If You Could Read My Mind.... Jeanie London

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      The fact that Jillian hadn’t yet offered them the jobs didn’t appear to be of concern.

      Before she could address that singularly important issue, Widow Serafine paused in her tale to draw a breath, fixed her gaze absently above Jillian’s head and said, “Well, that roof won’t hold up through the first summer rain. Philip worked with my son-in-law’s roofing company during the summer between ninth and tenth grades. He’ll get right on that. You hear, Philip?”

      “I hear, Widow.”

      While balancing her armful of groceries, Widow Serafine reached out a hand and beaned Philip on the back of the head, hard enough to make him wince. “Show some respect, boy.”

      Philip peered over his bags, looking embarrassed but contrite. “I’ll get to fixing that roof straight away, ma’am.”

      Jillian inclined her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth, not when she felt as if she’d been run over by a train.

      “Looks like more than that roof will need to be fixed around here,” Raphael added. “We saw the sign out at the road. The whole thing’s rotting out.”

      Jillian didn’t get a chance to reply before Widow Serafine informed her proudly, “When Raphael isn’t working on cars, he works with my son who does carpentry and millwork.”

      It certainly sounded as if the young man was a hard worker, and Jillian forced herself to look casual, knew she needed to do more than stare and let Widow Serafine run roughshod over her. Even if a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach warned she wouldn’t easily sidestep this old granny’s strong will.

      “Your application says you have experience with horses, too, Raphael,” she said cordially.

      “I’ve been a stable assistant since I’ve been six years old, ma’am. Well, until we moved in with the widow.”

      “He has a way with horses. This one does.” Widow Serafine nodded in approval. “Shame we didn’t have any in Bayou Doré. But Raphael branched out and learned new skills.”

      “That’s always a good idea,” was all Jillian thought to say.

      “Looks like you need a jack-of-all-trades around here.”

      There was no denying Widow Serafine’s statement, so Jillian just smiled, buying herself more time to figure out how best to redirect this conversation.

      No such luck.

      “You have a whole stable full here at the camp, don’t you, ma’am?” Raphael asked. “Read on the Internet that you teach the campers how to ride all summer long.”

      “You researched the camp on the Web?”

      “Needed to know the place before we sent in our applications,” Raphael said.

      Jillian couldn’t miss the gravity in those simple words. This young man took his responsibilities very seriously. In her preliminary research of this family, she’d spoken to the ranch owner where these kids had grown up. The man had assured her the Baptistes had been a family of dedicated workers, which was why she’d scheduled this initial interview.

      Or what was supposed to have been an interview.

      “Your Web site had most of the information,” Raphael continued. “Found out Camp Cavelier is the oldest resident camp on the Mississippi. It was named after the man who led the expedition that made the first documented contact between the Natchez Indians and Europeans.”

      “That’s right,” she said. “Rene Robert Cavelier.”

      “Told you the boy was enterprising,” Widow Serafine proclaimed proudly.

      The fact that this young man had been thorough enough to research the camp certainly seemed to bear up that claim. Jillian wasn’t sure if she felt better about the situation or not, but when they all fell silent, she knew they were waiting for her to make the next move.

      What could she say? “Take your groceries and go back to the hurricane-ravaged bayou where you came from?”

      So she stood there, clutching her own bag in the growing darkness, staring at her interviewees and recognizing the fierce pride in their manner.

      That sinking feeling in her stomach eased up a bit.

      This was apparently one of those times when things weren’t going to work out exactly as planned. She would simply have to have faith that there was a reason, and that reason would turn out to be a good one.

      “Well then, if you’ll follow me,” Jillian finally said, managing to sound normal. “The cottage is just past the cabins.”

      “Lead the way.” Widow Serafine’s eyes twinkled.

      Jillian couldn’t help but wonder what she’d just gotten herself into. She also wondered what Michael would think about this unusual situation.

      Or if he would think about it at all.

      She knew the answer to that question—no. If she didn’t tell him about it, he’d never know. And since he hadn’t been here, he’d just have to live with her decision, wouldn’t he?

      2

      NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Michael finally steered his SUV past Camp Cavelier’s weatherworn sign. His headlights sliced through the darkness to illuminate the winding dirt road and throw the surrounding forest into gloom.

      During the drive, he’d imagined several scenarios at arriving nearly two hours late for Jillian’s interview—all of them involving a very unhappy Jillian. But dealing with her annoyance wasn’t his primary concern at the moment. Not when he pulled up to find the office dark.

      He’d have to find her to know how annoyed she was.

      Circling into the lot in front of the building, Michael pulled his SUV beside a Lincoln Town Car that had seen better days. Most likely the potential caretakers. He put his car into Park and got out.

      He didn’t think Jillian would tour people through the camp in the dark. Even flashlights wouldn’t afford enough light to see much, as he well knew from combing these woods as a kid.

      Camp Cavelier was an institution. So many campers flew in from all over the country that the camp ran a shuttle service to the airport. Most local kids, too, spent summers as resident campers. He and Jillian had been no exception, which was precisely why he was now an owner of the property.

      A grudging owner, he amended.

      Jillian and her causes—they’d be the death of him yet.

      Shaking his head, Michael headed up the steps, hoping she’d left a note and some clue as to where he could find her. He was in enough hot water without wasting more time hunting her down. Then something caught his eye…

      Her purse.

      She’d left it sitting on the bench, and he flipped it open to find her car keys and cell phone inside, which explained why she hadn’t СКАЧАТЬ