by Sandra Hill
He stared at her quizzically, and she saw the moment that understanding dawned. “Spit it out, Sylv. What great sin have I committed now? I’ve been seeing that expression on people’s faces since I was five years old. Even when I tried to do good, it came out wrong. ‘Bad boy of the bayou.’ What did I do this time?”
She almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. “There was no love potion.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. There was no love potion in the jelly beans you ate.”
He gaped at her, wide-eyed with wonder. “How…why…but you said…”
“There was a mix-up in petri dishes. I thought you ate the ones with my enzymes in them, but apparently you ate the neutral set.”
Then Luc did something she never expected. He began to laugh…and laugh…and laugh. He couldn’t seem to stop. He slapped his knee. He swiped at his eyes. Every time he seemed to be over his bout of hysteria, he started up all over again.
“You think this is funny?”
“I think this is hilarious, and you should, too, Sylv. It means that I was in love with you all along, and I didn’t need any damn love potion to jump-start my heart.”
She gasped. “No, that’s not what it means. It means that you played a game with me from the moment I told you that you’d swallowed those jelly beans. It was just one more form of teasing Sylvie Fontaine. How you must have been laughing behind my back!”
“Sylv, you can’t possibly believe that,” he said, jumping to his feet and pulling her up with him.
But she was deadly serious.
Luc felt everything that was important to him slipping away. Yanking a resisting Sylvie into his embrace forcibly, he hugged her fiercely, whispering against her neck, “Please, please, please…”
He wasn’t sure what he was begging for. Understanding? A second chance? Forgiveness? What?
Then it occurred to him. All he wanted from Sylvie was love. Such a little thing, and yet so very much.
He took her face in both his hands and set her away from him slightly. Tears were streaming down her face, but he did not care now. There were more important things on his mind.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me that you love me. Everything else can be worked out if we have that as a starting point. Oh, God, Sylv, just say the words.”
Her lips worked, but nothing came out.
He dropped his hands from her face and stepped back…waiting.
Nothing.
This was just a misunderstanding…that she would actually think he’d pretended to be attracted to her…but saying the words now would be meaningless. And his intentions had been pure in making the announcement to the press about JBX. Hell, since when had it become a crime to make a mistake? Comprehension would come later for Sylvie, but there were greater things at stake first. Like love, and its foundation: trust.
If he hadn’t known it before, he knew now just how strong and deeply ingrained were the biases and preconceptions that people held about him.
“Sylvie, I love you,” he said with all the earnestness he could muster. “Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe about your feelings now. But not for one minute do I think you felt that way all those times in the beginning when you claimed to be under the spell of a love potion. And if you lied then, why not now?”
“For what purpose, Sylv?”
“Logic says—”
“Screw logic! What does your heart say?”
She flinched at his vehemence.
Luc raked the fingers of both hands through his hair, still unused to its shorter length, and stalked around the room. How to get through to the stubborn woman?
Suddenly, he stopped, noticing the two separate cages.
“What’s wrong with Samson and Delilah? How come you separated them?”
Sylvie shrugged. “Delilah can’t stand Samson anymore.”
“Really? Just like that?”
She nodded, a sad expression in her eyes. “I guess the love potion wore off.”
The silence between them was telling. If the love between Samson and Delilah faded so easily, why not theirs?
No, he refused to think like that.
“Sylv, what do you want from me?”
“N-nothing,” she answered. If it weren’t for the hesitancy in her voice, Luc would have reached over and shaken the bejesus out of her.
“Do you need more time?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think time is going to heal this one, Luc.”
Her words had the ring of finality to them.
“Do you want me to leave?” he inquired, not really expecting her to answer in the positive.
“I think that would be best,” she said in a wavering whisper.
Luc could barely breathe past the lump in his throat. He was angry and frustrated and hurt. “I pity you, Sylv. I really do.”
She tilted her head in question.
“I thought that each of us had grown in some way during those days we spent together…each as a result of the other. I know that I acknowledged some things about myself, realized I’ve spent a lifetime living down to other people’s expectations. Well, no more. If people want to call me The Swamp Solicitor or ‘the bad boy of the bayou,’ well, let ’em. From now on, my self-identity comes from here,” he said, pounding a fist over his heart. “You taught me that.”
Sylvie put the fingertips of both hands to her mouth to stifle a sob, but he wasn’t done with her yet.
“You, on the other hand, have been trying to live up to other people’s expectations. And you’re still doing it. Go ahead, Sylv, revert to your old crutch…the shyness and aloofness. Crawl back in your shell and look for a safe man. Judge me all you want, but it’s got to be god-awful lonely up there on that pedestal all by yourself.”
Luc turned on his heel and made his way toward the front door with a haze of tears in his eyes. His pride was the only thing carrying him forward.
Ironically, just before he left Sylvie’s house, he had a crazy thought. Wouldn’t it be nice if there really were a love potion? If only he could have Sylvie pop a pill and love him again!
He started up his Jeep, and if the jalopy hadn’t been making its usual rumbling commotion, he might have heard the feminine voice behind him, calling out from Sylvie’s front door, “Luc, come back!”
But it was too late.
Chapter Eighteen
“I have a present for you,” Tante Lulu said without preamble when Sylvie opened her front door.
It was a week later. Luc hadn’t called her, she hadn’t called him, and life was miserable. So, actually, Sylvie welcomed a little distraction. Only she’d been hoping it was Luc. They’d both been involved in an unspoken battle of wills over who would take the first step.
First steps were hell. She was learning that lesson too well as the days separating them grew.
Her life was going down the toilet and Luc had apparently given up on her, no thanks to Sylvie’s stubborn pride, and here was his aunt about to give her a gift. “A pre-present?” she stammered.
“Yep,” the old lady said. She was wearing bib overalls today and a John Deere cap. There was a tiny insignia near the shoulder strap that read, “Redneck this!” surrounded by what looked like “the finger,” but Sylvie didn’t want to peer too close. Maybe it was a rake or rifle or cigarette or bottle of booze or something.
It was not surprising when Tante Lulu added with a jerk of her head toward the street, “Can you help me get your present out of my truck?”
A pickup truck. What else! “Can I assume you traded in the Harley?”
“Luc made me do it. The boy has no sense of humor anymore. I tell you, chère, he’s lost his joie de vivre.” She sliced Sylvie with a glower that clearly laid the blame on her.
But maybe that was a good sign…that Luc was no longer joyous. If he was as miserable as she was, perhaps he was ready to crack. Yep, he would probably be ready to take the first step any minute now.
Yeah, right.
Sylvie helped Tante Lulu carry a huge cardboard carton about the size of a refrigerator crate, only much lighter, into the house, with a little assistance from two passing neighbor boys. When it was sitting in Sylvie’s den, Sylvie went for a butcher knife to cut open the box, and a puffing Tante Lulu glanced around the room, her gaze stopping on the two rat cages.
“Aren’t you going to ask why I separated Samson and Delilah?” Sylvie inquired as she began working on the carton.
“Nope. I can see why. That mama’s about ready to drop a litter of rats.”
“Huh?” Sylvie straightened and glanced at the rat cage holding Delilah, who now that it was mentioned, did look a mite chubby. Then Sylvie glanced at Tante Lulu. “I separated them when Delilah seemed to lose interest in Samson. I assumed it was because the love potion had worn off.”
“Well, of course, she lost interest. I been catchin’ babies down on the bayou for forty years and more. Mos’ women start gettin’ tetchy round their menfolks as the time approaches. Those randy goats are the one’s who put them in this predicament, dontcha see? You should hear the language that comes out of the mouths of some of those females when the big pain hits.” She rolled her eyes and made an “Aiyeee!” sound. “Don’ worry none. Delilah will be hot to trot again, once the little ones are born.”
Sylvie threw her head back and laughed gloriously…the first time she’d laughed in such a long time. How could she not have seen what was going on in front of her nose?
That thought brought her up short, and she tapped her forefinger against her chin pensively. Was it possible there were other things she’d failed to see, too? Suddenly, new hope sprang up in Sylvie…hope that the love potion really did work, and hope for her and Luc, too.
“You gonna open your present or not?” Tante Lulu grumbled. “I gotta get down to the bingo hall by seven. There’s a thousand-dollar jackpot tonight. Wanna come?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
Sylvie worked quickly then, opening the carton, then discarding a ton of bubble paper. When she finally pulled her gift out, and set it in the middle of the room, Sylvie could only stare, slack-jawed with incredulity.
It was a four-foot-tall ceramic statue of St. Jude.
“I figure you could put it out in your rose garden,” Tante Lulu suggested, smiling brightly.
Tante Lulu better not be still harboring ideas about having cow manure delivered to enrich her mostly unsuccessful rose-growing endeavors. It had taken Sylvie all week to get rid of the chickens and clean up her basement. To her surprise, there had also been a dozen eggs.
Sylvie put a fist on one hip and tilted her head questioningly at Tante Lulu. “Are you trying to say that I’m a hopeless case?”
“Ab-so-lute-ly!”
Sylvie had to smile at Tante Lulu’s probably accurate assessment of her. But she wasn’t smiling for long. In fact, when she opened a second package at the bottom of the box, and saw that it contained an exquisite, hand-embroidered wedding coverlet, she started to cry. Despite her first gift, Tante Lulu still had hope for her.
Charmaine arrived then with a suitcase full of beauty supplies, immediately followed by Blanche and Claudia. None of them paid any attention to Sylvie’s quickly swiped tears; in fact, they acted as if weeping were expected of her. They all gave her lame excuses as to why they’d come, but basically the silent message was that they believed Sylvie needed to get her butt in gear and straighten out her life. Tante Lulu nodded her approval of the three women’s endeavors and left for Bingo Heaven.
Charmaine made a tsk-ing sound of dismay as she viewed Tante Lulu’s nonexistent backside in the coveralls as she departed. “God, I hope she finds herself pretty soon.”
To no one’s surprise, the minute they were sitting around her kitchen table with aluminum-foil wraps sticking up from various portions of their heads, like alien antennae, Remy and René arrived.
“Hubba-hubba,” René said.
Remy just chuckled.
Claudia smiled up at Remy, undaunted by the green wax under her eyebrows. It was amazing how she never even blinked at the disfigured side of his face. But then, Sylvie rarely noticed now either.
Remy winked at Claudia.
She blushed. The pink went great with the puke-green.
“Who’s the dude?” Remy asked with a laugh, glancing over at the corner, by the patio door.
“You don’t recognize St. Jude?” Charmaine lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow.
Sylvie had moved the statue from the den to the kitchen. He did look a little different, Sylvie had to admit, with the roguish mustache Claudia had painted on him with eyeliner, the beret Blanche had plopped on his head, and the “Proud to be a Cajun” badge Charmaine had tacked on to his robe.
“Halloween coming early this year?” René inquired, and he wasn’t referring to the statue. He was gaping at the three of them.
“I’m just giving them a few highlights,” Charmaine said defensively of the foil hair spikes, “and Sylvie’s gonna get a little pouf, too.”
“No, no, no. I told you, Charmaine. No pouf,” Sylvie protested, barely moving her lips. She didn’t want to crack the hardened mask on her face.
Charmaine just patted her on the shoulder.
“I think a pouf would look good on you, Sylv,” Blanche commented. “You need a change in your life, hon.”
Not for the first time lately, Sylvie labeled her friend a traitor. Sylvie thought she’d had more than enough change lately, but she was unable to get out that many words. Besides, no one listened to her anyhow. They just kept talking about how miserable Luc was. Didn’t they care how miserable she was?
“Yep, the best thing for a broken heart is a makeover,” Charmaine was saying.
“Sylvie has a broken heart?” Remy and René asked hopefully.
“What are you two doing here?” Blanche inquired.
René tossed several flyers onto the table. “You’re all invited.”
It appeared that a fais do do—a Cajun dance—was being held to benefit the Southern Louisiana Shrimpers Association and two dozen families who’d lost their boats and their livelihood due to the recent pollution problems. It would include a talent show, dancing, and ethnic foods, all for a whopping one-hundred-dollar admission fee.
“What about the settlement money?” Sylvie questioned through thinned lips, still unable to speak normally because of her masked face.
“The five-million-dollar settlement is all well and good, but who knows when we’ll actually receive it. Could be years. In the meantime, there are some families in dire need,” René explained.
“We expect you all to be there,” Remy pronounced. “If I can be bulldozed into helping, the least you all can do is show up.”
Sylvie wanted to ask if Luc would attend, but her pride still stood in the way.
“You, especially.” Remy stared pointedly at her.
“Me?” She put a palm over her heart.
“You,” Remy emphasized. “You owe us after what you’ve done to our brother. He’s actually turned”—Remy paused to shudder—“respectable.” You’d think respectable was a dirty word by the way his upper lip curled with revulsion.
“Huh?” all the women said.
“Not only did he get a haircut, but he wears suits all the time. Doesn’t drink. Works eight hours a day. Says he doesn’t like booze anymore, except of course for beer, which doesn’t count. And he even went to church with Tante Lulu last Sunday. Father Phillipe almost swallowed his tongue in the middle of his sermon when he recognized him,” Remy elaborated.
“He’s talkin’ about tradin’ in his Jeep for a BMW,” René noted with horror.
“Sonofabitch! A coonass in a yuppiemobile!” Remy exclaimed, then immediately added, “Excuse me, ma’am”—a blanket apology to all the women.
“Don’t you just melt when he says ma’am?” Claudia whispered to Sylvie.
“I was with him all day yesterday and he didn�
�t swear, not even once,” René remarked with a meaningful grimace.
“Bottom line, he’s become boooring,” Remy concluded.
The other women were laughing, but Sylvie started to weep. Big fat tears that no doubt made rivulets in her mud-caked face.
“What? What?” Remy appeared affronted that he might have caused her to fall apart. “You’re crying ’cause Luc doesn’t swear anymore?”
“No,” she wailed, “I’m crying because Luc cut his hair.” She felt her face crack then. What a sight she must be!
“Oh, well,” Remy said, and everyone nodded, as if that was perfectly understandable.
After Remy and René left, Sylvie went to the bathroom to repair her face. It was a hopeless task. After washing off the mud mask, she just gave up.
As she passed St. Jude on her way back, she gave him a pat on the head and offered up a silent prayer. “Please, St. Jude. If there ever was a more hopeless case, I can’t imagine who it could be.”
When she plopped down into her chair, Blanche, Claudia, and Charmaine beamed at her.
Uh-oh!
“We have an idea,” they all said at once.
Uh-oh!
“It involves dancing,” Blanche announced.
Uh-oh!
“And spandex,” Charmaine added with a gleam in her eyes. “Red spandex, and poufy hair.”
Uh-oh!
Blanche squeezed one of her hands reassuringly. “And Luc.”
Thank you, St. Jude! Sylvie thought then, immediately followed by I think. And another Uh-oh!
“This is the most half-baked idea you’ve ever talked us into,” Luc grumbled to René. They were standing behind the stage at the community outdoor arena waiting their turn in the talent show. “There are five hundred people out there who are going to laugh their bloody heads off…at us!”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Remy snarled at René, “I’m not dancing, or swinging my hips, or pretending to have sex with a metal pole, or nothin’. I’m standing still, pretending to sing, that’s all.”
Luc’s eyes swept over Remy, and he decided things could have been worse.
“Don’t…you…say…a…word,” Remy gritted out to him.