Blue Bayou Final

by Kate, Jiffy

  She ignores my room request again. “But,” she says, drawing out the word, “have you ever been with a southern boy?” She leans over the counter, positioning herself closer to me as her voice drops an octave. I shake my head in answer, slightly shocked by her forwardness. She shakes her head in return, pity in her eyes. “Girl, you are missing out! Especially the crazy Cajun guys we have around here,” she continues as she walks to the wall behind the counter and peruses a row of keys. “They’re very…passionate, I guess you could say.” She winks at me over her shoulder and her knowing smile tells me she has personal experience in this matter—probably a lot of it.

  “Uh, well, thanks?” I say, but it comes out more of a question than a statement. I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for, but I don’t know how else to respond to her or her claims to the ways of the south. I’ll just have to take her word for it. “So, um, I’m guessing I’m the third door down?” I ask, looking at the number on the extra-large key she hands me. A real, honest-to-goodness key. I didn’t even know hotels—motels, rather—still had these.

  “Yes, ma’am. Third door down. And if there is anything we can get you to make your stay more comfortable, please let us know!”

  Her chipper voice carries through the open door as I make my way back out to my rental car to retrieve my belongings.

  When I turn the key and step into the room, I’m relieved to find it’s not as creepy as I thought it might be. It’s sparsely decorated, but after a thorough inspection, it seems clean enough. The most important thing is it’s quiet, just like the rest of the town. Actually, I’m not even sure you would consider this place a town. I think I counted one stop light and a handful of stop signs. There’s a neon sign lit up down the street that looked like an eating establishment and a gas station across the street from the motel, but other than that, I hadn’t seen much industry or retail on the drive in.

  The feeling of adventure slowly creeps through my veins. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a long time. The irony of finding adventure in a place like French Settlement, Louisiana doesn’t escape me, but I find myself really looking forward to exploring.

  After I unpack and feel somewhat settled, it’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to find my way out to the Landry Plantation for my five o’clock meeting with Annie Landry.

  I haven’t seen this many different shades of green in years. The window to my car is down, and as I drive farther into the country, I’m flooded with memories from my childhood—tall oaks, shaded dirt roads, and the quietness that comes from being miles from a city. The sights, sounds, and even the smells take me back to a time when life was much simpler, easy…fun.

  Not one to wallow, especially right before meeting a client, I clear my throat and push the memories down, focusing on the road ahead of me. As I get closer to my destination, the landscape changes to a narrow two-lane road with thick mossy trees on either side, the foliage only breaking occasionally for a sizeable house or two and the bright blue sky.

  Spotting a modest sign boasting Landry Plantation ~ Established 1932, I slam on my brakes. The trees lining the long driveway are some of the tallest I’ve ever seen. They curve and bend while the limbs sway in the gentle breeze, creating an archway over the road leading all the way up to the house.

  The Landry Plantation is everything you’d imagine a plantation to be. It’s substantial, statuesque, and looks as though it could tell a million stories better than any history book. The term “house” does not do this place justice. It’s only two stories, but there are windows as far as you can see.

  Lilac bushes in full bloom line each side of the stairs leading up to the front door. The grand wrap-around porch is lined with white wicker chairs and small tables, perfect for sitting and having conversation—the picture of southern hospitality. This house has great curb appeal.

  Well, if it were near a main road...and had a curb.

  I can definitely understand why Southern Style would want to do a piece on this place. It’s hard to believe the magazine hasn’t done one before. I can practically hear my camera calling my name; the photographic possibilities are endless.

  “Just wait ‘til you see out back. Ms. Annie has quite the green thumb. If you think the front is pretty, you’re gonna love the gardens.”

  I let out a yelp and quickly turn around, clutching my chest. “Who’s there?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean to startle you.” A young guy with muddy brown hair and tanned skin walks up to me, holding his hands up in surrender. “My name is Travis. I work here, I promise.”

  I look him over, noting his t-shirt and jeans covered in soil and a dirty shovel in his hands. His friendly smile makes me relax, so I introduce myself.

  “Hi, I’m Sheridan Reed. I’m supposed to be meeting with Mrs. Landry about a magazine article I’m doing on the plantation.”

  “Oh, yeah! Ms. Annie will be thrilled you’re here. She’s been talking non-stop about meeting you all week.”

  “That’s sweet. I’m excited about meeting her and getting to work on the article. This place really is gorgeous.” I take another look around, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  “Sure is,” he says, joining me in my appreciation. “Let me walk you in and introduce you.” He motions toward the front steps.

  “I appreciate that. Thanks.”

  I shoot Travis a genuine smile, feeling at ease in his presence.

  “How long have you worked for the Landrys?” I ask as we walk up to the front doors.

  “Oh, for about five years. I’ve known them all my life, though. My mama and Mrs. Annie have been friends since they were knee high to a grasshopper,” he says, smiling back at me.

  He stomps the dirt off his boots on the welcome mat before walking in the front door without knocking.

  As we step into the foyer, a very loud, somewhat angry voice comes from another room close by. It sounds as though the woman is speaking in another language. Now, this is more like home.

  “What do you mean you only have a sixty-five-pound pig for me? I have a hundred people comin’ over next weekend for Micah’s birthday, including your family, Owen Miller, so you know damn well we’re gonna need a ninety pounder at least! What kind of cochon de lait do you think I’m gonna have? Certainly not a half-assed one, I assure you!”

  My eyes grow wide as I take in the beautiful woman screaming nonsense into the phone while Travis just shakes his head and laughs.

  The woman continues. “Mmm-hmm. Yes, well, I guess we’ll just have to have two pigs to roast to make sure we have enough.” She pauses. “Yes, Owen, two sixty-five-pound pigs should be fine. Be sure to tell your daddy I said thank you for finding another pig for us on such short notice.” She rolls her eyes even though the man on the other end of the line can’t see her. I giggle at her sarcasm.

  Hanging up with a huff, she turns to Travis. “I swear, that Miller family gives me the choux rouge!”

  I give Travis a confused look, not understanding what just came out of this woman’s mouth. “Oh, um, Mrs. Annie is just a little upset right now.”

  “Travis LeBlanc, I am not ‘a little upset’. I’m pissed off!” The fiery Cajun woman finally turns completely around to find me standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, good Lord! Where are my manners? I’m usually not so rude. Please, forgive me.”

  Travis tries to stifle a laugh, but the woman hears him and swats at his arm. “Shut up, Travis. I mean, I’m not usually so rude when I have guests all the way from New York in my house.” She smiles sweetly as she makes her way around the center island to greet me. “I try to wait until I know them a little better before I let them see me get too fired up.” She laughs, pulling me into a hug tighter than I thought possible from such a tiny woman.

  “You must be Ms. Reed. My name is Anne-Marie Landry, and I’m simply thrilled you’re here!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up like I hung the moon or something.

  After I recover from
her bone-crushing hug, I formally introduce myself.

  “Hello, Mrs. Landry. I’m Sheridan Reed, but you can call me Dani.”

  “Well, in that case, you need to call me Annie. My husband’s mama was Mrs. Landry, and she’s been dead for ten years now! Travis, would you please fetch Dani’s things and bring them inside?”

  Wait. What?

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Landry…I mean, Annie, I have a room at the motel in town. My things are already there.”

  “Wilbur Young’s place? Mercy, that man squeezes a quarter so tight the eagle screams. Why on earth are you stayin’ at that dump? We have plenty of room here,” she says earnestly. I know I can’t accept her hospitality, but damn if I don’t want to. Staying inside this magnificent home would be a dream.

  “That’s a very generous offer, but I can’t accept. I really do appreciate it, though.”

  Annie places her hands on her hips while the pout on her mouth shows just how unhappy she is with my refusal. I assume no one tells Annie Landry no and she’s trying to go easy on me. I can already tell working with her is going to be interesting, to say the least.

  “Well, fine, but if you change your mind, just say the word and we’ll get you set up here lickety-split.”

  Her sweet southern drawl and interesting choice of vernacular makes me nostalgic. After thanking Mrs. Landry for her invitation and making plans to be back out here early tomorrow morning, she walks me to the porch and I take one more look at the house before hopping in my car.

  On my drive back to the motel, I can’t stop the grin that covers my face. Taking pictures of the Landry Plantation is going to be an amazing experience. I can feel it. However, I also feel the pressure. If I do a good job on this, it could lead to other jobs—something I desperately need and want. I want to prove to myself, and even to Graham, that I can do this.

  With the thought of Graham comes the memory of what he said to me the day I was fired.

  “How could you get fired, Dani? All you do is take pictures and write a few captions. How hard can that be? Do you have any idea how this makes me look?”

  Second to dating him for so long, working for the same magazine was the biggest mistake of my life. Graham never supported me, and he never encouraged or defended me. He’d always say he was harder on me than other employees so I’d “toughen up” and grow the “backbone” needed to succeed in the publishing world. He’d know best, of course, growing up as the only son of one of New York City’s most powerful newspaper editors.

  When I pull back into the gravel lot at the motel, I force myself to put the self-loathing on the backburner for a while. I park in front of my room that faces the parking lot. Right next to me is a large obnoxious truck taking up more than its fair share of the parking lot. Rolling my eyes at the stereotypical southern-boy display, I quickly grab my purse and walk to my room.

  I’ve seen Varsity Blues. I know what guys who drive big souped-up pick-up trucks are like.

  Just as I’m about to unlock my door, I hear a banging sound, followed by a loud crash. I freeze and hold my breath, trying hard to hear what else is going on in the room next to mine. Someone may need help. My eyes sweep the area around me. Not seeing anyone else outside, I relax enough to unlock my door and push it open.

  As I step inside my room, two more loud bangs shake the wall I share with the room next door and then the bangs morph into steady thumping. The moans that follow confirm two things: someone’s getting busy and they’re getting busy right next door.

  Awesome.

  Relieved someone’s life isn’t in danger and a tad bit embarrassed I’m hearing an obviously passionate couple have sex, I enter my room and slam the door, hoping they’ll hear it and realize they’re not alone.

  As the minutes pass, it becomes obvious my door-slam didn’t faze the amorous duo. I grab the remote, turn on the TV, and tick the volume up to ear splitting, but thumps, grunts, and passionate screams are all I hear.

  I fall back onto the bed and let out a snort. As irritating as it is to be an unwilling third party to their fuck fest, I’m also incredibly jealous. No one has ever made those kinds of sounds leave my mouth, not even my trusty battery-powered toy. Disappointment flows through me, officially putting an end to the mild arousal I was beginning to feel.

  Assuming they’ll be finished soon, I give up on watching TV and decide to get some work done instead. My shoulders slump as I realize my bag containing both of my notebooks, my camera, and my earbuds are still in my rental car. I slap myself in the forehead a few times before accepting the fact that I have to go outside again. I won’t be able to sleep until I make notes for tomorrow’s shoot. Plus, there’s no way I’m leaving my camera outside; I don’t care if this town is smaller than Mayberry. I don’t bother putting my bra back on or slipping on my shoes. I just grab my keys and walk out the door.

  “Yes, Micah! That’s it! Fuck me bowlegged!”

  Well, I’ve never heard that one before.

  Figuring I have no reason to rush, I stroll to my car, looking at the mostly-empty parking lot. Even though the majority of the rooms here are empty, it’s just my luck to get the one right next to the horny humpers. It makes me wonder if this Micah is a soldier about to go on a tour of duty, or maybe he just got home. I guess it’s possible that they could be on their honeymoon. My mind continues to wander, brewing up possibilities of one of them just being released from prison or a politician having an illicit affair.

  I straighten and lock the door before kicking it shut with my foot. As I turn to head back to my room, a man leaning against the door of the room next to mine startles me.

  Micah, I presume.

  He twists the cap off a water bottle and I shake my head, willing myself to keep moving, but the sight of his disheveled hair and defined abs through his white button-down keep me in place.

  My mouth goes dry as my eyes continue to linger, honing in on his button-fly jeans practically sliding down his ass.

  Even though we’re a few feet apart and the sun is beginning to set, his light blue eyes are noticeable and full of mischief. I always thought when people said someone’s eyes twinkle, they were full of shit, but his do. And the way the edges of his eyes crinkle when he smirks makes my insides twist.

  His eyes stay on mine for a moment before traveling down my body and back up, lingering on my breasts, no doubt due to the fact my nipples are trying to break through the cotton of my tank top. I know I should be offended by him so blatantly ogling me after just having sex with someone else, but I can’t help but be mesmerized by this man.

  Finally, he puts the bottle of water up to his mouth, downing the entire bottle in one long drink. A few drips trickle down his chin and he swipes them away. Giving me a wink, he simply says, “Hey,” before grinning and strutting off toward the pimped-out truck parked next to my car. Of course it would be his. I’d say he was overcompensating for something, but I’m pretty sure Val would disagree.

  Before I close the door to my room, I watch Micah roll down his window. He yells out a celebratory, “Whoo,” while slapping the side of his truck as he peels out of the parking lot. I can’t help but shake my head and giggle at his display, but at the same time, I wish I could live like that: free and full of life.

  You can read Finding Focus, along with the rest of the series, on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.