He paused at the foyer, turned and saw her examining the rickety staircase. “Don’t worry. We haven’t had anyone fall through them yet.”

“I was wondering.”

“I know. They’re a hazard, but if you take a look around, the whole house is. When we go outside, I’ll show you the front porch, and the fact that all of the columns are slightly leaning in various directions, and that one side of the house actually seems to have been pushed in a bit from Katrina. All of the rooms on this floor are closed off,” he said, indicating the plastic sheeting that covered the entrances to three rooms off the foyer, “except for the kitchen. And that’s because we like to eat too much to shut it down for any length of time.” He shrugged. “I guess Charles Roussel, the parish president, does have a case for wanting to knock this old house to the ground, but we’re getting there. The new roof is done, and we’ll just take the rest of it one step at a time. Shoot, this place has been around too long, and meant too much to our family and the spirits, to let it go without a fight. Plus, I met you here.”

His words touched her soul, and she leaned toward him and brushed her lips to his. “I’d love to stay here, with you, forever.”

“Can’t think of a thing I’d like better either,” he said, those hazel eyes staring into hers, which reminded Celeste that the eyes he was seeing weren’t even remotely like hers.

She swallowed, and decided to think about something else for now. Turning away from him, she indicated the plastic-covered doorways branching off the foyer. “What are you doing to all of the rooms down here?” she asked.

“We just finished cleaning them up enough to pass the inspection from the local historical society. They were worried about post-hurricane contamination since the bottom floor of the house flooded during Katrina, but we passed the test. Eventually, we’ll open the rooms back up and restore them completely. They need new floors and some paint. And furniture would probably be a nice touch,” he said with a laugh. “We can probably take care of that with a few trips to the attic, I learned this week. But for now, we’ve kept the demolition crew at bay, and that’s what counts. Thankfully, they’re completely slated with work in Jefferson Parish for now and haven’t planned to check our status again until next year, which is good, since we’re tapped out on funds for the time being.” He sighed, then started down a hallway that led to the back of the house and the kitchen.

She followed him though the swinging door leading to the kitchen and watched him rummage through the cabinets. Like the remainder of the house, the mahogany cabinets had seen better days; they were scuffed and scratched, with many of the doors missing hardware, as in the handle to the cabinet Dax was opening.

“Are these the letters you found?” she asked, indicating a small stack in the center of the kitchen table.

“Those are just a few of them, but they’re the ones that indicated specific times and dates when one of our ancestors was living in the house during the Civil War.”

“Which is what you need, right?”

He smirked. “That’s the way I see it, but Nanette’s still deciding whether she wants to share them. See, every letter there refers to the spirits, and she can’t decide whether she wants folks to know our little secret.” He placed a long loaf of French bread on the counter and cut it in half with a serrated knife, then moved toward the refrigerator and withdrew several plastic bags of deli meat. “Anyway, enough about Nan and her dilemma. It’s the list there, on the yellow notepad, that I want you to look at.” He tossed the meat next to the bread, then removed bottles of mayonnaise, mustard and relish from the side door of the fridge.

She grabbed the edge of the pad and slid it toward her, but couldn’t take her attention off Dax, and his ease in the kitchen. She’d heard Cajun men could really cook, in the kitchen and in the bedroom. She already knew about Dax’s talents in the latter, and undoubtedly, he could fend for himself in the kitchen too. He was merely fixing a sandwich now, but she could envision him by the stove, a big pot of something spicy simmering in front of him.

He surveyed all of the items on the counter, nodded as though deciding he had everything he needed, then started making a sandwich that, in Celeste’s opinion, would feed a small family. “Read that list and tell me if you can think of anything else. Hey, read it out loud. That’ll help me see if Nan and I missed anything.”

She cleared her throat, then began, “‘Silver eyes. They darken as she gets tired, and turn completely black, like other spirits’ eyes, before she is pulled back to the middle.’” Celeste looked at him and asked, “What color are they now?”

He turned away from the counter, tilted his head and said, “Pale silver, almost transparent. You must have rested well.”

She nodded. She had slept well with him by her side, but she had also felt tired before they came down to the kitchen. However, right now, sitting here and scanning the list, she didn’t feel the least bit fatigued, and that was good. She really wanted to stretch her time out with Dax. “I did sleep well.” Then she continued down the list. “‘No control over when she comes or leaves,’” she read, and added, “True.” Then she read the next item, a single word and a question mark. “‘Clothing?’”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure about that, but Ryan said he had the ability to change his clothing at will. Basically, he thought about what he wanted to wear, and his attire changed. But when I first saw you in the summer, you were wearing a yellow tank top and jeans the whole time. I assumed that’s what you were wearing when you…” He paused, and she knew why. He didn’t want to admit that she’d died.

“That was what I wore the day of the wreck,” she said, helping him out of the uncomfortable sentence. “And you’re also right about my clothing. I don’t know how it changes, or why. That white gown that I had on the last time I visited you wasn’t anything I had when I was living. And these-” she waved her hand down her side to indicate the sage tunic and capris “-I didn’t own anything like this either. Not that I don’t like it, or anything like that, but this isn’t typically the kind of thing I’d have picked out to wear. In fact, it really looks like something more along the lines of what Nelsa would wear.”

“Nelsa?” he asked, and momentarily took his attention off the sandwich he was creating.

“My older sister,” she said, smiling as she thought of Nelsa. At twenty-five, she was four years older than Celeste and truthfully closer than just a sister; she was Celeste’s best friend. “Nelsa has always had a real flair for picking fashionable clothes,” she said. “Me, though, I was more of a tank-top-and-jeans kind of girl. The outfit you saw me in during the summer was basically what you’d always see me in, but this is pure Nelsa.” She looked at the gauzy, feminine shirt again. “I always wanted to dress more like her, tried to, actually, but never could really get a handle on her style. I guess it’s that younger sister thing, always looking up to her and all. She was the levelheaded one, the girlie-girl and the one with the cool taste in clothing. I was more of a tomboy, a little-or maybe a lot-more reckless, and I had a tendency to bend, or outright break, the rules.” She smiled. “Do you think I’m in clothes like Nelsa’s because I always admired her style when I was living?”

He paused, seemed to consider it, then asked, “What about the gown? Was that something she’d have picked out?”

Celeste laughed. “No, that’s the type of thing my mother would have picked out. She always got that sweet, virginal-bride kind of sleepwear when it came to buying gifts for me and Nelsa. I guess in her eyes, she was trying to keep us young and innocent.” She shook her head. “Okay. Maybe I wore that as a tribute to Mom, and this as a tribute to Nelsa?”