I owe thanks to many people but especially to Christalee
Scott May for reading several drafts of this book. Without your friendship and
support, this story never would have been finished. Also to Sandra Bell Calhoune
for her encouragement and her wit. Many thanks to Mindy Postlewait for her
timely gifts of tea and soup when I was felled by a vicious cold. Thank you to
Fr. Ryan Humphries for answering my odd little questions about Natchitoches.
Thank you to John Abramowitz for answering questions about legal
representation. And a very special thank you to Timothy Stone for his openness
and honesty regarding his experience with PTSD. As always, any mistakes and
errors are solely my own.

Chapter One

“The truth will set you free. But not until it is
finished with you.”

― David Foster Wallace

Henry
Byrne stepped into the small foyer
of the Natchitoches
Parish Historical Archives
and shivered at the thirty degree
difference in temperature. The early August humidity was at an all-time high,
rolling in off the river, carrying the smell of red clay and fish and slow
moving water. There was a neat line of chairs, and a large potted plant stood
sentry in the corner. A middle aged woman with an elaborate updo of tiny braids
sat at a desk near the far door, her eyes focused on her computer screen.

Henry
crossed the room, her heels sounding like a metronome on the tiled floor. “I’m
here to see Mr. Becket. I have an appointment at two,” she said, pushing her
glasses up with one finger. There was no reason to be nervous. Gideon Becket
might be reclusive, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t friendly.

The
receptionist turned from her monitor, gave her a quick head-to-toe scan, and flipped
open a desk planner. She ran one short, gold fingernail down the list. “I’m
sorry. It looks like we have someone else scheduled at that time.”

“Henry
Byrne? That’s me. I’m the new head of restoration at Cane River Creole National
Historic Park.”

“I’m
Bernice Watterson,” the secretary said reached out a hand. Her grip was warm
and solid. “Glad to meet you. Most of those buildings have been in a right
terrible state for years and years.”

“We’re
working to change that. I’ll be at Oakland Plantation most of the time, but I’m
excited to see what we can do to help the rest of the park.” She heard the
pride in her own voice.

“Well,
I know these things take time but you’ll get there. You look like a real hard
worker. Ambition puts the Tabasco in your patience.”

Henry
smiled. It sounded so much like something her Granddaddy would say. “That’s
right.”

Bernice’s
gaze flicked back to the planner. “Henry must be a family name. I have an aunt
named Howard. Well, it’s actually Howard Mae. I always thought that was a
pretty name.”

Lie.

Henry
felt the familiar twist of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, I see―”

“Are
you from around here? You look familiar.”

“I
grew up in Shreveport, but my grandparents live here. Birdie and―”

“Frank
Pascal,” Bernice interrupted. “You’re Lisette’s girl. I thought your name
started with an ‘L’, though. Anyways, I shoulda seen it the moment you walked
in. You look just like your granddaddy.” She shook a finger at Henry, as if
she’d been caught in a fib.

“I
hear that a lot. It must be the green eyes.” Henry adjusted her satchel and
tried to look happy about being linked to her family within five minutes of her
first professional meeting. This wasn’t unexpected. No need to panic. She
wasn’t a little girl anymore. She felt a drop of sweat make its way down the
back of her neck.

“I
think it’s that pretty smile. He has a picture of you on his desk but you’re
just a little thing in it.” She held up a hand as if she’d just remembered
something. “You should join our bowling league. We had a real shot at the city
tournament but Missy Standish decided to break her arm falling off her own
porch.”

“I’ve
never bowled but thank you for the invitation.”

“Well,
it’s never too late to start, honey.” Bernice chewed her gum for moment.
“You’ve got strong arms. I think you’d do real well.” She leaned closer. “It’s
not just the arms. Everybody wants to join the Gutter Gals but we’re picky. We
don’t like catty women. It ruins the mojo.”

Henry
nodded, feeling flattered that she didn’t seem the catty type.

“You
know who you need to meet? My nephew, Blue Chalfant. You’re single, aren’t
you?”

“I―
Yes, I am.” She was sorely tempted to lie, if only because she couldn’t see
herself ever dating a man named Blue.

“He’s
a lawyer.” Bernice said this with the same reverence as if he’d been president.
“He graduated at the top of his class at Duke and has an office right in the
Natchitoches Historic District.”

She
nodded again, wondering how hard it was going to be to avoid Blue Chalfant
since she had just moved into the same area.

Bernice
went on, “On one side is the cutest little bookstore called By the Book, and
it’s right down the block from the Pastime Café.”

Henry
almost groaned out loud. Bernice had just described the exact location of her
new apartment, which was above that cute little bookstore. “I’m sure we’ll run
into each other.”

“You
see your aunt much?” Bernice asked. “She’s my favorite and I’ll pay to see
anything she’s in, I don’t care what it is. I just loved Affair on the Rocks.
Oh, and Hearts Collide. So romantic!”

And
there it was. The conversation she didn’t want to have. “No, not really. We’re
not very close,” she said. “If Mr. Becket is busy, I’ll just wait over here.”

Bernice
scooted out from behind the desk. “Let me go check and make sure he’s ready for
you. He can get so caught up in his work. Without me keeping track of his day,
he’d probably lose his head.”

Lie.

Henry
crossed to one of the chairs and sank into it. Chit chat was her Kryptonite.
The ability to spot a lie a mile off was a curse, not a blessing. Sure, there
were people that made a great living from working with law enforcement, but Henry
knew she couldn’t stomach that life. Just having a simple conversation with a
stranger seemed to be too much most days.

She
fiddled with the strap on her watch, hoping she didn’t have long to wait. She leaned
forward and peeked into the next room. Framed maps covered the mint green walls
and the glass display cases gleamed. The archives were well-kept, at least on
this side. It might be a disaster in the storage areas but it looked promising
so far. Some collections were thrown together by well-meaning, but untrained
history buffs, but since this particular one was maintained by the preeminent
historian on the area’s Cane River Creole culture, she hoped it wouldn’t be
chaos behind closed doors.

The
front door swung open and a middle aged woman walked through, pulling along
young girl in shorts and speaking in Creole. “Hurry,
sha
, I want to show
you these pictures before they close the exhibit.”

Henry
smiled, thinking of her
mamere
. Her grandma always called her
sha
because Henry would always be her “sweetie”, no matter how old she was.

The
little girl rolled dark brown eyes and responded in English. “Why we gotta come
here, grandma? You said we were gonna get ice cream.”

Henry
watched the woman tug her granddaughter over to one of the glass cases and lean
in close, trying her best to engage the little girl. “We will, just as soon as
I show you some things. I loved coming here at your age.”

Lie.

Tightening
her ponytail until it hurt, Henry let out a long breath. She needed to focus
on herself, not on what she couldn’t control. Slipping a compact out of her
purse, she checked her bright red lipstick, and nudging her glasses down a bit,
examined her mascara. She never knew why a person lied. Appearances, usually. A
simple need to impress or seem better than they felt they were. She wasn’t
averse to making a good impression and some might even say dying her hair a
honey blonde could be considered a lie. But it was depressing how often and how
easily most people lied.

“Miss
Byrne? He’s ready for you.”

She
snapped the mirror closed and stood up.

“We’re
excited to be working with y’all over there. Anything you need, just let us
know.”

Lie.

Was
Becket unhappy, or was Bernice just hoping she didn’t end up as the messenger
between the two sites? “I’ll be spending a lot of time traveling back and forth
so I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

Her
expression betrayed a flicker of relief. “Welcome to Natchitoches, Henry.”

“Thank
you.” She turned and followed the narrow hallway around the corner. Her heart raced
uncomfortably. Her
mamere
always said there was no way a man standing on
his own two feet could avoid trouble. Of course it was safer back in her
office, or interacting with people online. If she wanted to be one of the best
Cane River historians, she was going to have to take chances, including somehow
convincing Gideon Becket that they would work well together.

Working
with him, even unofficially, would be a real feather in her cap. She’d heard
colleagues drop his name for much lesser things. A door stood half-open and she
blew out a long breath before tapping lightly on the wood.

“Come
on in,” a voice sounded from inside.

Her
first impression was that he was a more than a few decades younger than she’d
assumed. The second impression was that he was difficult to read; a neatly
trimmed beard obscured his face. He stood up from his desk and walked toward
her, hand outstretched. He was tall, taller than she’d expected, and as he got
closer, she adjusted his age down even further.

“Gideon
Becket,” he said. His accent was definitely native Louisianan, but there was
something else she couldn’t quite trace, a careful formality.

“It’s
wonderful to meet you.” Now that the moment had come, Henry felt her carefully
prepared introduction disappear. His blue eyes met her gaze without expectation
or curiosity. He was wearing a green button down shirt and dress pants, and had
the build of a guy who was into weight lifting. She glanced down, realizing
she’d been shaking his hand for a full five seconds, and let go.

He
spoke first. “I read your article in The Journal of Southern History, the one
on the need for the restoration and preservation of primitive buildings in the
Cane River region. That was a fine piece of research.”

Truth.

“Thank
you.” That article had taken years of research and was one of the reasons she
was hired. That and perhaps being related to pillars of the Natchitoches
community. She hated to think it had anything to do with Birdie and Frankie
Pascal but she knew small towns too well to completely dismiss it.

She
glanced at the floor to ceiling bookshelves. Long windows faced the overgrown fields
outside and the morning sun filtered through the panes, highlighting a framed
photo of Civil War troops on the opposite wall. The soft ticking of a large
wall clock sounded like a heartbeat in the quiet room. This wasn’t what she’d
imagined. From the rumors she’d heard about him, she’d thought there would be
piles of papers, total disorganization, the classic forgetful academic who
couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair or meet with anyone from the outside
world. It all seemed so normal.

He
crossed back behind his desk. “Please sit down. I’d like to hear about your plans
for the Historic Park. There are what, sixty structures between the two
plantation sites?”

She
perched on the wooden chair across from him. “Sixty seven. I’ll be working from
the offices in Oakland Plantation, of course, since Magnolia Plantation is
privately owned. The park rangers on site seem like a great group. Right now
we’ve got a team of masons and limewashers working on the overseer’s house at
the moment but we’ll start work on the former slave quarters this week.”

“The
ones to the north used by the free slaves after Emancipation? I didn’t realize
they were structurally unsound.”

“No,
the beams are solid and there’s no sign of rot. A pair of archeology students
will be excavating under the floors. I’ve found several letters from the Creole
people of color who worked and lived there on the plantation that reference
hiding notes or records under the floors.”

His
expression shifted from neutral. “Fascinating.”

“I
don’t have solid proof anything is hidden in the buildings, but I’m very
hopeful.” More than hopeful, she was downright giddy with the possibilities.
She’d applied for the position with the plan to excavate those buildings and it
was happening even sooner than she’d hoped.

“How
can we help?”

“The
excavation should be fairly straight forward. They started restoration work
last spring on the cotton gin and the corn shed, but was suspended because
there wasn’t enough information on the original buildings. I’m hoping the
archives here and some of the county records stored in Natchitoches will have
pictures and letters that will help us. Accuracy is our biggest concern.”

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