Pamela Morsi

by The Love Charm

  "Aida and I will walk," he announced. "She is very fond of long leisurely walks. It will be some time before we return."

  If the two took note of his words, they made no sign.

  Aida grabbed up a blanket and wrapped it about her shoulders like a shawl.

  "It's cold tonight," Armand agreed.

  She nodded and allowed him to wrap his arm around her as he led her away from the fire and into the darkness.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Aida spoke up.

  "We can't let this happen," she said. "There is something that we can do. I know that there must be."

  "There is nothing," Armand assured her sadly. "This is best, undoubtedly. She will go to the German coast and he will go on with his life."

  Aida shook her head. "Something," she said. "There must be something. Think of the vision."

  "The vision meant nothing, I'm afraid," he answered. "I know it was your vision, Aida, and your very first one. But I think it meant nothing."

  She shook her head. "It's not possible that it serves no purpose at all. It was too real, too vivid. It was too important."

  "Perhaps it was, but how can we decipher its meaning?"

  "We simply must," she insisted. "We need to think about it and think about it until we understand what it meant."

  "Aida, I—"

  "You are the answer, Armand," she said. "Of that I am certain. In some way, somehow, you are the answer."

  Her words harkened back to those spoken by Madame Landry and gave him pause. He repeated the words softly aloud.

  "A careless word spoken is like a tree falling into a mighty river. When the water is low and the yonder bank delicate, sometimes the river will swirl around the tree with some force, wear away the weak side and cause the flow to meander in a new direction."

  Aida's brow furrowed.

  "It was something Madame Landry said to me," he explained.

  "What does it mean?"

  Armand shrugged, shaking his head.

  Aida shivered.

  "You're cold," he said.

  "It was better by the fire," she admitted. "But I think we are right to leave them alone for now."

  Armand nodded in agreement and then drew her into his arms.

  "Let me try to keep you warm," he said, holding her close against him.

  "Oh yes," she whispered to him. "That is much better."

  "I don't know how he will say goodbye to her. I think that I ... I think that I didn't know entirely how much she must mean to him. Not until . . . until this morning."

  "Armand," she whispered against his cheek. "Do you regret marrying me?"

  He was still for a long moment, considering her words.

  "What a question to ask a man on his wedding night," he answered finally. "No, Aida. Not unless you do."

  "I don't. I was just afraid that perhaps you thought that . . . that I pushed you into it."

  "I didn't think that."

  "But I did push you into it," she admitted.

  "You felt compromised," he countered.

  "But I was not truly compromised," she said.

  "Aida." He turned and drew her close, kissing her in the way that he had wanted to that morning in front of the church. A long, lingering, loving kiss. "It's done now," he told her at last. "I am your husband. And my only regret is that we must spend our night standing on a cold beach instead of a flower-filled bower."

  "A flower-filled bower?" She laughed. "Monsieur Sonnier, where would we get flowers this time of year?"

  He laughed with her and they began to walk once more, arms wrapped around each other as much for the pleasure of it as for the warmth it afforded.

  "It is not much of a wedding night," he said.

  She shrugged, unconcerned.

  "Unlike most young women I have spent more time being fearful of my wedding night than anxious for it," she said.

  "Fearful?" His brow furrowed in concern. "You have been afraid your husband would hurt you?"

  "No, not that. I . . . I've been afraid of his being disappointed."

  "Disappointed?" Armand's look was incredulous. "How could any man be disappointed with you?"

  She dissembled prettily and at first he thought that she would not answer, but she did.

  "I ... I am like a fancy store-bought gift," she said. "All bright and shiny-looking tied up with a bow."

  "That you are," Armand agreed quietly.

  "But I have always been afraid that when . . . when I am divested of my wrappings and ribbon," she said, "I will be nothing but an empty box."

  "An empty box?" Armand stopped, stunned, shook his head, and looked straight into her eyes. "Aida, my sweet and lovely Aida," he said. "You are in no way empty. You are full of joy and brightness and care. I have seen it in the way you laugh at yourself, the way you charm the old men as easily as the young, the way you defer to Madame Landry. And the way that you look at me and make me believe that I am strong and wise. You are not at all empty. You are filled, filled nearly to bursting with everything that a man could want. At least with everything that this man wants."

  Jean Baptiste finished up the last bite of the blueberry tart and wiped his mouth. It hadn't been the best dessert that he'd ever eaten. In fact it had a rather unpleasant undertaste, but he'd ignored that, assuming it to be the ingredients of the love charm. And a love charm, he'd decided, was a welcome idea.

  Felicite was on her hands and knees with a cleaning rag finishing up the floor. Jean Baptiste shook his head and marveled to himself as he watched her. The first evening she'd been alone with him in years and she'd taken it into her head to scrub the house from back porch to the rafters.

  He wasn't sure when it had happened or how it had happened, but things had changed between them. They had grown up together, friends long before they were sweethearts. He had planned for her to be his wife when he was little more than a boy. At age seven they'd taken first Communion together and he had informed her, accurately as it turned out, that the next time they were both dressed so finely and headed for church would be their wedding day.

  He'd tried to call upon her two years before her father allowed her to sit Sundays with suitors. They had a secret agreement to wed of which neither family was aware. And they could hardly wait until her parents deemed her old enough to be a bride.

  Jean Baptiste recalled their wedding as an after noon of absolute perfection. They danced and laughed and looked deeply into each other's eyes. Happily ever after was not merely a well-used phrase, but their reality.

  The night that followed was equally blissful. Both were total innocents, but they were much in love and flawlessly in tune. There had been plenty of fumbling and a few surprises, but there was no fear and a lot of giggling.

  They discovered sex as if they had made it all up from scratch. They learned by curiosity and practice how to please themselves and pleasure their partner. And they discovered how to make babies.

  True love's road, however, strewn with pregnancies, babies, and hard work, had turned out to be surprisingly disappointing. Jean Baptiste still felt young, vital, energetic. He wanted to laugh and be free and have fun. And Felicite . . . well, his wife was somebody's mama.

  Perhaps a love charm was exactly what they needed to get them back to the place where they were still young and sex was still fun. Jean Baptiste felt the longing for those times well up in him both physically and emotionally.

  He walked over to the corner of room near the doorway and stood directly in front of her. She continued washing the floor. Just before the damp rag was to wipe across his feet, she stopped and looked up at him.

  "Jean Baptiste, you'd best get out of the way if I'm to finish cleaning this house tonight."

  "T amie," he coaxed, using his pet name for her, little friend. " T amie, I think that you are getting very tired working here on the floor." He leaned down and took the rag from her hand and gave her a long meaningful look. "Wouldn't you like to go lie down in that nice warm bed with your cher epoux
."

  He ran one finger lingeringly down the length of her jaw and then traced the shape of her lower lip with his thumb.

  Felicite retrieved the damp cloth and sighed heavily. "Please, Jean Baptiste, I am very busy."

  She immediately recommenced her scrubbing and her husband stared at her in disbelief. Hadn't Madame Landry promised him something entirely different?

  "I was just thinking about Armand and Aida Gaudet," he said. "This is their wedding night."

  "Yes, I suppose it is," she agreed.

  "Do you remember our wedding night?" he asked. "Do you remember how many times it was before we collapsed in exhaustion?"

  "No, not really," she answered. "At least we were inside and warm. I doubt those two can say the same."

  "You remember how it was," Jean Baptiste teased. "A pair can make a lot of warmth together."

  "I suppose so," she said.

  "I know so. Now little friend," he continued, coaxing. "Why don't we go warm ourselves?"

  "Jean Baptiste, I am cleaning the house."

  "All this dust and grime you're fighting against will still be here tomorrow." He deliberately gave her what she often referred to as his little-boy grin. She'd always found it irresistible. "Come to bed with me, sweetheart, and maybe we can stir up something real dirty in there."

  "Not tonight," she said simply.

  "Oh yes, yes, please tonight," Jean Baptiste insisted, a whiny tone to his voice.

  "No."

  "Felicite—"

  She sat back on her heels and regarded him unfavorably. "Look at me!" she demanded. "I am nine months' pregnant. I am as big as a cow and twice as clumsy."

  He shrugged and spoke in a voice as smooth as molasses. "To me you are beautiful, cherie."

  She rolled her eyes and huffed in disbelief. "Well, I don't feel beautiful," she said. "My back hurts, my legs hurt, my feet hurt."

  "What about your yum-yum?" he asked, his tone playful, teasing. "You remember how your cher epoux loves your yum-yum. Does your yum-yum hurt?"

  "Jean Baptiste—"

  "Maybe we can make it hurt. Remember when we would play bon coucher?"

  Felicite sighed tolerantly. "My yum-yum is getting ready to bring another baby in the world. I know from past experience that it will be hurting plenty for several weeks thereafter."

  "But that's a bad hurt," Jean Baptiste told her. "I want to make it good hurt, like we used to, remember?"

  "That was three, almost four, children ago."

  "But there are no children here now," he said.

  "Not tonight," she stated firmly.

  He fought annoyance. Sex offered just about the only pleasure that married life still afforded. But even that had lost a good deal of its luster and was not nearly so available as he had thought it would be when he'd wed.

  "Come on, T, he pleaded. "Come on, T amie, maybe I should tickle you. Would that do it? Do you want me to tickle you?"

  "No, please."

  Jean Baptiste ignored her answer and squatted down next to her with full intention of tickling her into surrender.

  A sickly feeling flashed over him, cold then hot. Momentarily he ignored it, but when it sped through him again the resulting weakness caused him to drop all the way into a sitting position on the floor, momentarily faint.

  "Please just leave me alone," his wife was saying. "I haven't had time to really get these corners cleaned for weeks. Having the children gone gives me a great opportunity to get some things done around here. And I just really don't feel like doing any sort of bed play with you tonight."

  It was as if she were speaking to him from a great distance. A very strange and very unpleasant nausea was building up inside Jean Baptiste. He was never sick, never. The children, from time to time, came down with all sorts of bilious illnesses. And Felicite suffered nausea with every pregnancy. But he was never bothered in any way by sick stomach. Yet he knew, without question, that he was about to lose his supper.

  "Oh God!" he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet.

  He just made it outside in time and lost his dinner off the side of the porch. His retching was ferocious and unceasing. A half-dozen tremendous heaves brought him down to his knees. Still he felt no relief.

  Exhausted he lay down on the porch boards, allowing the cool cypress planks to soothe his fevered brow. He was weak as a newborn kitten. His hands trembled.

  What was happening to him? He had felt fine only moments ago. This illness had taken him with sudden tremendous force. Was it something spoiled in his dinner? It couldn't have been; Felicite had fed the children the same before they left. Besides he'd hardly eaten his supper, so anxious he had been to consume the blueberry tart with the love charm.

  The love charm? Could the love charm have made him this sick?

  Jean Baptiste had little time to consider the possibility. The queasiness came over him again. This time he could not run, or even walk, to the edge of the porch. He crawled forward far enough to hang his head over the side and vomited.

  After the upheaval, he rested. He wondered why his wife had not come to his side. She always knew when he needed her. She was always there for him. Felicite must not be aware that he was ill, he decided.

  He needed to get back into the house where she could take care of him. He considered crawling, but after a few deep breaths, he assured himself that he could stand on two feet and make it inside. Once there, he was certain Felicite would care for him.

  He sighed with anticipation. She would put him to bed, wash him with a cool rag, and make him feel better again. Felicite would care for him.

  He lurched uneasily to his feet and made his way to the door. He pushed his way through the curtains and leaned heavily upon the doorframe as he spoke.

  "I'm sick," he said.

  She didn't answer. He raised his eyes to look at her. She was standing just where he'd left her. But the hem of her dress was wet and soaked and there was a murky, red-streaked stain on the floor that she'd just cleaned.

  "Did you spill something?" he asked.

  She looked up at him in stunned surprise and answered, "My water broke."

  Chapter 18

  "Oh, Armand, you are going to make the most wonderful husband," Aida said with a sigh.

  The two walked arm in arm together along the darkened beach. "You make me want to try," he told her.

  She looked into his eyes and knew he was telling the truth. He might not love her, but he did want her, he did believe in her.

  "It's strange," she said thoughtfully, "that of all the men on the river, you were the one who made me feel most nervous, most unsure of myself. But now I am not afraid at all."

  "Good," he said, hugging her close to him.

  "I mean," she told him in a softer almost conspiratorial tone, "that I'm not afraid of having a wedding night with you."

  They stopped walking and stood together. Aida deliberately fitted herself as closely to him as she could. She saw his eyes widen and he pulled away from her.

  "Aida, you don't mean that," he said.

  "Oh yes, I do mean it," she said. "I like having you hold me in your arms. I like it a lot."

  "Well there is no reason why I can't hold you," he said, wrapping his arms more tightly around her.

  "There is no reason that we can't do more."

  He chuckled, but there was little humor in it. "No, my dear wife, no reason except that we have no bed, no floor, not even a roof."

  "Do you think Adam and Eve had a roof?"

  "They at least had a garden."

  She giggled and hugged him tightly. She nuzzled against his hair and whispered into his ear. "I want to be your wife."

  She felt the shiver that skittered through him.

  "You are my wife," he stated.

  "I want to be your wife in all ways."

  "You will be. But we have no place to stay, not even any place to lie. There will be other nights, my love, many nights. We should wait until then."

  "Why?"

&nb
sp; "Because . . . because we should."

  A niggling worry pursued her. She drew back slightly to look him in the face. "Is it because you think it won't be the same?" she asked.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "I mean that . . . that perhaps you think that without the charm we won't . . . you won't want me."

  "I won't want you!" He laughed. "Aida, I've had no charm tonight and I want you now very much."

  "You do?"

  "Can you not feel it?"

  "Feel what?

  He pressed more tightly against her. "Feel that?"

  "Your leg?"

  "Aida, that is not my leg." A strangled sound escaped him. "Good Lord, Aida, don't touch it!"

  "You don't want me to touch it?"

  "Not now I don't."

  "This morning, when you touched me . . ." She lowered her eyes, momentarily shy. "When you touched me, I liked it very much."

  "God grant me strength," he whispered before he covered her mouth with his own.

  His mouth opened over hers and urged her lips apart. He tasted hot and spicy, and the gentle pressure and tugging drew her until she felt she was nearly inside him.

  He relinquished the kiss and feathered tiny pecks and bites along her jaw and neck. Aida arched her throat, eagerly offering to him whatever territory he might wish to explore.

  "Oh Aida, I want you so much," he whispered.

  "I want you, too," she told him. "I want to touch you."

  His breathing was forced and labored as if he'd been running down the beach instead of merely standing on it with her in his arms. She found that her own heart was pounding rapidly, pulses beating wildly in places she had never known she had.

  "Make love to me, Armand," she pleaded. "Make love to me now."

  "Not here, not now, my love."

  "But I want you," she said.

  "And I want you, too," he declared. "But it must be a good thing between us, a wonderful thing. You deserve that. You deserve a glowing candle and a warm bed and flowers."

  "I don't want those things, Armand. I just want you."

  "And you will have me," he said. "But not here, not now. That doesn't make any sense." -