The Gates of Evangeline (40 page)

“You'll like Sidalie,” he promises me. “The schools are good. We can get a big house, big yard—”

“
I'm not living in Texas.
How can you expect me to just . . . drop everything . . .”

“Honey, that's where I work. I gotta oversee my company.”

I call bullshit. “You just inherited a quarter of the Deveau fortune. Don't tell me you have to work.”

“I happen to love my job,” he begins, and then decides this line of reasoning will get him nowhere. “Just come to Sidalie with me. Give it a chance. You'll like it, I know you'll like it.”

“It doesn't matter if I like it or not, it's in
Texas
! Are you
listening
to me? Texas is out.” I don't know if my blind resistance to the Lone Star State is a result of hormones, a fear of change, or what, but even I can hear now that I sound a little nuts.

“You can't rule out an entire state you've never been to,” Noah says in a tone that indicates some experience dealing with unreasonable females. “You should at least visit. The weather is better, the real estate is more affordable.”

I'm about to launch a spirited defense of the Northeast, but suddenly in the middle of what seems to be a Very Important Debate, I can't help myself. I break into a huge, stupid grin. I start to laugh. It's too amazing, too miraculous for me to get angry. Where will we live? Should we get married?
These
are our issues. This moment is too good to waste on petty squabbling. Because what were the chances? After abandonment, betrayal, a pair of failed marriages, and personal losses too great to enumerate, Noah and I have survived. We're semifunctional human beings. We're expecting a baby. And we're together. One way or another, we'll have to iron out the details. But right now, how can I be anything but happy?

Irritation flashes across Noah's face as he realizes that I'm not absorbing any of his pro-Sidalie talking points. “Charlie? Why you smilin'? I don't find this funny.” His reproof only broadens my smirk. He already sounds so fatherly.

“Babe,” he says, trying again. “Please. Stay with me on this. We're talkin' about our future. We're talkin' about our daughter.”

“I know.” My whole body seems to tingle at the words “our daughter,” so wonderful and strange to my ears. I reach out and weave my fingers through his, feel him relax slightly at my touch. “That's why I'm smiling.”

Anyone interested in Louisiana's historic plantation homes can learn much from the knowledgeable guides at Oak Alley Plantation in Vacherie and Shadows-on-the-Teche in New Iberia. They answered several questions for me as I got started with the writing process. Visiting a currently occupied and somewhat modernized plantation home, on the other hand, seemed a tall order. I am fortunate that former governor Mike Foster and his wife, Alice, generously open Oaklawn Manor, their family estate in Franklin, to the public. On both my visits, guide Mary Edwards provided chatty and colorful tours, which proved immensely helpful in the writing of this novel.

My appreciation goes to Rosaleigh Young, Deborah Hoff, and Carolyn Wise, who each offered thoughtful commentary on various drafts. Over and over again, Ellen Madigan and Todd Moore gave me the child-free writing time I needed in the homestretch—I am so grateful for their friendship. For nurturing my interest in writing from an early age and comparing my mediocre fifth-grade stories to the classics, I owe my father, John, a thank-you as well.

Above all, my profound gratitude goes to Spencer Wise, who read each chapter as I wrote it, happily accompanied me on several research trips, and pushed me to put my work out in the world when I was tempted to hide it in a drawer. I have wanted to be a writer since I was six years old. Spencer, you were the wind in my sails that brought me here.

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