by Sandra Hill
Daniel nodded at Samantha but continued to scowl.
“He’s not gay,” Tante Lulu told her, just in case she was interested. “And he’s got a butt tighter than the bark on a cypress tree.” Tante Lulu ducked behind Luc as she spoke, just in case Daniel had his hands in throttle position; really, she was smarter than folks gave her credit for.
Samantha favored Daniel with a good once-over. “A doctor, huh? A non-gay doctor with a nice ass? Be still, my heart! My ex-husband Nick was a doctor. Nick the Prick, I like to call him.”
Daniel bared his teeth at her.
Tante Lulu kinda liked the girl. Oh, she was so stuck up she’d probably drown in a rainstorm. Still, she reminded her of Charmaine, except prissy, and not enough va-va-voom in her clothes and makeup. I kin take care of that va-va-voom in no time. Betcha I have a potion ta wipe out those freckle spots, too.
There was only one other person in the conference room. A dapper, gray-haired gentleman with a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a pretty sky-blue shirt, darker blue bow tie, and white plantation suit. And freckles. Well, shut my mouth! Tante Lulu would know him anywhere. Stanley Starr.
She sucked in her tummy and stood straighter. In the old days, that would have caused her bosoms to arch out, but she’d lost her bosoms about twenty years ago, along with her hiney. If she’d known Stan was going to be here today, though, she would have worn her padded panties and inflatable bra, ’ceptin’ last time she had to lie down for an hour, she was so winded from all that blowin’.
“Stan,” she said, cool as could be.
“Louise!” Stan got up and came up to her, giving her a quick kiss on both cheeks. She could swear he pinched her butt, too, but maybe she was mistaken about that. It mighta been her panty hose up in her crotch again. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” He took her by the shoulders and held her several feet away from him, examining her closely. “Pretty as ever.”
“Oh, good Lord!” she heard Daniel say behind her.
“Ditto,” Samantha said, equally disgusted.
Young folks thought that just because a person got old their juices all dried up. She could tell them a thing or two.
“I didn’t invite the rest of the board today,” Samantha said. “I figured we would have some preliminary discussions first.”
Everyone was pulling out chairs, and Samantha went over to a silver coffee service on a sideboard. She raised her eyes at each of them before pouring.
“You still inta Elvis lak ya usta be, Stan?” Tante Lulu asked, noticing a bunch of Elvis stuff on the walls.
“Oh, yeah! None of that Muzak crap in our supermarkets. Elvis all the way.”
Samantha rolled her eyes and set cups of strong Creole coffee before them all before sitting down across from her, next to her grandfather. Luc and Daniel bracketed her on the other side.
Stanley took off his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. Tante Lulu about melted when she noticed his red suspenders and sleeve garters. Whoo-boy, she did love a sharp-dressed man in suspenders and garters.
“Let’s get down to business,” Luc said. “My aunt wants to start a foundation centered on families—keeping families together. Can you help us?”
Samantha spent the next fifteen minutes explaining how the Starr Wish Foundation started after Hurricane Katrina, its mission, funding, and everyday operation. Turns out Samantha worked in the accounting department of Starr Foods but was also chairman of the foundation board.
“Sounds daunting,” Luc said with a long sigh.
“It is...or at least it was. Took us more than a year to just get set up.”
“I cain’t wait that long.”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“What’s the hurry?” Samantha asked.
“I’m eighty-somethin’. I might be dead t’morrow.”
Luc and Daniel gave her slanty-eyed looks. Luc knew enough not to say anything, but that dumb cluck Daniel said, “Eighty-something? You wish!”
“Give or take.”
“There might be an alternative,” Samantha said. “I’ve had a chance to think about this since Luc called me last week, and I’ve discussed various ideas with my grandfather and the foundation board. What would you think about partnering with us on a foundation?”
“Oh, I doan know—” Tante Lulu started to say.
“Now, hear me out,” Samantha urged. “I could take over full-time with the foundation. The two foundations could work under one umbrella. One dealing with wishes, as we’ve been doing. The other with family, as you’ve indicated. There would be savings in cost of administration and cooperative funding. Really, it could be a win-win situation.”
“What would you gain from it?” Daniel asked.
Samantha shot him a glare, then addressed her comments to her and Luc. “Money, for one thing.”
Daniel snickered.
Samantha ignored him and continued. “Fresh ideas. Serving more people. Let me give you one example where working together could be a good idea. Suppose you have a family where the mother and father die in a car accident, leaving behind their little adopted son, who is still in foster care. The little boy wishes they could find his real mom. So, it’s granting wishes and reuniting families.”
“Some of them charities Grace supports fer pregnant teenagers might even get involved,” Tante Lulu mused. “Like tracin’ lost parents and kids. Would it be any faster than us settin’ up our own charity?”
“Lots faster,” Samantha answered. “A matter of weeks, or more likely months, I would think. If you go out on your own—and you have a perfect right to do so—I guarantee it will take at least a year before you can do any business. Plus, we already have offices.”
“Why don’t you give us a complete proposal, with ideas, costs, the whole works, and we’ll meet again...let’s say, one week from today.” Luc looked to Tante Lulu for approval.
She nodded. “One thing, though. I was kinda hopin’ ta name my charity Cajun Knights. You know, like knights in shining armor.”
Daniel’s mouth dropped open, but Luc preempted him. “Uh-uh. That would imply only males being the rescuers.”
“Ya got a point there.”
“You can name your foundation anything you want...within reason,” Samantha said. “Maybe we could call the umbrella organization something like Louisiana Hope Foundation. Our division would be Starr Wishes, and yours could be...whatever?”
“Sounds good to me,” Luc said. “What do you think, Tante Lulu? What would yours be named? LeDeux Dreams? Or Lulu’s Dream?” He grinned at his own suggestions.
“Nope.” She didn’t even hesitate. “Jude’s Angels.”
Even angels need a little help from above...
Angel Sabato surveyed the crowded room at the Swamp Tavern, then cracked his knuckles. He was hot tonight.
Hot and determined.
It had been three weeks since Tante Lulu’s call, but he’d had business matters to tie up in Jersey before heading south. The green-eyed witch might have given him the big kiss-off a year ago, but she wouldn’t escape him this time.
As he eased his way into the tavern, more than a few women eyed him with interest. Nothing new there. He might be thirty-four years old, but he filled out his six-foot-one frame nicely, thank you very much. Good genes from his Mexican mother—and that was about all she’d given him before overdosing on her favorite addiction du jour—and his absentee-from-birth Italian father. Thank God for the navy, which he’d entered at sixteen, lying about his age. The military managed to straighten him out when nothing else had and gave him an education, too.
Appearance aside, he wasn’t looking for action tonight; hadn’t been for a long time, truth to tell. Nope, there was only one woman in his carnal crosshairs.
But there was no rush. He had a plan this time. No shock-and-awe declaration of love. No hasty wedding proposal. In fact, he planned to pretty much ignore her, at first, or pretend to ignore her. His pride demanded a little retribution. He’d been a
player in the dating wars for too many years to have been so clumsy last year. This time would be different. He didn’t intend to chase his tail forever, but if he was giving it one more shot, he was damn sure going to be a sharpshooter.
With loud Cajun music piercing his eardrums, something about Louisiana men being hot stuff, it took him ten minutes to weave his way over to the bar. “Excuse me.”
“Oops!”
“Sorry.”
“Ouch!” Once there, he waved a hand to the bartender, indicating he would have whatever was on tap. After slapping a couple of bills down with a nod of thanks, he turned, took a long draw on the foamy brew, and leaned back, bracing his elbows against the bar.
He saw now that it was the Swamp Rats onstage playing their usual rowdy music, having now segued into “Big Mamou.” The tiny dance floor and all the empty spaces between tables were filled with laughing couples doing an energetic Cajun two-step. Above the stage was a wide banner proclaiming, “Louisiana Hope Foundation: Starr Wishes and Jude’s Angels.” There had been a hefty fifty-dollar cover charge to get in tonight, and by the size of the crowd he figured they were raking in the cash, for a good cause.
The song ended, and René LeDeux stepped up to the microphone. Angel had met René and the rest of the crazy LeDeux clan when on a project here last year with Jinx.
“We’re not going to have our usual LeDeux Cajun Village People act tonight, folks,” René said.
Groans and boos and hisses resounded through the room.
“Now, now, we got somethin’ even better. And don’t forget, all door receipts will go to this new foundation about to be formed, which will grant wishes to people and families in need right here in Loo-zee-anna.”
While he’d been speaking, a group of about three dozen men and women lined up behind him, having come from back stage. The men were in varied, sometimes outrageous, attire...cop, cowboy, construction worker, football player, soldier, firefighter, even a pirate, while some of the women were dressed in short, tight sheath dresses and kickass high heels, but there was also a Miss Louisiana runner-up in a strapless gown and tiara, a beach bunny in bikini and see-through sarong cover-up, a cowgirl, and a female bodybuilder who could probably bench-press a bus. He recognized Grace right away, at the back, wearing a shimmery black knee-length sleeveless dress and strappy gold stilettos. Her red curls were a bit longer than a year ago, and she seemed to be wearing makeup—not her usual style—but other than that, she was the same. Just right.
“We’re gonna have us an auction here, folks. You’ve heard of penny a dance, right? How ’bout dollar a dance—lots of dollars?”
The crowd hooted and hollered.
“Here’s the rules. You are bidding on two dances with these fine folks behind me. Dances only! I leave it up to you to fast-talk your way into anything more than a dance.” René winked meaningfully. “Once you’re declared the winner, the partner you’ve chosen will come down and accept the cash or check, made out to Louisiana Hope Foundation. No credit cards, please. You’ll all wait ’til the auction is over to begin dancing. Any questions? Okay, folks, let’s have us some fun...Loo-zee-anna style.” Wild cheering took place ’til the first victim—uh, auction offering—stepped forth.
“Ooooh, baby, lookee who’s number one on the block. Lafayette’s very own Skip Dupree, 2001 National Rodeo Champion. Ladies, all I can say is, if Skip dances as well as he rides, well, whoo-ee!”
Skip flashed René a glower that could cut ice, not that René gave a damn. Clearly, someone—probably Tante Lulu—had talked the mini-celebrity into this nonsense, which he was now regretting.
“Okay, let’s start at a hundred. Who’ll give me a hundred? Got one hundred. Now two? And three? Don’t slow down. Four, four, four...four from a new bidder on the left. Lilly Belle Ginot, don’t you be hidin’ over there in the corner. I heard you’re a Skip Dupree fan from way back. Are ya really gonna let these other ladies beat you out?”
Although he was no professional auctioneer, René had the rapid-fire chant down pat, all complemented by his slick Cajun shtick.
The young lady, Lilly Belle, ducked her head and tried to blend into the crowd, to no avail. Finally, she gave in and yelled, “Six hundred!”
“Thank you very much, but, ladies, let’s be serious. You know that song ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’? Well, I’m not sayin’ it was written about good ol’ Skip here, but...”
Skip shot a glance of disbelief at René. All the other folks behind them on the stage started to fidget, wondering what the outrageous Cajun would do to them when their turns came up.
The bidding soon ended with René yelling out, “Going...going...sold! For fifteen hundred dollars. To the pretty lady from up N’awleans way. Sorry, Lilly Belle. Maybe you could try for the Houma construction worker comin’ up soon. I hear he has a hot...hammer.”
Skip swaggered down off the stage on his bowlegs to connect with his dancing partner. Angel didn’t have to be able to read lips to know what he muttered to René before he left. Two words. Began with F and ended with U.
A NASCAR driver, Boots Larson, got this introduction: “I hear tell his sponsor is DieHard, and it’s not just his auto parts that earned that title.” Boots was young enough and dumb enough to think he’d been given a compliment. He topped off at nine hundred dollars.
A New Orleans Saints player brought the bidding up higher again, to eleven hundred. René got a lot of mileage over teasing, “I guess us guys have learned a lesson here. Women love rodeo more than football,” which garnered much laughter, until said football player, not to be outdone, tugged off his jersey and did a bump and grind around the stage to a couple bars of that Monday Night Football song from the band. That little act brought the bidding up to thirteen hundred dollars.
Police Lieutenant John LeDeux’s partner, Tank Woodrow, wearing a cop uniform, which he probably hadn’t worn in years, seemed to stall at a measly three hundred dollars, which René tried to imply meant that rodeo riders and football players were sexier than cops. But Tank wasn’t buying. No way was he taking off his shirt, even when René reminded him that this was for a good cause. “And don’t you dare pull that DieHard/cowboy crap on me,” Tank was heard to mutter at René.
Of course, that just caused René to say, “I’m not sayin’ Tank here has buns of steel, but a little birdie tol’ me that he sets off the metal detectors at the N’awleans airport.” Tank gave up with a disgusted shake of his head as the bidding went up quickly to five hundred dollars.
The beauty queen garnered three hundred dollars, while the bathing beauty got five hundred. The owner of a belly-dancing school, a friend of Charmaine LeDeux, wearing an honest-to-God hottie harem outfit, got a rise from the crowd, pun intended, by giving a demonstration of her talents. She brought in six hundred dollars.
On and on the auction went until customers were starting to get restless and thirsty, with only three people left to be auctioned. A stunning brunette from Baton Rouge, who was a weather girl for one of the TV stations; Grace; and an air force top-gun pilot who looked like Tom Cruise, but taller.
He would have liked to place a bid on Grace, a really big bid, then stroll through the cheering crowd up to the stage, where he would pick her up in his arms, carry her off to a corner, let her slide down his body, and then say, “Honey, I’m home.”
But no, the direct MO hadn’t worked the last time.
On the other hand, he could bid on the brunette. That would be in-your-face, take-that-Grace. Nope. Too suspicious and in some ways downright mean.
Timing was everything. In poker. In life. In love.
So, with a deep sigh, he set his half-empty bottle on the bar and walked toward the exit. He wouldn’t stick around to watch another man dancing with Grace. But he gave one last glance up at her and murmured, “Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett.”
Chuckling, he added, “And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn if you resist or not. You. Are. Mine!”
The strangest thing
happened then. As he opened the door of his rental pickup, he could swear he heard a thunderbolt in the distance, and there, sitting on the driver’s seat, was a small St. Jude statue.
Chapter 5
Beware of old ladies with friends in high places...
“That was fun,” Grace told Tante Lulu as she drove them back to their respective cottages.
“If it was so much fun, how come ya dint go home with that lawyer what bought two dances with you?”
“He couldn’t keep his hands to himself—even dancing.”
“I knowed a man like that once. His name was Octavius, but we called him Octy-puss. ’Course, iffen it’s the right man, a woman doan mind a little wanderin’ fingers.” Grace smiled, not about to ask if she’d experienced a man handling her that way. Knowing Tante Lulu, she would tell her. In detail.
After a year of living next to and working with the old lady, she was coming to love her and her outspokenness, almost as much as her LeDeux family did. In fact, she treated Grace like family. Something Grace hadn’t had for many years.
As she went down the two-lane road, not a streetlight for miles, she relished the starlit sky and the heady smell of tropical flowers wafting through their open windows. In many ways, traveling through southern Louisiana was like going back a half century or more to the days of roadside advertising signs and small general stores that sold everything from bait to bread.
“I bet the auction brought in plenty of money for the foundation,” Grace remarked.
“Yep. I never did think it would take so much, though, even with the cash I put in. And it’s movin’ so slow; a three-legged turtle could make faster progress, I do declare.” She sighed deeply. “Guess it’s like cookin’. Cain’t rush a good gumbo.”
“Well, at least we can start on the house for the Duvals, right?” Lena and her siblings were still living in Grace’s three-bedroom cottage now that school was out for the summer, with Tante Lulu, Grace, and other family members sharing responsibility. That was the easy part. Ducking Child Protective Services was the hard part.