Cajun Persuasion

by Sandra Hill

  “They went fer a walk. The two of them and every animal within a mile of this place.”

  Aunt Mel laughed and added, “For a man who claims to be no St. Francis of Assisi, those animals sure do love him.”

  Aaron saw what she meant when he located Fleur and Snake walking up the roadway—actually a wide path—toward the old slave cottages. The priest and Fleur were in front, trailed by the ancient (in dog years) German shepherd, Axel, who limped along; by Emily, the pig, who was having trouble keeping up as well, on her stubby legs; by two cats, Garfield and Felix; and even by Maddie, who kept rubbing against Snake’s bare legs. Maddie didn’t like anyone, not even her mistress, Samantha—not very much anyhow. The only creature missing was Clarence sitting on Snake’s shoulder, and the bird probably would have been, if his cage had been opened.

  Good ol’ Snake! he thought with a laugh. Some things never change. He remembered a time in Kabul when the mangiest, ugliest dog in the world adopted Snake, who claimed to have no love for animals, having grown up on a hardscrabble farm in Michigan. Ironically, the same mutt had saved Snake’s skin on one occasion, alerting him to a kid with a bomb strapped on his back.

  At a slow jog, Aaron soon caught up with them. “A priest with a following,” he joked. “And not a church in sight.”

  “I don’t know, Ace,” Snake replied. “This setting feels rather blessed to me.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s beautiful, man. The sun coming through these ancient trees and those flowering bushes are nature’s own stained glass windows. The hanging moss creates an illusion of a roof in some places, forming arches, like a cathedral. The pretty cottages along here are jewel-toned colors, floral offerings at the altar. And the birdsong . . . well, what better choir could there be? I suspect the Garden of Eden was much like this. It would make a great painting.”

  “Bullshit!” Aaron replied, but he had to admit that he’d been looking at Bayou Rose as a pain-in-the-butt money sink of one renovation after another for so long he’d failed to remember why he was attracted to the rundown plantation to begin with. “Who turned you into the Picasso of the South?”

  Snake just shrugged.

  “How about you, Fleur?” Aaron asked, taking her hand in his, not unaware that she didn’t pull away. Mark that up as another point in my favor. The progress he was making with Fleur came in the tiniest of bites, and he was discovering they were the sweeter for being so hard won. I’m as bad as Snake with all these cornball thoughts.

  Fleur looked around slowly, pausing before she answered, “If I had a home like this, I would never leave.”

  Snake looked at Aaron for his response.

  Aaron barely restrained himself from doing a fist pump in the air. “It’s yours, then,” he told her. And he meant it.

  “The things you say!” She shook her head at Aaron. To Snake, she said, “Aaron pretends to be madly in love with me only because he knows I’ll rebuff such overt advances. A reverse psychology.”

  Aaron arched his brows at her, and Snake just laughed.

  “He would be playing hard to get if he really wanted me,” she explained to the priest. “This way, he figures, his compliments and bribes are so outrageous that I’m bound to just laugh. It’s a game.”

  “You have me all figured out, do you?” Aaron asked, not really offended. More like intrigued by her mind’s workings.

  “You could always accept, and call his bluff,” Snake suggested.

  Aaron flashed his old buddy a wink of thanks.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, further discussion halted with the arrival of Ed, the resident carpenter/plumber/contractor, who asked about Samantha. Aaron gave him, along with Fleur and Snake, the update. Ed then told him that the new septic lines were almost completed, connecting all the cottages. The units should be available soon for the families of Dan’s cancer patients to return, as they had been for the past year.

  “Do you mind if we look around?” Snake asked Aaron. At his nod, the priest and Fleur went through a gate, across a small yard, and into one of the cottages, the purple one named Pansy, to explore while Aaron continued talking to Ed. The cottages had been given colors and names by none other than Tante Lulu: Bluebird/blue, Sunshine/yellow, Meadow/green, Rose/red, much to Samantha’s dismay over historical accuracy. Guess who won that battle?

  “I’m not sure what Dan will want to do with the cottages, short-term,” Aaron told Ed, “what with Samantha’s being in the hospital and the situation here with Fleur and Tante Lulu. Maybe you should just finish up, fill in the trenches, reseed, and move on to some other project. We might have to leave them empty until the dust settles. I know, why don’t you start on the St. Jude swimming pool.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Halfway.”

  Snake came out then, and after asking some pointed questions about the cottages (how many there were; maximum occupancy, etc.), went off for a tour with Ed while Fleur sank down onto the porch swing. Each of the cottages had either an old-fashioned swing, or a glider, or sets of rocking chairs.

  Aaron went up and sat beside her on the swing. For several long moments, they just swung, saying nothing. She smelled like Samantha’s Jessica McClintock body wash, which sat on a shelf in the mansion’s rain forest shower. It smelled like lilies of the valley. He knew because he’d asked Samantha one time.

  “It’s peaceful here,” Fleur remarked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I was kidding about living on a place like this.” When he didn’t say anything, she went on, “I mean, with my background, I would be satisfied with a little cottage like this. I would never fit into some fancy mansion.”

  When he still said nothing, she continued, “And I would never be accepted, either. People talk about forgiveness and all that, but they never forget. I could be eighty years old, and they would still be thinking prostitute when I walk down the street.”

  They rocked for several more moments. He could see Ed and Snake talking companionably as they left Rose Cottage and entered Meadow.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” she finally asked.

  “I’m too busy remembering our mutual dream from last night, and wondering how soon we can pick up where we left off.” He put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer. He even dared to kiss the top of her hair.

  She tried to squirm out of his embrace but he wouldn’t let go.

  “You had your say, darlin’. Now let me have mine.” Aaron may have been born Cajun, but he’d lived in Alaska most of his life. It wasn’t until he’d moved here that he learned the value of a slowly drawled out Cajun “darlin’.” More than one Southern belle had allowed her bells to be tolled with that trick—rather talent, according to Tee-John, who had a reputation for Cajun charm. Not that Aaron was looking to ring Fleur’s bells. Yet.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “I’m in love with you. Don’t ask me why, or when it happened, or how. It just did. Tante Lulu thinks I’m channeling some Hosea dude from the Bible, or else St. Jude got me in his crosshairs, and bam! The Thunderbolt of Love!”

  “Hosea! What? Are you supposed to rehabilitate me?”

  “I think Tante Lulu was thinking more along the lines of you rehabilitating me. Bottom line, I’ve fallen for you. Hook, line, and bayou sinker.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “You don’t know me, either . . . darlin’,” he said and stifled a chuckle at his own foolishness. “If you did, you’d know how out of character my behavior with you is. I like women. I’ve been liking women, or girls, for a long time.” Fleur stared at him, intrigued, despite herself.

  Meanwhile, he was running the fingertips of his hand, the one on the far side of her shoulders, over the bare skin of her arm. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse today and Bermuda shorts. For the brief time she’d been back on the bayou, the semitropical sun had already had an effect on her appearance. Blonde streaks lightened her brown hair which was pulled back into a pon
ytail, and the slight bronzing of her flawless skin had caused a few freckles to emerge on her nose and cheeks. Just a few, not like Samantha with her twenty gazillion. Her caramel-colored Cajun eyes sparkled with honesty and, yes, a sort of innocence. She could have passed for nineteen, instead of her twenty-nine-plus years. She wasn’t beautiful, like some of the women he’d known, but she was pretty.

  “Go on. You were telling me about your sexual prowess, starting at a young age.”

  That wasn’t quite what he’d been doing, but if she wanted to hone in on that, who was he to argue? “My point about starting early was this. I’ve been around the block, sex-wise, a lot. In fact, I’ve been around the state, the country, the . . . wherever.” He shrugged. “I have finely perfected techniques, but I don’t even have to employ them anymore. Women recognize a man who knows things. I can walk into a room and cull out the prospects without saying a word. They come to me.”

  “So, you’re attracted to me because I’m hard to get.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. If I was looking for a one-night stand, or even a series of meaningful two-night stands, it would be different. I want more from you.”

  “What exactly do you want?”

  “I want to make love with you. I know that.”

  “Aaron, I don’t even like sex.”

  “You did in our dream.”

  She blushed, and he knew he’d made a point.

  “Give us a chance, Fleur. I can take it slowly . . . for a while. I won’t push you.”

  “You’re already pushing me.” She glanced to the right, to her upper arm where Aaron’s fingertips were drawing circles . . . and raising the fine hairs.

  “Well, a little pushing.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. When she didn’t back away or slap him silly, he deepened the kiss, moving his mouth back and forth over her closed lips until they fit together perfectly.

  She didn’t kiss him back, but he noticed that her breathing accelerated.

  It took all his will power to draw away and just look at her.

  He’d like to think she was a bit dazed, but she was probably just wondering if he was crazy. Maybe he was. Crazy in love.

  “I’ll tell you another thing. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you regarding your past life. Afraid that any little thing I say might offend you. Bad things happen to good people. It’s a fact of life. Maybe it’s time to find the humor in some of it.”

  “Humor?” she said, as if he’d suggested something perverted.

  “Yeah, it’s one of the best things about human beings, that we can laugh at ourselves, even in the worst of times.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, with respect to myself, I think it’s damn funny that I’m walking around all the time with a half hard-on for an almost-nun. See. You’re going all prissy stiff on me just because I used a vulgar word. Live with it! And notice that I said almost-nun, not an actual nun because, darlin’, I am gonna do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.”

  “You are not helping your cause,” she pointed out. “I can’t find anything funny about what happened to me over the past sixteen years.”

  “Oh, please! How about a bunch of nuns staked out in a strip club? How funny is it that you’re living with the Dingbat of the South? And here’s a good one . . .”

  She put up a halting hand and laughed. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Good,” he said and kissed her quick before she could push him away.

  Just then, Snake returned, and he was smiling in the oddest way. At first, Aaron thought it was because he’d seen the kiss. But it was something else, he soon found out.

  “Ace, m’boy, God does work in mysterious ways,” the priest pronounced right off, sinking down onto the top of the porch steps and leaning against the rail post.

  “Okaaay,” Aaron said.

  “These cottages, you know what they would be perfect for, don’t you?”

  Aaron looked over to Fleur. She looked as confused as he did.

  “A haven for rescued girls,” Snake announced in a ta-da fashion.

  When neither he nor Fleur enthused, he went on, “I was talking to Brother Jake this morning about plans for the exchange, and he told me that the biggest problem we have is the large number of victims to be rescued, from both ends. Remember, there are going to be two dozen brought in from Mexico for the exchange for one dozen of the new girls from New Orleans. A total of maybe thirty-six bodies to be transported somewhere.” Brother Brian glanced at Aaron and Fleur, waiting for them to understand.

  When they were still confused, he continued, “Those newbies will be turned over immediately to the local police in some secret negotiations being handled by John LeDeux.”

  That was news to Aaron.

  “I can fly a half dozen of the rescued girls to the convent in Mexico, and you could handle another six, flying into the Street Apostles ranch in Dallas.”

  Aaron nodded.

  “But that leaves a dozen more of those poor girls. We need a place for them to hide. A temporary place, until they can be doled out to other places in the US or elsewhere. In the meantime, voilà!” He held both arms out to indicate the cottages.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Fleur began.

  “Aaron can help when he gets back from Mexico.”

  I can?

  “Surely you’re not thinking that Aaron and I alone could handle them.”

  “Whoa, back up a bit. I’m still back at my plantation being offered as a way station for a dozen ex-prostitutes.” Another thing occurred to him. A pairing . . . Snake is pairing us off, like a couple. Holy freakin’ crap! Is this some kind of predestined thing?

  “Neither Aaron nor I have the expertise for dealing with the physical and emotional needs of newly rescued girls. I know from past experience that some will need medical attention, others will need psychological attention if not lifelong therapy, and some will even want to run back to what they were doing, a Stockholm syndrome kind of thing. A job of this magnitude is not taken on lightly.”

  Aaron shot a glance at her with alarm. He hadn’t even thought about all the complications that Snake’s suggestion would entail.

  “Details!” Snake said, waving a hand dismissively. “First of all, Aaron’s brother might be willing to help with initial medical exams.”

  “What? Dan will shit a brick before he gets dragged into such illegal activity.”

  As if Aaron hadn’t even spoken, Snake turned to Fleur and said, “Bet if we asked Mother Jacinta, she would send a nun or two here to help out. Maybe she’d even come herself.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Fleur said, as if it was a prayer. “Mother Jacinta and Tante Lulu together? The South would never recover.”

  “I hadn’t even considered Tante Lulu,” Snake said, tapping his closed lips thoughtfully. “See what happens when good people put their heads together? That old lady could gather a team of professionals to handle a temporary situation like this quicker than you could say St. Jude or Richard Simmons.” Snake grinned then. Apparently he’d been around Tante Lulu enough already to get the picture. When she wasn’t proselytizing about the saint, she was swooning over the aging exercise guru. “And your Aunt Mel looks like she has the organizational skills of a military commander, Aaron. Didn’t she run her own air shipping company before you were old enough to think about airplanes? Come to think on it, maybe . . .”

  Snake went on and on while Fleur gazed at him with horror and Aaron put his face in his hands.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  Chapter Nine

  Company’s coming . . .

  Fleur was pretty much alone at Bayou Rose with Brother Brian that afternoon. He was upstairs in the study, working out plans, via a conference call, with his fellow Apostle, Jake, Mother Jacinta, and some others. Fleur had declined to participate, feeling like one of the soldiers, not a leader, in the missions, as it should be, the only way she’d want it. Instead, she worked once again at t
he kitchen table on Tante Lulu’s herbal book.

  Grace O’Brien, the ex-nun whom she’d yet to meet, had done some preliminary work organizing Tante Lulu’s folk medicine recipes a few years back, and she’d been better qualified than Fleur was, having studied alternative medicine while she was a practicing nun. Grace’s work formed a base from which Fleur worked now, making it easier to organize all the data into separate folders.

  The ceiling fan whirred overhead. The pot of jambalaya on the stove simmered softly, and two loaves of homemade bread were rising on the counter, both exuding wonderful aromas of the dinner to come.

  Aaron had gone to work before noon; three flights to the oil rigs, and one bayou air tour, he’d told them all. Afterward, he would meet with Luc to discuss some continuing issue he had with the FAA. Plus, he planned to stop by the hospital to see how Samantha was doing. Before leaving, he’d leaned in and given Fleur a good-bye kiss. A quick one, which he’d laughingly called a fly-by kiss.

  She’d threatened to smack him for taking liberties. Where she’d come up with such an old-fashioned word, she had no idea. Well, yes, she did. Too much hanging around Tante Lulu.

  “Oh, baby, if you only knew the liberties I’d like to take!” Aaron had declared.

  Tante Lulu had shaken her folded Richard Simmons fan at the two of them. “No drinkin’ wine before the gospel.”

  Fleur had been afraid to ask what that meant.

  “We have a saying about wine back in the Old Country,” Brother Brian had begun.

  Everyone groaned at his continual spouting of proverbs, triads, and whatnot, except Tante Lulu, who had developed a kindred spirit with the priest.

  Undeterred by the groans, Brother Brian had told them, “Wine makes good women wenches.” But then he added, “Actually, I think many countries have claimed that proverb, in one form or another.”

  Aaron had put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’ve been on the wagon since I met Fleur.”

  “Huh? What wagon?” She wasn’t sure if he was referring to alcohol or women. “I never asked you to go on any wagon.”