He immediately called his mother to rub it in.

Sunshine and the tease of spring had him switching gears earlier than he'd intended. He postponed work on the library and set up outdoors to reinforce the second-floor gallery, to replace damaged boards.

He listened to Ray Charles, and felt healthy as a horse. He was going to have the Franks do most of the early planting, he decided. He just didn't have time. But next year, he'd do his own. Or as much as he could manage.

Next spring, he'd sit out here on the gallery on Sunday mornings, eating beignets, drinking cafi au lait-with Lena. Long, lazy Sundays, looking out over the lawns, the gardens. And a few years down the road, looking out at the kids in the yards, in the gardens.

He wanted a family of his own, and it was good to know it. He'd never had that need inside him before, the need to hold onto the now and look to tomorrow at the same time.

So he knew it was right, what he felt for her. What he planned for them. He'd help her in the bar if she needed it, but he'd have his own work.

He turned his hands over, studied the palms, the calluses he'd built. The little nicks and scars he looked on as personal medals of valor.

He'd use them, his back and his imagination, to transform other houses. People in the parish would think of Declan Fitzgerald when they needed a contractor.

You should've seen that old house before he got ahold of it, they'd say. You need the job done, you just call Dec. He'll fix you up.

The idea made him grin as he ripped out the next rotten board.

By four, he'd finished the long front sweep of the gallery floor and stretched out on it, belly down, to take a break. He fell asleep with B. B. King pleading with Lucille.

And was sleeping still when he rose and walked down the shaky, sagging curve of stairs to the front lawn.

The grass was thick under his feet, and the heat of the sun poured over his face, beat down on his head despite the hat he wore as protection.

The others were inside, but he'd wanted to look at the pond, at the lilies. He'd wanted to sit in the shade of the willow that danced over the water, and read.

He liked the music of the birds, and didn't mind the heat so much. The heat was honest. The air inside the Hall was cold and false.

It was heartbreaking to watch the house he loved rotting away from bitterness.

He stopped at the edge of the pond, looking down at the green plates of the pads, the creamy white lilies that graced them. He watched a dragonfly whiz by, the sun glinting off the wings so it was an iridescent blur. He heard the plop of a frog and the call of a cardinal.

When he heard his name, he turned. And smiled as his beloved crossed the velvet lawn toward him. As long as they were together, he thought, as long as they loved, the Hall would stand.

"Declan. Declan.”

Alarmed, Lena gripped his arms and shook. She'd seen him coming down those treacherous stairs as she'd driven down his lane, and how he'd walked toward the pond in an awkward, hesitant gait so unlike his usual easy stride.

His eyes were open but glazed in a way that made her think he was looking through her and seeing something– someone-else.

"Declan." She kept her voice firm, and her hands, as she took his face in them. "Look at me now. Hear me? It's Lena.”

"Let's sit under the willow where no one can see us.”

There was no willow, only the rotted stump of one. Fear tickled the back of her throat, but she swallowed it. Going with instinct, she rose up on her toes and laid her lips warmly on his.

His response was slow, dreamy, a kind of sliding to her. Against her. Into her. So she knew the instant he snapped back by the way his body stiffened. He started to sway, but she held on.

"Steady now, cher. You just hang onto me till you get your legs under you.”

"Sorry. Need to sit." He dropped straight down on the grass, laid his brow on his knees. "Whoa.”

"You're okay now. You're fine now." She knelt beside him, brushing at his hair and murmuring in Cajun-her language of comfort. "Just get your breath back.”

"What the hell's wrong with me? I was on the gallery. I was working on the gallery.”

"Is that the last thing you remember?”

He looked up now, over the pond. "I don't know how I got out here.”

"You walked down the stairs, the ones on the right of the house. I thought you were going to go straight through them." Her heart still hitched when she thought of how unsteady they were. "They don't look safe, Declan. You ought to block them off.”

"Yeah." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "Lock myself in a padded room while I'm at it.”

"You're not crazy.”

"I'm sleepwalking-in the daylight now. I'm hallucinating. I'm hearing voices. That doesn't sound sane to me.”

"That's just the Yankee talking. Down here that doesn't even come up to eccentric. Why, my great-aunt Sissy has whole conversations with her husband, Joe, and he's been dead for twelve years come September. Nobody thinks she's crazy.”

"What do they talk about?”

"Oh, family business, current events, the weather. Politics. Great-Uncle Joe dearly loved complaining about the government. Feeling better now, cher?”

"I don't know. What did I do? What did you see me do?”

"You just came down the stairs and walked across the grass toward the pond. You weren't walking like you, so I knew something was wrong.”

"What do you mean?”

"You've got a smooth, lanky kind of gait, and you weren't moving like that. Then you stopped at the pond.”

She didn't tell him she'd had one shocked moment when she'd been sure he meant to walk straight into the water.

"I kept calling you. And finally you turned around and smiled at me." Her stomach muscles tightened as she remembered. "But not at me. I don't think you were seeing me. And you said you wanted to sit under the willow, where no one could see us.”

"There's no willow here.”

"Well." She pointed toward the stump. "There was, once. Seems like you're having dreams where maybe you can see things that happened before. That's a kind of gift, Declan.”

"Where do I return it?" He shook his head. "I don't know, because I can't remember once I wake up. But I'm starting to think I should tie myself to the bedpost at night.”

"I can take care of that for you tonight.”

"You trying to cheer me up with bondage fantasies?”

"How'd I do?”

"Pretty good." He let out a breath, then frowned at the smudge on her forehead. "You've got some soot or something," he began, and she tipped her head back before he could rub at it.

"Those are my holy ashes.”

"Oh, right." His brain had definitely gone on holiday. "Ash Wednesday. I not only don't know where I am, but when I am.”

She couldn't bear to watch him sink into the dark again, and kept her voice brisk, just a little lofty. "I take it you didn't get to church today, on this holy day of obligation.”

He winced. "You sound like my mother. I forgot. Sort of.”

She arched an eyebrow. "Seems to me you could use all the blessings you can get." So saying, she rubbed her thumb on the print of ash on her forehead, then rubbed it on his. It made him smile.

"That's probably sacrilegious, but thanks. What time is it?" He looked at his watch and swore. "I have to get this sucker into the shop. It keeps stopping on me. I know it's past noon, and it sure isn't midnight.”

"It's about five. You did say to come early.”

"Yeah, I did. Why don't we go sit out back and have some wine?”

She watched him closely for the first few minutes, but he appeared to be steady again as he selected a wine. Got some lovely old stemware out of his new cupboards.

He'd frightened her, Lena could admit, and badly. She'd been certain he'd intended to walk into the water, to drown himself among the lily pads just as Lucian Manet had done.

And with the realization, a whole new realm of possibilities opened in her mind. "Declan …”

"I got steaks and I got a grill," he said as he poured the wine. He needed to focus on ordinary things-to steep himself in the here and now. "All real men can grill steaks. If you tell me you don't eat red meat, we're going to have to go for the frozen pizza.”

"If I eat meat, why should I care what color it is? Let's go out and sit. I've got an idea I want to run by you.”

They walked to the two wooden crates he was using for chairs and sat.

"What if it's not ghosts. Or not only ghosts?" she asked him.

"Oh, that's a cheering thought. What else have I got? Vampires? Werewolves? Maybe some flesh-eating zombies. I'm going to sleep much better now, thanks.”

"What do you think about reincarnation?”

"Past lives? Recycling souls?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know.”

"It always seemed efficient to me-and fair, too. Everybody deserves more than one chance, don't you think? Maybe you're remembering things that happened here because you lived here before. Maybe you're Lucian, come back after all these years for his Abigail.”

"That's a romantic notion. I'll be Lucian if you'll be Abby.”

"You don't get to choose. And if you're going to make fun of the idea, I won't say another word about it.”

"Okay, don't get testy." He sipped his wine, brooded into space. "So your theory is I'm here, and these things are happening because I lived a past life, as Lucian Manet.”

"It's no more far-fetched than the place being haunted, which you swallowed easy enough. It would explain why you bought this place, needed it. Why you're working so hard to restore its beauty. How you saw the furniture in his bedroom upstairs.”