"I suppose you're right," I said. I sighed and realized my throat was dry and my tongue felt like a slab of granite. "I'm very thirsty."

"I brought water and some homemade blueberry wine," he said, leading me back to the stairway. "Dinner will be last night's leftovers, but I made it myself."

I laughed at the pride he took in his cooking. "And what did you make last night?"

"A batch of poached blackfish. Bart and Lefty were supposed to eat with me, but they went to a fais-dodo and an all-you-can-eat crawfish party," he said as we descended the stairs.

"Why didn't you go with them?"

"Wasn't in the mood," he said.

"Don't you have a girl, Jack?" I asked. I couldn't see his face when he turned to me, but I suspected that he was smiling.

"I've had a few girlfriends, but no one serious."

"Why not?"

"That's just it," he said, "no one's serious. Most of the girls I've met are . . ."

"What?" I asked, intrigued.

"Airheads," he said, and I laughed.

"Bart says a woman doesn't need much in her head to get by with a man, but that's not the kind of woman I want," he continued.

We returned to the dining room, where he set down the lantern and began to unpack the carton. Everything was neatly wrapped in tinfoil. He poured me a glass of water.

"Thank you, Jack." The water was cold and very refreshing. I drank it quickly.

"More?"

"Not right now, thanks," I said. In the glow of the lantern, his face looked shiny but soft, and his eyes twinkled. "What kind of a woman do you want, Jack?"

"Someone who can talk to me about important things, a companion, not just a. . ."

"Just a what?"

"Just a woman," he replied, turning back to his carton. "I brought a little Sterno stove to warm up the sauce. My grandmère's recipe: three cups of home-made mayonnaise, six drops of Tabasco, four tablespoons of lemon juice, one-half cup of capers, one teaspoon of caper liquid, and two tablespoons of dry mustard."

"Sounds wonderful. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid. We have a cook at home, had a cook all my life." He didn't say anything. "Do you think I'm a spoiled rich girl, Jack?"

"You don't seem spoiled," he said. "I've net spoiled girls, spoiled airheads." He gazed at me and shook his head. "You're not like any of them."

"Thanks. Can I do anything?"

"You can. Here," he said taking out a tablecloth, napkins, and silverware. "Set the table."

"Yes, sir," I said.

Jack found a serving table on wheels and used it to prepare our food. He produced two light blue candles and candle holders. After placing them at the center of the table, he lit them. They didn't add that much light, but it was a warmer glow. I set out the plates and the glasses, and Jack took out his homemade wine.

"Okay, mademoiselle, you may sit down now." After I did so;-he poured the wine. "I hope this meets mademoiselle's expectations. It's vintage 1950."

I laughed and tasted it. "Very good, monsieur. My compliments."

"Merci, mademoiselle. And now the star of our show." He took my plate and prepared my entrée. Then he prepared his own and sat down next to me.

"It looks fantastic," I said. He had served some green beans and corn with the fish.

"I'm sorry there's no bread."

"We'll make do," I replied.

He smiled and reached for his glass of wine. "Shall we make a toast?"

"Yes."

"To the storm."

"The storm?"

"Which caused us to dine together tonight." We clinked glasses. "Which only proves the saying that out of something bad, something good must come to those who wait and endure."

I felt the warmth from the wine, but I also felt a warmth coming from my heart.

"Let's eat," he declared.

Maybe because of the circumstances, because the tension and excitement had been so draining, I had a ravenous appetite. It was the most delicious meal I had had in a long time. As we ate, Jack told me more about himself and his family. His mother had been sick most of her adult life, suffering from diabetes. So his grandmère did most of the cooking and house-work. He had grown up in the bayou and rarely left, only to go to New Orleans and once to go to Dallas with the family to see relatives, and once on a family vacation to Clearwater, Florida.

"I suppose my life's been very simple compared to what you've done and seen," he said. "I'm not what you would call sophisticated."

"Your life might be simple, as you put it, but you're not simple, Jack. Most of the so-called sophisticated young men I've known couldn't hold a candle to you," I added, perhaps with more energy than I intended, but after my third glass of homemade wine, my tongue felt loose and my thoughts free. Even in the low candlelight, I could see Jack blush and look happy. He softly laughed and flashed me a pleased look.

We continued to eat slowly, and whenever I lifted my eyes, they met his. Sometimes those eyes seemed to have the candle flame burning within them.

"I'm sorry I have no coffee or dessert," he said in a voice close to a whisper.

"That's all right. I've eaten more than I thought I would."

"You have, haven't you?" he said, nodding at my empty plate. I had scooped up even the last drop of sauce.

"Very unladylike," I said, shaking my head. "A proper young lady always leaves something on her plate."

"Oh, really? Well, I guess I ain't never met no proper young lady," he replied, imitating some swamp rat. "I've known women who ate the plate."

I threw my head back and laughed. Then I leaned forward. He was laughing, too, and he leaned toward me. We brought our foreheads together gently and Jack kissed the tip of my nose. Our eyes locked again. My heart beat softly, but I felt warm blood flood my cheeks and my neck. Was it the wine?

"Should we clean up?" I asked softly.

"Clean up. Oh, no, mademoiselle. We have servants to do that. Please. Let me escort you to the parlor," he said, standing and offering his arm. I rose. "Perhaps we should take along our homemade wine." He seized the neck of the bottle and our two glasses. Then he blew out the candles and I took the lantern. We returned to the sitting room.

Although the storm had passed, there was a lingering drizzle. It made a gentle pitter-patter on the pane. Lightning still flashed in the distance, each streak turning the pitch-black sky flame-red for a split second. I fixed my gaze on it while Jack poured us each another glass of wine.

"I hope everything's all right back in New Orleans," I said.

"Don't lose hope." Jack handed me my wine, and I sipped it slowly. Then I relaxed and let my head fall back against the settee. Jack stood there gazing down at me. When I looked up at him, I saw far more than simple concern and worry in his eyes. What I saw made my heart stir and then thump. Could it be that there really was something called love at first sight? His eyes were pools of desire, which made me aware of my own ravenous need for romantic fulfillment. These sensations made me feel guilty. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Jack was at my side, taking my hand.

"Are you okay?"

"Just tired, I guess," I replied.

He nodded. "Sure. Considering what you've been through, no wonder. Well," he added, "if you insist on staying here another night, I guess we can go upstairs. We still have the blankets I brought last night."

I nodded. He took my glass and set it on the table. Then he helped me up and took the lantern. We made our way through the darkness and ascended the stairs, neither of us saying much. He wrapped his right arm around me, and I laid my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

Suddenly I heard something below and stopped walking. "What was that?"

"What?"

"I heard something." I gazed into the darkness beneath us. "Mommy! Are you there?"

Silence.

"Might have been a mouse," Jack suggested. I continued to listen and then agreed. He continued to lead me up the stairs, my head against his shoulder.

"Here we are," he announced when we reached Mommy's old bedroom. Jack set the lantern down on the nightstand, and I took off my shoes and lay back. He stood there for a moment looking down at me. I reached up and he took my hand. He brought it to his lips. I said nothing. My heart was pounding. He waited a moment and then let go to turn away and go to the settee.

"Jack," I said. It was as if my voice had the power to act at will. His name was on my lips so quickly that I didn't have a chance to think why or what I wanted. It didn't matter. He knew.

He returned to my side, knelt beside the bed to kiss my hand, and then leaned over to kiss my lips. "Pearl," he whispered.

I tried to reason, to think about what was happening, just the way I always had when I kissed a boy. But tonight my scientific appraisal never took hold; the part of me that questioned and analyzed every touch, every kiss, never showed its face; and it wasn't only because of the wine. In Jack's arms I felt secure; I felt his concern and his care. What he wanted to happen, he wanted for both of us.

His touch was gentle, unselfish. Instead of feeling anxious and fearful, I welcomed the whirl of emotions; I wanted to be engulfed in the tidal wave. I felt myself unlock every door, invite every kiss. I lifted my chin so his lips would fall against my neck, and I kissed his cheeks and his eyes. When he rose, I moved over to make place for him.

"Pearl," he whispered. Never did my name sound so sweet.

His hands moved over my arms to my breasts. Our clothing seemed to peel away so our skin could touch. Every time he paused, a little hesitant, a little unsure, I kissed him harder, driving away any reluctance, assuring him I wanted to follow the trail we were both burning to my heart.