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it all on her. Whether it continued or it ended. A ten-foot gar named responsibility sat on her chest, and she had trouble drawing breath. Or maybe she was feeling trapped. Yeah, definitely that.
    “Why did no one tell me? When does the cycle end?”
    Uncle Aim sighed. “New Year’s Eve ends the cycle , if no commitments are made . You were so smart and determined to make a life in the city that your daddy and I agreed to see how things went for you. Thought if you found someone in New Orleans and were happy, maybe it was time to let the old ways die out.”
    But she hadn’t found anyone—Jules had been a placeholder. She hadn’t even been all that happy. “Then why tell me now?”
    A long silence ate up the air in the room. “I don’t want our traditions to end. Only the people of my generation know about it, and some of the young ones would exploit it—it’s why we don’t tell more than we need to.” His eyes were fierce. “I thought once Chandler came back he’d tell you, especially after you two got closer. But he wouldn’t. Stupid, romantic fool wants you to love him.”
    Had that kiss on the levee been real, or manipulation ? “He doesn’t love me.” He didn’t even know her.
    “You sure about that? It’s a thing between Madere and Caillou, I was always told. Parts of a whole.”
    Resa couldn’t look at him anymore. Just the shoelace. The sofa springs creaked as Uncle Aim got to his feet, and still she didn’t look up. “Better get back to the store. You know everything now. You do what you think is best. Maybe this year’s the time to let it go.”
    The front door closed behind him with a soft click. Resa still couldn’t move.

 
    ~9~
     
    Storm clouds had threatened all day on Christmas Eve. Resa worked on auto-pilot at Madere’s, hauling out the last of the boudin for the special orders and sending customers home laden with boxes and bags. At noon, they closed for the holidays, with plans to open a few hours on New Year’s Eve for people to pick up party orders.
    Resa spent the rest of the day in the White Castle , stewing and ma king a few phone calls. She and Uncle Aim hadn’t said more than a few words to each other since the big revelation, and Resa hated the tension between them. She also resented the position she’d been put in. The whole future of the Madere-Caillou tradition had been set squarely on her shoulders and, by God, she should’ve had more than a few days to make a decision like that.
    She had to accept her share of the blame—she’d been so adamant about never living in Dogtown, about how her life lay elsewhere, that no one had been willing to tell her the truth and risk killing her dreams. But they should have. Chan should have.
    She’d done some research on the rougarou legends since her afternoon at Uncle Aim’s. Some people thought the “swamp beast” was a bear. Others, a dog. Parents used the threat of summoning the rougarou to scare their kids into behaving. Hunters told stories of seeing white dogs in the swamp just before someone died. Old-timers believed it was real; her generation thought it was an old fool’s tale.
    Jeanne had cried when Resa confronted her, then begged her to keep it to herself. None of the cousins knew. The kids couldn’t find out. “I’ll support whatever you decide,” she’d finally said. Grudgingly. She wanted to be the grandmother of the next rougarou, which the firstborn of a Theresa-Chandler union would produce. That , Resa didn’t even want to think about.
    Parts of a whole, Uncle Aim had said. Did Chandler love her? Could she love him? She didn’t yet, or at least she didn’t think so. Whether she could, whether she wanted to, what a future living with him in Dogtown might look like—those were the big questions she couldn’t answer.
    Just before dusk, she pulled on a sweater and jeans, considered her tennis shoes with the unraveling laces before tossing them aside, and tugged on boots. Horrified at learning her