Sugar Baby. Karen Young
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house and spend a few peaceful moments with her own thoughts and—she admitted it—to indulge her curiosity about Sugarland. Behind the house, at the end of a meandering brick walk, she turned a corner and discovered a pond—or maybe it was a small lake. To her delight, situated in the middle of it was a gazebo.
Did everything in this place look like something out of a storybook? she wondered, walking the wooden footbridge that spanned the water. Inside the gazebo, she spent a moment gazing around at the peaceful setting. In one direction, the big house was visible, its frame shimmering in the August heat. To the west was a vast expanse of green sugarcane. Along the perimeter of the field, a dust plume billowed out behind a slow-moving farm vehicle. Beyond that, a lush, dark line of trees marked a bayou.
She sat down on a wrought-iron settee. Only a light breeze stirred the willow trees ringing the pond. Clumps of purple iris at the water’s edge attracted butterflies and bees. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. All her life she’d been a city dweller, but she had often imagined she would like country living. Pushing aside thoughts of why she was here, she lost herself in the peace and sounds and smells of deep summer.
Something brushed her ankle. Glancing down, she saw that a dragonfly was perched on the end of her sneaker. Gazing at its wide, fragile wings, she thought of her own precarious fate. How could she continue to stay with the McMolleres indefinitely? Where else could she and Danny go to be safe?
“Want some company?”
For a big man, Mack McMollere moved almost silently, she thought. Backlighted by the glare of the sun on the water, he seemed to fill the arched entrance of the small structure. How had he managed to get so close without making a sound? Shrugging wordlessly to let him know she had no objection to his company, she watched him push away from the arch and come inside.
The settee creaked with his weight as he took a seat beside her, shifting until he was wedged between the back and side arm. It gave him a clear view of Claire.
“Didn’t take you long to find the choice spot at Sugarland, did it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “I can see why southern Louisiana has inspired so many writers and poets.”
“Yeah, mosquitoes, humidity, relentless heat ten months out of the year, and to top it off, alligators. You can’t get much more romantic than that.”
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