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She shook her head, but a smile spread across her face.
“You know you’re the only one for me, babe,” he reassured her. “Always!”
She stood up, and he wrapped his arms around her. “I love you so much, and this message...it puts to rest the one regret I had about everything that’s happened. Bruno is alive. He must have set the whole thing up to get the criminals off his back, and probably ours too.”
They separated and sat at the table while Gator picked up the phone again.
“You don’t have to keep looking at her,” Sylvie teased, rolling her eyes.
“Pretty attractive teacher, huh?” She playfully slapped him on the arm. “I prefer redheads,” he replied with a chuckle. “I’m going to call him.”
Gator tried the number, but it was no longer in service. Bruno had sent the message from a burner phone and then disposed of it. Gator looked up at Sylvie with mixed emotions…thrilled his friend was alive yet disappointed he had disappeared from his life once more. This time, it seemed, he wouldn’t be back.
Though Gator couldn’t reply, he knew he didn’t need to. Bruno would know, and it meant a lot to Gator to think that even now, Bruno was still willing to risk his life for the man who had saved his own years ago.
“Toujours reconnaissant,” Gator murmured.Forever grateful.
EPILOGUE
2023
Gator peeked around the corner,his eyes settling on his son, Gaspard, lying in bed with wide eyes, captivated as Sylvie read him the last page of “The Return of the Rougarou.” The dimly lit bedroom cast a warm, intimate glow, setting the scene for the bedtime story. Sylvie glanced up, catching Gator’s gaze, and gave him a playful wink and a smile. He grinned broadly in return, the anticipation of the story’s climax bringing him as much joy as it did their son.
“And in the dark of the night,” Sylvie continued, her voice carrying the perfect balance of suspense and comfort, “with a thousand eyes watching the young boy who was walking along the banks of the Black Bayou, the Rougarou leaped out of the swamp, causing all the other critters to scamper, shrieking and squealing, into the shadows of the cypress trees.”
Gaspard’s small hands clutched the sheet, pulling it just below his eyes, which were so dilated in the low light that they resembled those of the barred owl hooting outside his window. He was both terrified and enthralled.
“More,” the little boy pleaded, eager to hear the resolution.
“But just before he could reach the boy,” Sylvie read, “the swamp witch appeared from nowhere, her hair filled with writhing snakes. They wrapped around the Rougarou’s neck and pulled him back into the depths, while the little boy raced back home and jumped into bed, safe once again. And then he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of new adventures.”
Gaspard never looked like he was ready to drift off to sleep each time the story ended, but he always managed to prove them wrong. The boy was just like his father and the Old River would give him the best of dreams too.
Once Sylvie had tucked Gaspard into bed and Gator had said goodnight to his son, he returned to the living room, joining his beautiful wife on the couch. She had set the book down on the coffee table, and as he looked at her, she asked, “You still love it when I read the end of that story, don’t you?”
He nodded, the nostalgia warming his heart. “I do, but not as much as the part you never read.”
Sylvie smiled, knowing precisely what he meant. Gator picked up the book and flipped to the front page, reading the inscription aloud: “Happy Birthday, Gaston. Love, Sylvie.”
He had treasured the book; his eighth birthday present from the girl who had always held his heart. And now, against all odds, she had returned to him, becoming his present and his future.
