Forget Me Never by Sable Hunter (spicy books to read .TXT) 📕

pondered.  Could he be right?  She had work to do, so she left him at home and headed to the Cultural Center.  He was planning on visiting his grandfather and raking leaves in her yard.  The thought of him making himself at home at her place just made her want to hug herself tight and marvel at the changes in her life.

As she pulled into the parking lot, she made some mental notes.  On Wednesday, she would guest teach at LSU on Louisiana folk-life.  The program that she was participating in was six weeks long.  It was only one day a week, but the opportunity to be involved at the iversity was exciting.  Part of her time would be spent winding up a lecture on Spanish moss.  She loved to open the minds of the children.  At first they would laugh at the topic, but when they began to realize how the plant had done so much to define, if not shape, the romance and mystery of Southern culture, they became interested.  The oaks in front of her home were draped in the moss and she loved it.  But it always surprised people to find out that what they referred to as Spanish moss is neither Spanish nor moss.  It also isn’t a parasite in the host tree like many have always believed.  Actually it is an epiphyte, a plant which grows upon another without harming it.  This epiphyte draws its nourishment from the very air that surrounds it. During the early days it was used as mattress stuffing, furniture padding and even went to make blankets for the Confederate Calvary.  So, Spanish moss was not only necessary for domestic comfort, it was also a viable cash crop.  Just recently the first preserved saddle blanket made from moss was unearthed in a trash pit twenty-one feet beneath the earth.  Excavation for a mall in downtown Nashville had resulted in the cleaning of this pit and the first remnant of a Spanish moss saddle blanket was found.  What had been a speculative footnote in history was now a verified fact.

Late Thursday, she had a meeting with the Park Service officials to advise on the creation of the Bayou Teche Paddle Trail.  The Paddle Trail would be a joint effort of the parishes that were fortunate enough to have the Bayou flow through them.  Plans were being implemented to create low-impact foot and water trails to give more access to pirogue, kayak and canoe traffic on the Teche.  Tourism was a consideration, but also allowing a public appreciation of the beauty of the region and the importance of the Bayou in history was a factor.

Savannah parked her car and noticed that the girls were waiting for her at the front.  They weren’t smiling.  Gathering her things, she exited the vehicle and walked to greet them.  “Hey Guys.  How are you?”

“The question is - how are you?”  Fresca looked serious.

“I’m fine,” Savannah didn’t want to think what this may be about.

“Are you?”  Tammany asked, pointedly.

“Why didn’t you tell us about the leprosy?” Cato asked, as always, too loudly.

“Shhhh,” Fresca poked her.  “Loud mouth.”

Cato didn’t look contrite.

Savannah thought she was going to be sick.  “How did you find out?”

“One of the men overheard Randolph talking to the police after March was arrested for attacking you – which you also neglected to tell us about.”  Tammany pushed a lock of Savannah’s hair behind her ear.  “Did yo really think we wouldn’t understand?  We’re your friends, Savannah.”

“Yes,” Savannah admitted.  “Being misunderstood and feared has been my lot in life so far.”

“Well, Mr. Randolph doesn’t work here anymore and our sweet boss explained it all to us.  We just can’t believe you’ve been carrying this burden alone so long.”  Fresca’s voice was kind, but there was hurt in her eyes.

A group hug had not been what Savannah expected this morning – but that was what she got.  Their acceptance went a long way toward making her believe that she could have the happiness that seemed to be just within her grasp.  Wait till she told them that Patrick had proposed – and even more amazing – that she was considering accepting.

*****

The smell of fall was beginning to creep in the air.  God, he didn’t want to go back to the Middle East.  He wanted to stay here.  Hopefully he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon, but it didn’t look good.  Hawke had called and word was filtering down that one of the CIA’s prime sources had been arrested in Pakistan.  It just amazed Patrick how the web of information was woven between countries that barely tolerated one another except for the promise of protection or foreign aid.

Raking leaves was therapeutic, that is if Ciara would quit scattering everything he had piled up.  “Excuse me,” an irate voice drew his attention.  Three women stood about six feet in front of him.  Shit, his sniper senses had gone to pot.  If they had been an enemy he would have been dead by now.  “Is this Miss Doucet’s home?  I’d like a word with her, please.  We want to speak with her about the negligence she’s shown in dealing with our children.”

The rotund little woman’s tone immediately got Patrick’s back up.  What was her problem?  “No, I’m sorry.  She’s at work.  I’m her fiancé, Captain Patrick O’Rourke.  May I help you?”  He didn’t intend to come off as a hard-ass, but this was Savannah they were talking about.

His Savannah.

Another lady, one that was taller, blonde and a little more athletic, spoke up.  “My son has been coming over to Miss Doucet’s home and eating her cookies and drinking out of her glasses.  And now we’ve heard that she has some horrible contagious disease – like leprosy.”  The woman visibly shuddered.  “I want you to tell Miss Doucet that her neighbors don’t appreciate her exposing our children to her filth.”

Patrick counted to ten, and then he counted to ten again.  “Lady, Miss Doucet does not have leprosy.  She is as healthy