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While she scrubbed the bathroom, her mind whirled with what had just transpired. She still couldn’t believe she was there at the cottage. Floyd had seemed ancient when Maggie was a child, but Aunt Elizabeth had kept him on all the years that the cottage had been empty. No one in the family wanted to be bothered with the cottage now. It was too far away and too remote.
It was true, starting with Aunt Elizabeth, who was really the aunt of Maggie’s mother, Rose. The time had come to make a decision to sell the unused cottage. But when Maggie found out, she didn’t hesitate to ask her aunt if she could have it.
“I’ll get a mortgage if I have to,” she’d said. “But please don’t sell it. I love that old place.”
Maggie loved it, and when Aunt Elizabeth told her it was hers to have, she wasted no time quitting her job and selling most everything she had that she no longer needed or if it reminded her of her former life. Most of her furniture ended up with friends and family who were at the age of getting their first apartments, and free furniture from her was welcome.
“It’s the circle of a family,” her mother, Rose Angel, had said.
So a deal was made; Maggie would take over the tax payments and the place was hers. It was a three-hour drive from Pensacola, and no one had the time to do that now. The closest airport to Cypress Cove was an hour away in New Orleans, so even flying in was a pain in the neck.
“Why do you want to be so secluded?” her mother had asked.
“I just love it there,” Maggie had answered.
Rose knew that she was probably running away, and sometimes, running to a fresh start was the only way to heal, so she didn’t push.
“What will you do for a living, Maggie?”
“I’ll find something,” she said. “I have a little money saved, and as soon as my condo sells, I’ll have that money to pay taxes.”
They laughed together because taxes were less than two thousand dollars a year. The proceeds from her condo sale would last a long time if she was careful. And her divorce settlement would yield more than she had ever imagined, but she didn’t know that yet.
“You could always bake pies,” Rose said, laughing.
“I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe I will bake pies. Do I have to make that decision right now?”
The tourist trade in the winter filled the village, and the little café was always packed. Maybe they’d need pies.
“You can always pick moss,” Aunt Elizabeth had said. “Like swamp people.”
In the bathroom, she washed the window facing the water, thinking about swamp people. They loved that show on television, at least she did, because it reminded her of Cypress Cove. Smiling at her reflection, she still couldn’t believe her good fortune.
“So now you’re a swamp person.”
The afternoon sun shone in the windows at the front of the cottage, soon slowly sinking in the west. The day was catching up with her after the long trip. She had a clean bathroom and a clean bed. It was time to get something to eat. Back downstairs she remembered the gate. Taking the lock and a length of chain, she walked out onto the porch. The brilliant sun burned a gold band across the water, and with each movement, a fish or a little wind, the water surface sparkled like diamonds. She sat on the step and watched for a while, blinded by the sun’s bright light. She knew that light was peculiar to this place; in the autumn that angle made it glow like pink gold. Not another soul around, only the sound of birds.
With shoes crunching on the dusty gravel, she made her way to the gate, heat rising from the path creeping up her legs. A bead of sweat trickled down her back, and a cloud of gnats kept buzzing around her head, a reminder that bug repellent was mandatory.
The whinny of a horse got her attention as she approached the gate, slowing her progress as she looked around to find its source.
“Hello.”
After the greeting, Maggie saw a huge brown horse step out of the trees onto the path. Her inner dialogue saidOh my God.The man was breathtaking, like the horse. Sitting up tall, he wore a white T-shirt and jeans. Massive arms covered in beautiful tribal tattoos disappeared under that snowy T-shirt and then snaked up the back of his neck. Something about that neck sent chills down her spine, and she longed to touch it with her fingers. A baseball cap on backward covered his hair, but she could tell by his heavy five o’clock shadow, it was black, like hers. Pulling herself back to reality, she grinned.
“Sorry if I frightened you.”
“You didn’t frighten me at all,” she said, mesmerized by the giant creature and the striking man astride him bareback. “I’m just surprised. I haven’t seen a horse being ridden around here in a long time. I’ve only seen the wild horses grazing out in back.”
“Yep, they’re all over the place. We ride in the evening when it’s a little cooler,” he said, steering his mount closer to the gate. Outstretching his hand, he leaned over to shake.
“Justin Chastain,” he said with a hint of a Cajun accent.
“Maggie Angel.” His hand was hot and dry, and he held hers for maybe a second too long, but she didn’t mind. He focused on her eyes, and she finally looked away when he released her hand.
“I know you. When I was a kid, I did odd jobs for Miss Bonnet.”
“Wait, Justin? Justy?”
