Something Beautiful and Lacey's Retreat: Something Beautiful / Lacey's Retreat

has written more than thirty books, most of those for the Steeple Hill line. In addition, she works freelance for a local magazine, where she has written monthly opinion columns, feature articles and social commentaries. She also wrote for five years for the local paper. Married to her high school sweetheart for thirty-two years, Lenora lives in Louisiana and has two grown children and a cat. She loves to read, take long walks and sit in her garden.

Something Beautiful

So we do not lose heart….

For this slight momentary affliction

is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory

beyond all measure, because we look at what

cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary,

but what cannot be seen is eternal.

—2 Corinthians 4:16–18

In memory of my mother-in-law, Patsy.

And to all the breast cancer survivors out there.

Chapter One

She was a vision in the mist.

Lucas Dorsette quietly eased his pirogue through the dark, brackish swamp waters, maneuvering the long paddle pole around blue-blossomed water hyacinths and gnarled gray cypress stumps until he reached the boathouse nestled between the back garden and the bayou. But he stopped before anchoring the small canoelike boat against the weathered dock.

He looked again through the low mist, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining the woman who stood under the ancient weeping willow tree on the shore, her head turned so he could see her profile as she looked over the dark, chocolate waters of the bayou.

No, he wasn’t seeing things. This vision was real.

And she was exactly his type.

She was tall and slender, with a classic face that spoke of strong bone structure. She held her arms wrapped against her midsection, as if to ward off the humid chill the rising dawn had left. Long blond hair that changed from white-gold to rich yellow in the growing light hung down her back almost to her waist. She was wearing white—a long, flowing cotton dress that made Lucas think of other, more simple times. The woman looked as if she’d just stepped out of another century.

Curious, Lucas kept his eyes on her while he roped the pirogue to the dock. Then he hopped on the planked boards, his actions quick and quiet, so as not to startle the woman who stood only a few feet away, her eyes centered on the water, her body turned away from the summer gardens of Bayou le Jardin.

Lucas stood there in amazement, his gaze taking in the woman with the old southern mansion behind her. He had to swallow, blink his eyes. It was the way the rays of first light shot down from the sky to touch the woman’s face there in the soft mist, as if the very hand of God was reaching out to this fascinating stranger.

Which certainly made for a breathtaking picture. One Lucas would surely never forget.

In her long white dress with the early morning breeze lifting her thick, lush hair from her shoulders, she looked as if she belonged right there in that spot under the willow tree. Especially with the backdrop of his beloved home behind her.

The stark, classic beauty of the mansion always left Lucas a bit awestruck, even though he’d lived here since he was nine years old. He respected the quiet dignity of the old house, though he rarely stayed in his bedroom on the third floor.

Lucas preferred the swamp to the house, preferred the gardens to the parlor, preferred to be left to his own devices whenever time and duty permitted. He had a nice, cozy cabin deep in the swamp, a cabin he’d salvaged and renovated with his own hands, along with the help of some good, hardworking people. He had ample food from the gardens, the fields and the bayou; he had good books to read at night and good tunes to play on his saxophone when the mood struck him. He had his plane to fly when he wanted to be up above it all, his horse to ride when he wanted to feel the wind on his face, and he had several lucrative ventures going, enough to bring in plenty of cash for a man of simple means. And he had friends to find on a lonely Saturday night and church to attend on any given Sunday. Aunt Hilda would remind him that he had the blessed assurance of Jesus Christ, too, of course. If he ever stood still long enough to listen for it.

Lucas was content to travel through the bayou, content to watch over his aunt Hilda and his sisters, Lorna and Lacey. Content to flirt shamelessly with all the local belles while never seriously getting involved with any of them. He’d never wanted for anything else.

Until now.

Now, Lucas saw the home he loved, the home he respected and had vowed to watch over, in a different light.

Now he saw her there in the picture—this mysterious, lovely creature who’d somehow appeared, like a vibrant flower sprung to life, in the dew-kissed gardens.

Lucas didn’t know who the woman was.

But he certainly intended to find out.

His sisters accused him of falling in love too easily and too often, and he supposed that was right.

‘Cause it was about to happen again. In a very big way.

Lucas grinned, then started walking toward the woman, instinct telling him this time things might be different. Because this time, he knew in his heart he’d just stumbled across…something beautiful.

And then the cameras started flashing.

Lucas blinked twice, watched as the tranquil woman whirled and with a loud groan took off in a mad dash toward the house, her long hair and long dress flying around her as if she were a runaway bride.

The cameras followed her. Two of them with big zoom lenses, carried by two rather burly-looking men who’d popped out from behind a cluster of camellia bushes.

“Willa?” one of the men shouted. “Just one picture, Willa. C’mon, people want to know why you backed out of that runway show in New York!”

“Go away,” the woman shouted in a voice that was as cultured and gleaming as the single strand of pearls she wore around her neck. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

But the two determined photographers kept right on coming. Like a set of hound dogs chasing a rabbit into the swamp, they practically fell over each other in their haste to get to the elusive woman.

Lucas watched, angered and amazed, as one of the overstuffed men stomped right through Aunt Hilda’s prized miniature rose garden then almost tripped over his own feet as he sprinted to get a close-up of the woman he’d called Willa.

“Get away from me,” the woman said, her hands on her hips, her stare full of anger and defiance.

The cameras took it all in, clicking with a constant whine. One of the men laughed. “Good shot. That’ll make the cover.”

“I’ll get a better one for my cover,” the other one snarled.

Lucas took two long strides and stepped between the beauty and the beasts.

“You heard the woman,” he said on a low growl, one hand shoving at the first man while he held his other hand in warning toward the second photographer. “Get away from her now.”

“And who are you?” Burly Number One asked, his double chin jutting over his cheap navy and red striped tie.

Lucas grinned, then shifted his gaze from one man to the other. Slapping a hand across the rough denim of his jeans, he turned and winked at the beauty who’d automatically taken up a position behind his protective back. “Who am I? Moi?” He chuckled low, then shook his head. “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m Lucas Dorsette. I live here. And you two seem to be pestering this lovely lady, not to mention trespassing on private property.”

Burly Number Two looked at Number One, rolled his eyes, then adjusted his heavy camera. “Let’s go, man.”

“We weren’t talking to him,” Number One replied, frowning at Lucas. “And I just wanted a minute with you, Willa. Just a couple of pictures for this week’s issue.”

“Me, too,” Number Two added, glaring at the other photographer. “We have a much bigger circulation than that rag he works for.”