“Stairs,” Ava said, delighted. “Is this real? Or am I dreaming?”
“Wait till you see what’s up top.”
He tied them up alongside the other boat. “Friends,” he assured, and he urged her on ahead of him up the stairs, leaving their stuff behind for the moment. She wouldn’t want to be weighted down with luggage when she got her first look of the place, and he didn’t blame her.
The sun was at that perfect evening slant when they stepped out from the cave and entered the clearing. Mercy’s eyes were on his wife, the way the light burnished her hair, the way her eyes flipped wide, her face smooth with surprise. And then, because he couldn’t resist, he looked at their surroundings.
Over a century ago, mule-drawn wagons had hauled timbers and glass through the swamps to this idyllic spot along a narrow finger of water. A white clapboard chapel and caretaker cottage had been erected amid a grassy meadow, ringed by ancient, massive oaks, a screen of cypress along the water. In the fifties, the narrow roadway leading out to this spot had been washed out. Inaccessible by land, the chapel had withered, until it was nothing but a gray shell. The cottage, though, had served hunters and fishers, a safe harbor for the lost and the weary. Its paint had peeled and its roof had been badly patched, but the tiny house with its dual windows on either side of the door was warm and dry and charming inside, its stone chimney always stocked with wood. That was the rule of this place: you had to leave firewood when you left, for the next lonesome soul who stopped to seek shelter within its walls.
The chapel stood closest to the water, with a view of the opposite bank and the tangled swampwood that he’d always found so darkly beautiful. It no longer had a door. Grass and weeds floored the aisles between the pews. Thick tendrils of jasmine had claimed the pulpit, and the ten-foot-tall cross behind it. Its bare windows looked sad, like they were crying.
Beyond, the cottage glowed with lamplight; a fresh stack of firewood was piled against one outer wall, and Larry dusted off his hands as he stood on the small porch.
Ava turned to him, and he didn’t know how to classify her expression. “What is this place?” she asked, voice just a whisper.
“They call it Saints Hollow.”
“It’s perfect,” she breathed, drifting to him, like she was floating. When she put her arms around his waist, he hugged her against him, hard. “Who are your friends?”
“You wanna come meet them?”
She kissed his chest, through his clothes. “Yes.”
Mercy’s father’s name had been Remy, something Ava had learned from both Lew, and the O’Donnells. Remy. She filed it away: French, warm, mischievous. She liked it. She pressed it into her internal baby name book.
She was intrigued by this chance to meet people who’d known Remy and Felix Lécuyer. Larry had hunted gators also, sometimes working with Remy. His wife, Evangeline, the Cajun spice to Larry’s pale Irish heritage, had cooked many a dinner and taken it to the Lécuyer house via bateau. The families went way back. Larry and Evie were so obviously delighted to see Mercy again, both hugging and kissing him on the cheek.
“You got married!” Evie exclaimed. To Ava, she said, “And you’re his – oh, come here. Hug me.” She was a regular-sized woman, but her arms were strong, and she crushed Ava to her chest. Then she pushed her back.
“You’re so pretty!” she exclaimed. She caught Ava’s chin in her hand. “And sweet. I can just tell.” She smiled. “I guess it’s not always true what they say about marrying someone like your mama.”
When Evie let go of her, Ava turned a questioning look up to her husband. “His mama?” she asked Evie. “What was she like?”
Mercy’s expression became thunderous.
“Well,” Evie said, quickly, face coloring. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Big breath. “Anyway,” she said, smiling at Ava again, “I’m so glad he’s got himself a girl. Someone to love and feed him.”
Mercy shook off his black look and snorted. “Well, love anyway. The food, not so much.”
“Oh, honey, you can’t cook?”
Ava cringed.
“Don’t worry. I can teach you. I can–”
“Jesus Christ, Evangeline,” Larry said. “Let the girl breathe. You’re running on like a chainsaw.”
Evie glared at her husband and slapped his arm, but she backed off a little. “I want the poor thing to feel welcome. Felix’s dragged her half through the swamp.” She addressed Mercy: “That’s no way to treat your bride, by the way.”
“Yeah.” Mercy sighed. “I know. Before shit went south in Knoxville, I was planning a whole trip to the Bahamas.”
Evie pursed her lips. “Smartass.”
Mercy grinned. “Okay, a Holiday Inn in Chattanooga, at least.”
“Makes a girl want to swoon, doesn’t it?” Evie winked at Ava.
“Are you done yammering yet?” Larry asked. “So we can take them inside?”
