The two men shook her hand and introduced themselves as being oil rig equipment salesmen from Dallas. The younger of the two men, Gerald, looked to be in his early thirties and was quite attractive. He smiled at Elita. “Royce, are all the women in Caddo Parish as lovely as this young lady and your secretary?”
Royce answered with a hard stare and a curt, “No.” He turned to Elita. “What are you doing here?”
She ignored his question. “I see you made it back from Houston safely. When did you get home? Today?”
“A few days ago,” Royce said.
“A few days ago,” Elita repeated. The knot of anger in her stomach tightened. She studied his face, searching for any hint of remorse. She saw only a growing annoyance in his eyes. A battle raged in her mind. The adult Elita inside her counseled her to remain calm, be polite, and hold her questions until a more appropriate time. And that is exactly what she would’ve done if this had been anyone except Royce. But it was Royce, and the girl of her youth demanded an explanation now.
Elita had thought the self-assured, impetuous warrior-girl had faded away over the past five years in order to make room for the young woman she’d become—sensible, restrained, cautious. But over the past few weeks, she’d felt the young girl’s resurrection, a resurrection nourished by the fertile waters of the primordial Caddo. In the bogs and sloughs of Caddo Lake there was no room for doubts. Here, there were only absolutes. Love or hate. Trust or betrayal. Life or death.
“Have you had lunch yet, Miss Dupree?” Gerald asked.
His question interrupted her mental skewering of Royce. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“We’re going to lunch. I thought perhaps you’d join us as my guest.” Gerald’s smile widened into a flirtatious grin. “May I call you Elita?”
Royce pivoted to face the salesman. “No, Gerald, you may not call her ‘Elita,’ and she is not going to lunch with us.” The animosity in his voice stunned everyone into a protracted silence.
Elita crossed her arms. “Just who do you think you are, Royce Sutton?”
Before her boss could answer, Starla said, “The restaurant we’re going to is rather upscale. Royce only meant to say you’re not exactly dressed for it.”
Elita did a quick mental comparison of herself and Royce’s secretary-girlfriend. A soft gray linen suit buttoned at the waist hinted at Starla’s trim figure. Her dark turquoise blouse contrasted well with the gray jacket and complimented her pale blond hair. The taupe clutch she carried matched spotless patent leather heels. Manicured nails, a perfectly cut pageboy, and silk stockings completed her stylish, professional look.
Elita’s attire consisted of white tennis shoes, faded cutoff jeans, and a pink and lavender plaid shirt tied at the waist. A rubber band fought to keep her unruly dark curls pulled back in a ponytail. Sprinkles of green paint marked everything, including her hair. Compared to Starla’s fashionable profile, she was a mess.
Looking up, Elita expected to see a trace of triumph on Starla’s face. Instead, a dark, pink blush tinted the secretary’s cheeks as she gripped her purse tightly against her chest. Her brown eyes darted from Royce’s face to Elita’s.
If Elita had learned anything from working in a busy city hospital, it was how to read a person’s body language. Poise, pretense, and hackneyed posturing quickly dissipate when you’re rushing a loved one through the doors of the emergency room. Basic, primal emotions gush through your veins then, filling heart and head with fear, angst, and dread.
Now, as she studied Starla’s white knuckles, flushed cheeks, and darting eyes, Elita realized the rival for Royce’s affection feared her. That knowledge surprised her, but it shouldn’t have. The teenage Elita—that’s who Starla and the locals remembered. A sixth generation daughter of the Caddo who never backed down, never gave in, and never let anyone forget her claim on Royce Sutton went deeper than blood or bone. It went to the heart.
To calm her own racing pulse, Elita sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “You’re right, Starla, I’m not dressed for a fancy restaurant.”
“But you’re dressed just right for our picnic.” Cliff strolled down the office steps and sauntered over to stand next to Elita. He bent down, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, “Follow my lead.”
Royce stiffened. “What are you talking about? What picnic?”
Cliff flashed a practiced lopsided grin, one designed to raise a young woman’s heart rate and his brother’s blood pressure. “Elita and I are going on a picnic today. I mentioned it this morning, didn’t I?”
“Like hell you did,” Royce said.
Cliff shrugged, then turned to Elita. “Nettie is fixing us a picnic basket.”
Eager to join in the charade, Elita asked, “Did you remember to tell her to include a couple of pieces of her delicious pecan pie?”
“Of course. Did you decide where you wanted to go?”
“Let’s go over to Texas to the Lake of the Pines. It has lots of picnic tables and a nice swimming area.”
“Did you bring your bathing suit?” Cliff asked.
Never one to do something half-way, Elita let loose her ponytail, shook out her dark curls, ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Do I really need a suit?”
A small gasp escaped Starla’s lips. The older salesman cleared his throat, while Gerald’s mouth eased into a wide grin. Royce balled his hands into fists, mumbled something.
Cliff laughed. “You don’t need one as far as I’m concerned.” He offered her his hand. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Elita accepted her rescuer’s hand and they strolled to Cliff’s lemon yellow Corvette convertible. He opened the passenger door and she slid onto the black leather seat. Cliff got in, started the engine.
Royce approached the Corvette. “What are you two up to?”
“We’re doing the same thing you and Starla are doing,” Elita said. “We’re going to lunch. You’re going to some boring, fancy restaurant, and we’re going to the lake for a picnic and a swim.”
“And y’all will be back in an hour,” Cliff added. “We’ll be gone all afternoon.”
Royce grabbed the car door with both hands. “The hell you will. We have a meeting after lunch with the new tool pusher we hired to run the Cameron rig.”
Cliff shrugged. “Tool pushers oversee the oil rigs. The rigs are part of production, and you’re in charge of production. I’m the lowly VP of marketing. You don’t need me. You just don’t want me spending the afternoon with Elita.”
“You’re not spending the afternoon with her.” Royce leaned in close to Elita. “And you are not going skinny dipping at Lake of the Pines or anywhere else.”
Starla and the two salesmen stood by the white Ford. Elita pointed at the young woman. “You’re Starla’s boss, not mine.”
“And you’re not my boss either,” Cliff said. “Our dearly departed father divided his half of the company equally between us. I own twenty-five percent just like you.”
Royce jabbed his finger at Cliff. “It’s a lucky thing you do or I’d fire you.”
The harshness of his brother’s words caught Cliff off guard for a moment, but then he grinned. “Fortunately, Aunt Virginia owns the other half of the company, so she’s the only one who can fire me. She’d be pleased to know I was spending time with Elita.” He looked at his lunch companion. “You made a great impression on my aunt. When we were in Houston, she went on and on about how pretty and sweet you are. She really likes you.”
“I’m surprised she likes any Dupree considering how rude Mamaw was to her.”
“Pearl is a bitch,” Royce said.
“Maybe so, but everyone knows Dorothea Sutton is the queen bitch of Caddo Parish.” Elita’s spiteful words had been a gut reaction to Royce’s vilification of her grandmother, a blast meant to wound her first love the way his attack had injured her. She looked at Cliff. His ashen face, open mouth, and downcast eyes confirmed the gnawing fear in her stomach. Her tirade had ricocheted o
ff Royce and hit his kid brother. She felt twelve years old again, but without the unfaltering confidence that had marked her youth.
She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Cliff.”
“No need to be. Both women are infamous for their cantankerous nature.”
Royce snickered. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Go to lunch, Royce. I’m sure Starla and the salesmen are hungry. I know I am.” Elita turned to Cliff. “Can we go now?”
“Sure.”
Royce placed his hand on her shoulder. “We need to talk, Elita.”
“Talk about what?”
“Several things. I need to explain about—”
“Come on, Sutton,” Gerald yelled. “It’s hot out here and we’re hungry.”
Cliff waved to the group. “Your guests are getting restless, big brother.”
“They can wait. Let’s get together later this afternoon, Elita.”
“I’m busy this afternoon.”
“Yeah, Elita and I are busy this afternoon.” Cliff gunned the Corvette’s engine.
Royce shot his brother an irritated glance. “I don’t want you to go skinny dipping, Elita.”
“You never minded before.”
“That’s because you were with him.” Cliff eased the car into reverse.
Royce took a step back. “If you get arrested, I’m not going to bail you out.”
Elita smiled at him. “Don’t worry. If that happens, your brother will pay my fine. Won’t you, Cliff?” She reached over and ruffled his hair.
He gave her his signature lop-sided grin. “It’d be a pleasure, Miss, a real pleasure.”
CHAPTER 7
It was near dusk when Elita and Cliff returned from their impromptu excursion across the Texas line. He dropped her off at her truck, made a u-turn in the middle of Main Street and headed back to Texas to pick up his date for the evening—a lively redhead who’d waited on them when they stopped at the pottery factory in Marshall.
Twilight’s first fireflies played a game of tag with the windshield of the aging truck. “Come on, damn you,” Elita grumbled as she pumped the accelerator again. Like the previous four tries, the truck’s engine groaned a vacillating start and died.
“Engine’s flooded.”
Elita flinched. She turned to find Luther Boudreaux standing by the driver’s door.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” He pointed at the truck. “Sounds like the engine is flooded. Let it rest a spell.”
“I forgot how touchy Uncle Matt’s truck can be.”
“Can’t understand why Matt keeps fixing up this old barrel of bolts. He ought to buy a new one.”
“He can’t afford a new truck.”
“Really? He’s turned down so many guided fishing jobs. I thought maybe he came into some money. Did your mother leave him some big bucks?”
The muscles in the back of Elita’s neck tightened. “No, she didn’t.” That simple statement would be the only tidbit of gossip Luther would get out of her.
“Well, anyway, it works out fine for me.”
“How’s that?”
“Matt sends the fellows to me. I’ve already guided four groups this month. Good paying groups, too.” Luther pushed back his ball cap, scratched behind his right ear, and then resettled the cap on his head. “Bought a new 135 horsepower Mercury motor for my boat.”
“That’s the same motor Royce has on one of his boats.”
“If it’s good enough for the Suttons, I reckon it’s good enough for me.” Luther leaned against the truck door, brought his face close to her rolled-down window and whispered, “Was that Cliff Sutton’s car you got out of a few minutes ago?”
Luther Boudreaux was a gossip hound. Elita knew it. Everyone who lived in Caddo Parish knew it. Still, the implied intimacy of his question surprised and irritated her. “Do you know anyone else in Caddo Parish who can afford a Corvette?”
“No one comes to mind except Royce. Guess he could afford any car he wanted.”
“The roads around here are too rough for fancy cars. That’s why Royce prefers to drive a truck or his Jeep.”
Luther nodded. “Having trouble making up your mind, are you?”
Elita gave him a puzzled stare.
“You and Royce used to be tight, but now you’re gallivanting around the parish with Cliff. Is that because Royce is dating his secretary?”
A torrent of anger flooded her. Something not so deep inside of her sounded the call to arms. Her gut steeled itself for battle. Her intellect scanned her mental arsenal of witty comebacks, scathing commentaries, and sarcastic idioms. Luther’s appearance alone provided her with a surplus of ammunition.
A tan, long sleeve Dickie shirt and matching cuffed khaki pants covered Luther’s short, slender frame. The black Fontenot Feed and Hardware cap covering his retreating hairline, the scuffed steel-toed boots, and the half-smoked pack of Camel cigarettes resting in his left shirt pocket were common sights in rural Caddo Parish. What set Luther apart from the mechanics, roustabouts, and others who favored Dickie work clothes was his apparent resolve never to wear anything else. Whatever the occasion or weather—formal wedding or potluck supper, scorching heat or record cold—his wardrobe never changed.
Luther pulled a scratched silver lighter and a Camel cigarette out of his pocket. He lit his smoke and inhaled deeply, causing the cheeks in his long, gaunt face to sink in even more. His protruding cheekbones and slim fingers reminded Elita of a rawboned horse her Grandpa Monroe once owned. No matter how much that mare ate, she never gained weight until she’d been wormed three times.
A surge of bile painted the back of Elita’s throat. She decided to err on the side of civility and skip the snappy retort forming in her mind. She turned the key, pumped the accelerator, and offered a silent prayer. The engine revved to a spitting start then died.
“I’m headed to the house,” Luther said. “I can give you a ride home.”
“No, thanks. I’ll call Uncle Matt if the truck doesn’t start soon. You go on home now and have your supper.”
“Okay.” Luther didn’t move. “I heard you got lost trying to find Moccasin Bayou.”
Elita pounded the steering wheel. “I did not get lost. It was getting dark and I got turned around a bit, but I didn’t get lost.”
“It’s easy to lose your way in those bayous and sloughs. Look at what happened to that Butler fellow.”
“Dale Butler came from the city. I grew up on Caddo Lake.”
“But you’ve been gone for awhile. You were lucky this time.”
Elita frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you could have been stuck out there all night . . . alone . . . like Butler.”
“So, what?” Elita fought to control her growing anger. “My daddy taught me everything he knew about the Caddo. I could survive one night on my own.”
“Maybe so, but a pretty young woman like you shouldn’t be out in the Caddo alone.” Luther pointed at two young men in faded jeans and tie-dyed shirts sitting on a bench in front of Hebert’s Pharmacy. “Too much riffraff hanging around the lake. Can’t tell what shenanigans they’re up to.”
“Those fellows are sitting there eating ice cream and minding their own business. You make it sound like they’re plotting a robbery.”
“Could be for all we know. There’s a lot of strangers around here now. Nobody knows where they come from or where they’re going.”
Elita wondered if Luther’s concern for her safety was genuine or just talk. Either way, the conversation was getting too creepy for her. She decided to lighten the mood. “I’m disappointed in you, Luther. I thought you knew everything about everyone in Caddo Parish.”
“I do, for the most part. That’s why I’m telling you not to go roaming around Caddo Lake by yourself.”
Elita’s eyes narrowed. “If you remember anything about me, Luther, it should be that I don’t scare easily.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. Just wanted to t
ell you how things have changed since you’ve been gone.” He pushed back his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I can take you to Moccasin Bayou if you still want to go.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need an escort.”
“You got lost before. What makes you think you won’t get turned around again?”
“I’ve gone out with Uncle Matt several times since then. I won’t get mixed up.”
Luther flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street. “I’m not busy tomorrow morning. I can take you to Moccasin Bayou then.”
“No, thanks.”
“Is seven too early? I’ll bring a thermos of coffee and you can make us some fried egg and bacon sandwiches. Put lots of mayonnaise and some hot sauce on mine.”
“Making a date with Luther now, are you?” Royce approached the truck.
Luther straightened. “Hello, Royce. We didn’t see you there.”
“That’s because y’all were too busy planning your date. What’s the matter, Elita? Didn’t your picnic with Cliff go well? Or have you decided to play the field?”
“Cliff and I had a fine time. A great time, in fact. Not that it’s any of your business.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, secured it with a rubber band. “As for Luther, he offered to take me to Moccasin Bayou.”
“Why do you want to take her to Moccasin Bayou?” Royce asked.
Luther shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m not busy tomorrow, so I offered to take her. We don’t want her getting lost and ending up like Butler, do we?” A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. “Honest, Royce, that’s all there was to it.”
“I told him I didn’t need his help,” Elita said.
Royce grunted. “Of course you don’t. You’re Elita Pearl Dupree. You never need anyone’s help. Don’t worry about her, Luther. She’s a female Paul Bunyan.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s call her Pauline Bunyan from now on.”
“Royce, are you drunk?” Elita asked.
“No, but the evening is young.”
“I reckon I’ll mosey on home.” Luther turned, and headed toward his truck.
“Good idea.” Royce leaned against the passenger door. “Miss Pauline and I need to talk.”
Shadows of Home: A Woman with Questions. A Man with Secrets. A Bayou without Mercy Page 8