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the water could easily be heard.
    â€œThis girl you saw, what did she look like? Maybe it was Margo messing around.”
    He shook his head, his china gaze riveted into mine. “No. It wasn’t Margo. She wore a white dress. She was really sad, and I think she was lost. I think she belongs here, at Belle Fleur.”
    Fear prickled along my arms and neck. “Annie’s story has upset us both. Our imaginations are excited. Tomorrow, we’ll look for evidence of this mysterious girl. I suspect it’s a trick of the light or a very active imagination. We’ll get Annie to help us look.” I also intended to tell her that she was to share no more ghost stories. Donald was too impressionable.
    â€œShe already knows someone was there,” Donald said. “She saw her too but she won’t admit it.”

6
    Despite the upsets of the night, Donald woke with a voracious appetite and a sunny smile. He was at the breakfast table with Berta when I went downstairs, lesson plans in hand. One joy of private tutoring was the freedom to take our classroom outside. I didn’t doubt Annie’s verbal or language skills, but I wanted to test her knowledge of biology. The woods and swamp around Belle Fleur were the perfect place to do so—and I could also warn her of the natural dangers. Alligators and poisonous snakes of the deadly moccasin family were abundant during the summer. Huge timber rattlers slithered among the pines further inland. There were also wonderful king, black, garter, and many other “helpful” reptiles. Knowing the difference could mean life or death.
    I took my place at the kitchen table where breakfast was always served. This was one meal Berta insisted that she serve “all of her children.”
    â€œMama made blueberry pancakes. I picked the last of the berries this morning.” Donald crammed a huge forkful into his mouth. He loved the natural life—picking berries, fishing, boy things. Sometimes, when he rode Cogar with Erin, his natural grace and ease with creatures large and small made me wonder where in life he would find his true path. He was a child out of time, drawn to activities and thoughts from the first half of the century, not the latter.
    I poured maple syrup over the short stack Berta put in front of me. Bob had eaten and gone to his office in Mobile. He had a new client interested in renovating the old Bienville Hotel in downtown Mobile. The port city, as Mobile was known, was one of the oldest settlements along the Gulf Coast. Influences of early French and Spanish settlers made the downtown area a delight for architectural renovators like Bob. His passion was preservation, and the Bienville offered a chance for him to show his stuff in a city with a growing tourist industry.
    Once the social center of the port city on Mobile Bay, the Bienville had withstood the ravages of the War Between the States and Yankee occupation, but time and neglect had almost finished the old girl off. Bob saw great potential and hoped it would be the project that would garner national attention and bring in backers to fund the renovation of the Paradise Inn.
    â€œErin is riding.” Berta rolled her eyes. “She’d rather ride than eat.”
    â€œIt’s good for her. She has talent.” I knew Berta was afraid of Cogar, a large Connemara-cross with a strong will and a talent for jumping anything in front of him. She also viewed the horse as a bribe to get Erin to love Alabama.
    â€œI’d prefer a violinist or maybe an opera singer to an equestrian.”
    Berta was teasing, but I understood. Violins didn’t weigh fourteen hundred pounds and buck. “She isn’t afraid. Fear is the most dangerous thing about riding. Don’t ever let her know how much it scares you, Berta.” I glanced around the kitchen. “Where are Margo and Annie?”
    â€œMargo is asleep. Annie must have gotten up at the crack of dawn. She left a