over the cabernet I coaxed her into telling me some of her life story.
She’d been raised in a small Louisiana town south of Lafayette. She had two older brothers who taught her about the swamps and their critters—egrets, alligators, plenty of fish, and especially snakes—which ones were harmless and which ones could kill her. Her family was descended from French Canadians and their lives reflected their Cajun heritage. Her father worked for an oil company and her mother taught school. They knew everyone in town and hosted crawfish boils, danced to the music of fiddles, harmonicas, and accordions and, of course, went to Mass every Sunday morning.
Most of her friends had married young, produced babies, and never ventured any farther from home than the next parish. Abby wanted to become a veterinarian, but her parents had insisted that she become a ‘real doctor.’ She earned a scholarship to LSU, and worked her way through grad school and finally med school, earning a Master’s in environmental science along with her MD. She had offers from various research hospitals and universities, but her love of the swamps and bayous called her to independent research. She was able to fund her work through support and grants from individual donors and environmental organizations like Beth’s. During the last fifteen years she had earned her PHD and been invited to lecture at some of the finest universities in America, despite her supposed lack of credentials.
She’d almost married her high school boyfriend at sixteen, but he didn’t want her to go to college. He wanted someone who would “cook, keep house, and tend to the kids” while he worked on oil rigs. The breakup wasn’t pretty, but her brothers made sure he didn’t come around anymore. She shrugged off my casual questions about her future. “I haven’t given up on marriage or a serious relationship, but right now it’s not in the cards.”
She was equally inquisitive about me, and I gave her a very short version of my life, my marriage to Angie and her untimely death. I told her I’d recently had a lot of first dates.
She laughed, aiming a gentle kick at my mid-section. “You are so full of it. DC is full of eligible women. The only men down here who can count to twenty are just like Mitch and Ted, sleazeballs whose only goal is to get in my pants, with or without permission. Besides, I’ve heard a few stories about you. Apparently, you tend to fall for women who would rather you were dead.”
I didn’t know what stories she’d heard, but I couldn’t deny the allegation.
“Guilty as charged, but I hope maybe my luck has changed.” The words spilled out of nowhere.
“Does that mean you’ve fallen for me?” Her tone was cool and edgy. “And in just these few hours?”
She was an intelligent, attractive woman. She’d also just saved my life. Sure, I was drawn to her, but jeez—now I was no better than Mitch or Ted. She waited until it became clear I had no credible answer, then rose awkwardly from the sofa, almost spilling my wine.
“Gosh,” she said. “I can smell the pork—don’t want it to get dry. Do you like slaw on your sandwich or just sauce? Now don’t you move a muscle. I’ll be back in a few.”
She was through the kitchen door before I could say a word. I’d heard that tone before—why on earth had I spoken out like that? I couldn’t very well blame it on a squishy brain.