The Long Hot Summer. Wendy Rosnau

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      Johnny jammed his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans, and the image of Belle Bayou suddenly surfaced. With it came a treasured memory from his youth—his father teaching him how to fish cane-pole style at sunrise.

      The truth was, if he agreed to the warden’s parole deal, he would be waking up to that sunrise every morning for the next four months. He hadn’t been back home in years—not until six months ago, anyway—but he’d never been able to forget the bond he’d formed with the bayou.

      He knew the bayou as well as any of the old-timers. He knew where the best fishing spots were. Where the shy blue herons nested, and where every hidden channel in the bayou ended up. He also knew what a stir he’d cause by showing up in town again.

      “Well?”

      “I’ll take the deal,” Johnny said, glancing out the window behind Pete Lasky’s desk. The sky was tauntingly clear, and maybe that’s what had suddenly been the deciding factor. Or maybe it was remembering Belle. Either way, he heard himself say, “Four months working for Mae Chapman at Oakhaven won’t kill me, but staying in here another six just might.”

      An hour later, Johnny walked out of Angola’s front gate and into hell’s kitchen. That’s what his mama had always called the month of August in Louisiana. It was just after ten, and already the temperature threatened one-hundred. He headed north, his plan to catch the bus out of Tunica. A mile down the road, he pulled off his white T-shirt and ran the sleeve through an empty belt loop on his jeans.

      He’d never intended to go back to Common when he’d left fifteen years ago—both of his parents were dead and he had no other family—but after receiving that damn letter six months ago from Griffin Black, curiosity had overridden common sense. The letter had offered to pay him top dollar for his land. His land?

      Now, everyone knew that Johnny didn’t own any land in Common. True, his father had owned land years ago—a run-down sugarcane farm that had never earned him more than a sore back and a pile of headaches. But all things considered, delinquent taxes should have relieved him of the farm years ago. Only a week later, after strolling into Common city hall and telling the clerk what he was there for, Johnny had promptly learned that he did, in fact, own his daddy’s old farm. But just how and why remained a mystery.

      The truth was, there were only two people in town who cared enough to invest any time or money in him. Only Virgil didn’t have any extra cash to speak of, so that left Mae Chapman. The question was, why would she do it?

      Johnny left city hall with the intention of confronting the old lady with what he’d learned. But the day’s heat was powerful, and he’d made a quick decision to stop by the local bar for one cold beer before showing up at Oakhaven. A bad decision, he realized, the moment he opened the door to Pepper’s Bar and Grill and walked straight into his childhood enemy.

      He hadn’t been trying to kill Farrel Craig the way they had accused him of doing, as much as it had looked that way when Sheriff Tucker had shown up. Yes, he’d drawn his knife, but only after Farrel had come at him with a broken beer bottle.

      It had looked bad, he couldn’t deny that—but he hadn’t been willing to roll over and let Farrel carve him up like a steak. Only, the authorities didn’t see it that way. He’d been arrested and convicted for assault with intent to do bodily harm—the sentence: a year in Angola State Penitentiary.

      So now here he was, six months later, faced with going back home to serve a lousy four-month parole sentence. And he would serve it. Only, by summer’s end he intended to sell the farm and sever his ties to Common for good.

      The sun was just setting as the bus rolled into Common and stopped on the corner of Cooper and Main. As Johnny stepped off the bus he glanced around the bare-bones town were he’d spent the first fifteen years of his life. The streets were nearly deserted. He supposed the sultry heat had driven most of the locals inside, or maybe they’d heard he was coming. He suddenly realized he could have been happy here if only the townsfolk would have given him a chance.

      Gran would never willingly have agreed to hire such a disreputable man if she had seen the rap sheet that went along with him. Disgusted, Nicole tossed the paper on the Pendleton desk. She snapped off the old-fashioned floor fan sitting next to her, then picked up the phone and dialed the Pass-By Motel.

      On the third ring Virgil Diehl answered in his thick cajun accent. “Motel. De coffee’s black and dere’s vacancies.”

      “Hello, Mr. Diehl, this is Nicole Chapman calling.”

      “Little Nicki! Oui! I heard yo’ was back from de big city. Bet Mae’s tickled pink, ma petite. Me, too. Yo’ is de perdiest angel in all of St. James Parish. Mais yeah.”

      “Merci, Mr. Diehl. You’re kind to say so.”

      “Dat’s me.” Virgil chuckled. “Kind is good for business. But yo’ kin’t be wantin’ a room, ma petite, so what yo’ after?” He paused. “Maybe I already knows.”

      He no doubt did. By now the news of Jonathan Bernard’s return and his newly acquired position at Oakhaven had most likely raced through the supermarket, the bakery, the corner drug, and both bars. “Sheriff Tucker told me Mr. Bernard is staying in one of your rooms,” Nicole explained. “Is he registered?”

      “Johnny? Yah, he’s here. Fact be, he’s jes’ comin’ through de door now.”

      “Could I speak to him, please?”

      “Yah—sure t’ing, ma petite.”

      While Nicole waited, she turned the fan back on. A native of California, she was used to hot weather, but Louisiana’s sultry heat was a new kind of hot. One that would surely kill her if she didn’t acclimate soon—she had never perspired so much in all her twenty-five years.

      She took another quick glance at the paperwork Sheriff Tucker had dropped by an hour ago. She hadn’t read every word, but she really didn’t need to. The gist was that Jonathan Bernard had been granted parole because of job security—thanks to Gran—and good behavior.

      Good behavior. Nicole sniffed, taking another quick glance at the list of offenses the man had accumulated in the past thirty years. True, most of Jonathan Bernard’s offenses dated back to when he was a teenager. And there was even a span of time—seven years, to be exact—when it appeared he had reformed. But when she’d mentioned that hopeful tidbit to Sheriff Tucker, he had assured her that Common’s black sheep didn’t know the meaning of the word reform.

      That’s why she intended to intervene. True, they did need someone to work a miracle on Oakhaven over the summer—the place was falling apart—but not Jonathan Bernard.

      “This here’s me. If it ain’t free, I don’t want it.”

      His phone manners spoke mountains for his character. The black-bayou drawl, however, sent an unexpected chill racing the length of Nicole’s spine. She paused a moment, and in the process lost her train of thought. Scrambling to get it back, she settled for “Is ‘me’ Jonathan Bernard?”

      “You got who you wanted. Only, folks call me Johnny. What you selling, cherie?”

      A one-way bus ticket north, Nicole wanted to say. Instead, she said, “I’m not selling anything, Mr. Bernard. This is Oakhaven calling about your so-called job. The point is, the job is no longer available.”

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