Christmas, Alabama

by Susan Sands

  “I’m thinking maybe the cat and dog as siblings weren’t the most inspired idea your husband ever had,” Rachel said.

  Ben returned then with the peroxide and bandages. “Wrong. It’s how I got Sabine to agree to marry me.” He grinned. “Plus, asking her in front of the whole town didn’t hurt.”

  Sabine laughed. “The cat and the dog are a mixed bag, but I was a cat person and he was a dog person, so I guess it was a selling point. And it would have been hard to say no considering the position you put me in.” Sabine elbowed Ben in the ribs.

  “Everything went according to plan.” He squatted down to where Rachel’s injured leg was resting. “This is going to sting a little.”

  “Ouch!”

  He laid a gauze square over the scratches and taped around it with steri-strips. “All better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “This will make it better.” Her mother handed her Janie, and she totally forgot about her very minor injuries.

  “Boo-boo?” Janie lightly touched her leg.

  She was the cutest thing ever. “Yes, Ala and Bama were naughty and gave me a boo-boo.”

  Janie touched her chubby fingers to her lips and then to the bandage. “Kiss boo-boo. All better.”

  Rachel might as well just have melted into a puddle on the floor right there. “All better. Thank you, Janie. Auntie Rachel loves you so much.” She picked up her squishy little niece and proceeded to play all their giggly games—The Fanny Wiggle Walk being the all-time favorite.

  This town might not have much to offer a young single woman as far as excitement was concerned, but it had her family, and for now that was quite enough.

  Chapter Four

  Nick treated a compound bow hunting accident gone wrong, where the arrow ended up in the hind quarters of a human wielding the bow instead of his prey. Nick wasn’t sure how that had happened. Fortunately, it was more humiliating to the bow-bearer than a serious injury. A teen boy was admitted with side pain that was presenting as appendicitis, the usual kitchen knife injury from holiday food prep, and then, almost as if Suzette had fated it, a case of constipation in an elderly woman.

  When his shift ended, Nick filled out charts and paperwork, much like he did in Atlanta. Besides the slow drawls of the staff, he continued to be amazed at the up-to-date facility and efficiency of everyone here. There were more bless your hearts and promises to pray for one another by staff and other patients. But that didn’t bother Nick. Kindnesses of any kind never had. He’d been raised in a church-going family, though nothing like the small-town churches here, he believed in prayer and blessings. It wasn’t uncommon in Atlanta, a Southern city, to hear some of the same. Many of the patients there were brought in from smaller towns and suburbs outside the city to receive a higher level of care than was available in their more rural areas.

  As he drove back to the motel at the edge of town, he remembered the phone number Suzette had handed him on a piece of paper, along with all the others. “Now, you might want to give Mrs. Wiggins a call. She owns a big old house in the middle of town and has an available apartment to rent, last I heard. Dr. Dawson’s girlfriend moved out and left with him last week. I haven’t heard that anyone else has rented it. If I didn’t have a husband to live with, I’d take it. It’s a cool place.”

  Nick guessed she would know, because isn’t that how it worked in a town this size? Everybody knew pretty much everything? But he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to grab a prime place to rent, because it wasn’t likely such places were easy to come by on short notice.

  He hadn’t brought much stuff with him, so hopefully the apartment had the basic furnishings. He would know soon enough. But first, he stopped by what appeared to be the local diner that looked as if it had been around for at least a hundred years, judging from the retro architecture of the building and the sign. He hoped the food was edible. The dozen or so cars in the parking lot must be a good sign.

  The bell on the front door jingled as he walked in. There were several folks sitting in booths who looked up with interest as his arrival. The faces were a mix of young and old. It was around eight o’clock in the evening, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

  “Well, hey there, young man, you must be our new doctor.”

  Nick turned toward the voice. A woman who likely was involved in the ribbon-cutting at the opening of the diner stood, her short hair dyed bright red. She grinned, showing her two or three remaining teeth. “Hi. Yes, how did you know?”

  “Aw, sugar, we’ve been expecting you. Don’t get many strangers in town, you know.” She laughed—more of a smoker’s cackle really. “I’m Thelma, come on over and have a seat, Doc.” She led Nick to a booth with upholstered seats in worn red Naugahyde.

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nick Sullivan.”

  “Aw, aren’t you sweet.” She blushed, or at least that’s what it resembled. She shook his hand, her face crinkling and reddening.

  “Do you have a menu?” he asked.

  She laughed again. “Sure, honey.” She reached behind the counter and handed him a well-worn laminated menu that looked again to be as old as the diner itself. “Don’t get many requests for menus. Most folks have it memorized and just order their favorites. Haven’t added anything new in a long time.”

  He took a moment to look through the local fare.

  “I’ll get you a drink while you look, if you’d like,” Thelma suggested.

  “Okay. I’ll take a decaf and a glass of water. Thanks.”

  “Sure thing. Be right back.” She shuffled away, her scuffed white orthopedic shoes a throwback to earlier times.

  “You might want to stick with the patty melt and hash browns as a newcomer,” a male voice from behind said.

  Nick turned to see an older man, a dead ringer for one of his favorite actors, Sam Elliott, wearing a plaid shirt sitting across the booth grinning. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

  The man nodded. “Name’s Howard.”

  “Nick Sullivan,” Nick replied.

  Thelma set the glasses in front of him with a thunk. “Howard, don’t you be harassing my customers, you hear?” Thelma challenged.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.” Howard/Sam blew Thelma a kiss.

  Thelma narrowed her eyes at Howard. “Howard used to be some kind of spy or something. That’s all we know. He married Maureen Laroux, so he’s one of us now. But he’s a real pain in the butt, you know?” Thelma said this in a conspiratorial tone, but Nick could tell she adored Howard despite her words.

  “You know I’ve got your back, Thelma,” Howard said. Even his voice sounded like Same Elliott’s.

  Nick broke this exchange up by saying, “I’m going to take Howard’s advice, Miss Thelma. I’ll have the patty melt and hash browns, please.”

  “Coming right up.” Thelma nodded, and shot Howard the stink-eye.

  “Don’t pay any mind to Thelma. She has an active imagination. Welcome to Ministry.”

  “Thanks. Seems like a nice place,” Nick said. “Did Thelma say you were married to Maureen Laroux? Is she hosting the big Laroux family Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow?”

  Howards bushy gray eyebrows lifted. “Yep. You coming?” Howard, man of few words, asked.

  “Yes. I was invited by Sabine Laroux today.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Look forward to it.” Howard stood then, and left a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and turned to leave. “Happy Thanksgiving everybody.” He raised a hand to the folks in the diner just before heading out the door. The response was returned enthusiastically.

  This place was from a storybook. Like every made-for-television movie he’d ever seen. Nick sat and ate his old-fashioned patty melt in this authentic diner—he couldn’t even call it retro because it was the real deal—and pondered his current reality.

  If he sat and thought about it, he might work himself up into a panic attack. Well, maybe not that, but the reality of where he’d landed sank in. He wasn’t in
Atlanta anymore. And here he would stay until the new year. Would the job be available at Emory when he returned, or were they just yanking his chain? The patty melt became hard to swallow suddenly.

  Rachel loaded her camera, as she planned to take candid photos today during the family get-together. Funny how she considered herself part of Sabine’s husband’s family. The Larouxs did that to people. They pulled a person in and made them feel as if they belonged. Sabine hadn’t had that sense of belonging within a community since she’d been a little girl living in uptown New Orleans, where private schools, the country club, and tight-knit social circles had created a safe and happy childhood for Rachel and Sabine.

  Of course, their father had been the District Attorney of Orleans Parish, and they’d had all the privilege of wealth and status. Rachel was involved in every club and activity available because she’d been constantly seeking something new and challenging. She’d attended an all-girls’ school and had been a fierce competitor in academics and sports. She’d been athletic and had lettered in tennis and soccer in high school. She’d also loved art and drama. There’d never been a dull moment.

  Sabine, on the other hand, had been the exact opposite. She was excessively bookish. She’d spent most of her time reading with her cats, which had seemed boring to Rachel, who never sat still. The two girls looked nearly identical, though Rachel was a few inches taller, but they’d had such diverse interests, it was hard to understand one another as teens. But they were closer now than they’d ever been. The events of the last few years had done that.

  Things began to change for the family when he’d brought their half-brother, James home one day and explained the situation to their mother. Dad had fathered a child with a cocaine-addicted debutante, who’d passed away. Mom never viewed Dad the same, but, saint that she was, took James in and tried her best to raise him as her own. But their father spoiled him, not allowing him to be disciplined, due to his sad birth circumstances. The result was a holy terror in their home who screamed the place down when things didn’t go his way, and when he got older, he became meaner.

  Sabine and Rachel had had to lock their doors to keep him out of their rooms when he was little. They’d tried absolutely everything to love him and incorporate him into their home and lives. But he refused to be anything but a nightmare.

  James only listened to their father now, and only then because Dad held the purse strings to keep James in line. James had graduated from Tulane Law, so he was an intelligent, and very good-looking young man, but he lacked human compassion.

  As Rachel dressed, she thought about her family and their Thanksgivings past. They’d had a great big house on St. Charles Avenue right off the streetcar line in the prettiest part of the city. There was a brick wall surrounding the backyard that served as something right out of The Secret Garden. There’d been a pool, a gazebo, and lush semi-tropical gardens year-round. Holidays were always spent together as a family. Meals were massive and prepared mostly by her mother’s hands, with the help of the elderly Hattie, her mother’s right hand and dear friend, who’d worked for them throughout their childhoods.

  Hattie had a hand in raising Sabine and Rachel, and even James, but she had passed away during the worst of the drama between their parents, which had made all of it so much harder to bear.

  Dad wasn’t here for Thanksgiving this year. The past two years he’d been incarcerated in the criminal detention center a couple hours from here. The white-collar prison had been a slap on the hand compared to the punishment the media suggested he deserved for his crimes. Rachel hated to think about all that. Dad’s misdeeds had been criminal, and he’d hurt a lot of people, so it had been hard to be his children through the trial, and after.

  And before. Because before the trial, he’d been exposed for having several affairs after James had come to live with them. He’d cheated on their mother publically, then behaved as if Mom should just take it in stride as the wife of a powerful political figure. Mom hadn’t taken it in stride. And Dad had made it impossible for her to get a divorce. He’d used his connections and influence to keep her with him. Because, despite everything, he loved her. It was ugly and messy and very confusing for Rachel and Sabine.

  It had been emotionally damaging to them all. Then, it all hit the fan when the charges were brought against Dad for all the illegal things: jury tampering, collusion, and numerous other offenses. He’d sworn he was trying to keep the bad guys from getting off on technicalities by ensuring the charges stuck. He’d turn a blind eye to the law and justice system somewhere along the way. It meant all the convictions during his twenty years as assistant district attorney and district attorney were called into question and had to be retried.

  Many of the involved parties were now dead, and much of the evidence gone missing or considered tampered with, or inadmissible. It was a continuing disaster for Parish and would be for many years.

  So, the entire Prudhomme family bore the cloak and the stain of their father’s sins. That’s just how it was, especially in a place like New Orleans, where the political stew was rife with corruption already. Of course, Dad saw very little wrong with his brand of justice, save getting caught. Even now, while he hated that he’d hurt his family, his true regret was not having done more to bring more criminals to justice.

  Rachel shook her head to clear it, trying to keep from being dragged down by this yet again. These Alabama folks didn’t care so much about her past in New Orleans. They knew about it, and every now and then, someone tried to get the lowdown on her ex-con father, probably because it was pretty interesting, so Rachel supposed she couldn’t blame them. It was a rather fascinating story. Maybe someday she would write the family memoirs. In fifty or so years.

  Rachel glanced in the mirror to check her appearance before leaving. Her eyes were a slightly deeper color than Sabine’s, more toward blue than that cool silver. She had a slimmer build and pretty much towered over her curvier sister. Rachel felt like Lurch next to Sabine, no matter how much they resembled one another.

  Just as Rachel had slung her camera bag and purse over her shoulder, a knock sounded at the door. She frowned, not expecting anyone.

  “Hellooo—” she heard Mrs. Wiggins’s creaky, high pitched voice on the other side of the door.

  Rachel smiled and turned the knob. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Wiggins!”

  “Well, Happy Thanksgiving to you too, dear.” Mrs. Wiggins was about four-foot-eleven in her one-inch wedges. She held a small tin of something in her hands.

  “That smells wonderful.”

  “It’s shortbread. I make it every Thanksgiving. I wanted to bring you some while it was still warm.” The little lady shoved it into Rachel’s hands.

  “How special. Thank you.” Rachel leaned down and hugged her sweet landlord.

  “It looks like you’re on your way out, so I won’t keep you.”

  Something niggled at Rachel about this. “Do you have plans today?”

  “Well, no. My granddaughter was going to come pick me up, but her car isn’t working, and she’s not going to make it.”

  “Well, I insist you join me at The Evangeline House. Miss Maureen wouldn’t hear of my leaving you here alone on Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

  Rachel didn’t allow her to finish. “Of course you wouldn’t be intruding. Did you want to get a sweater?”

  “I’ve got one right here.” The elderly woman whipped out her tiny grandma sweater from a hook on a door in the hallway. Where had that even come from? Rachel was slightly amused, but happy to bring Mrs. Wiggins along as her guest, knowing a hundred percent that it would be expected should any of the Larouxs find out Mrs. Wiggins was alone today.

  When Nick arrived at The Evangeline House, it sounded through the heavy old mahogany door as if a party was in full swing. He rang the bell, but no one answered. He knocked hard. No answer. So, figuring he would be out here all day otherwise, he opened the door slowly. The scene tha
t greeted him was a brand of chaos he’d not expected at such a grand establishment.

  Amidst the lush fall décor, there were children running amok—and animals—two big dogs being terrorized by a large furry cat, if his eyes didn’t deceive him. And then there were adults, who behaved as if none of this were occurring right under their noses, and feet. He counted at least three, no four gorgeous pregnant women, including Sabine Laroux, and a couple babies in arms. What a menagerie.

  “Oh, there you are. Happy Thanksgiving.” Sabine caught sight of him standing there, likely with his mouth open in shock, and possibly horror. She excused herself from speaking with a young African American woman who was also smiling and very pregnant.

  He plastered a smile on his face and returned her hug as a greeting, remembering he was holding a bottle of wine and a large mixed bouquet of flowers. He’d stopped by the market after his shift yesterday and fought the crowd who were snapping up all the last-minute items for today’s festivities.

  “Happy Thanksgiving. These are for the hostess,” he said. The much-spoken-about Maureen Laroux must be around here someplace.

  “How sweet. Come with me and I’ll introduce you. She and Rosie are in the kitchen.” Sabine grabbed his hand and led him out of the main room.

  He noticed the interested but welcoming glances darting his way as they moved toward what he guessed was the kitchen. It was a huge and charming renovated mansion, clearly used for entertaining large groups. The place seemed to go on endlessly. The day was mild, so the back-patio doors were opened wide, allowing the guests to spill out onto a gorgeous outdoor area.

  Were all these people family? He hadn’t seen Rachel, Sabine’s sister, in the crowd yet. Not that she was why he came, but it would be nice to see another familiar face. And hers wasn’t hard to look at, he had to admit.

  They entered the kitchen through a swinging door. An older woman wearing potholders on her arms was just turning around from pulling a large foil-covered pan from the giant oven. A milar-aged black woman was slicing a loaf of bread. Both looked up as they entered.