by C. P. Smith
“Time to go,” Mia told him as she pushed him towards the door.
“Can Mia sit a hand?” old man Carter called out, spiking his pressure to the red line.
An image of Mia sitting a hand of poker with her shirt off had Max shouting back, “Fuck no,” as he grabbed her hand and stormed out of the house, dragging a laughing Mia behind him.
He didn’t talk to his mother for a week after that, he was afraid she’d tell him how the evening progressed.
Max closed his eyes at the memory of that night, and to this day can’t look at Randy King without feeling the need to beat the shit out of the old man.
Jack chuckled at Max’s response as the sound of a vehicle had both men looking towards the drive. When Max saw Shane climb out of his SUV he mumbled, “This should be good.”
“How so?” Jack asked.
Max knew Jack was as territorial with Jenn as he was with Mia. Max also knew that Shane couldn’t help himself when it came to a pretty woman. Since Jenn shot way past pretty and into “hot as fuck” territory like Mia, Max figured this should be good.
Shane rounded the corner with a grin on his face as he headed for the deck. That is until he heard one of the girl’s laugh. His head turned at the sound of laughter and his brows shot straight up at the sight of Jenn. Mouth tugging into a cocky grin, his body followed his head as he forgot all about Max and turned towards the yard.
Max watched closely as Jack went on “my woman” alert when Shane approached his wife. Then he grinned around his bottle when Jack stood abruptly ‘cause Shane had made Jenn laugh. He chuckled deep when Jack bound across the deck as Jenn’s laughter increased. And he threw his head back and laughed when Jack disappeared down the steps. Then he heard Mia’s husky laugh directed at Shane and got his own ass out of the chair.
Last Call seemed like the appropriate place to spend my last night as a single woman. So, along with Jenn, Jess, Maxine, Martha, Lucy, Suzy, Joanne and my mother, I‘d thrown on my favorite Care Bears tee, kissed Max goodbye till I saw him at the altar and then headed down for a night of karaoke and shots.
“Mia bear, a toast,” Jess, who was still dating Brian but I knew he was popping the question soon, called out. “To you and Max, may your life together be as adventurous as your courtship has been."
“Here, here,” the table agreed as we all threw back our drinks.”
“We need to do a song,” mother jumped in, her eyes a tad glazed over from the shots.
Jess and I looked at each other and giggled. Judy Roberts, housewife extraordinaire, was drunk and furthermore had never done Karaoke in her life.
“Okay, Mom, what song would you like to do?”
“Something sexy, you know, one of those songs that make you shake your ass.”
“Jesus, we have to get her drunk more often,” Jess cackled.
“I’m not drunk,” Mom insisted.
“You’re drunk,” Jess and I said.
“I’m a little drunk,” Mom conceded.
“You’re a lot drunk,” I explained.
“Well, who cares, my daughter is finally getting married to a giant man who looks like a supermodel. I’m allowed to get drunk. I never thought she’d get married.”
“I’m with you,” Maxine hooted, “never thought my boy would settle down.”
“Do you think they will give us grandchildren soon?” my mother asked.
“If Max wants me to stop my yappin’ about it, they will.”
Jess leaned in upon hearing that and whispered, “If your first child is a girl I get first dibs. If my sister gets a hold of her first, she’ll be wearin’ cardigans by the time she’s five.”
Shuddering at the thought, I put out my hand and said, “Deal.”
No offense to my mother, I loved her dearly, but no daughter of mine was wearing Judy clothes.
“One more round then we rock this house,” Jess shouted as she filled our glasses.
Lucy, who was still my intern and still sleeping with Jake when she came to town, jumped up and grabbed the song list. We perused the pages looking for a song we could all do together when Jenn clapped her hands.
“Oh, “All the Single Ladies” by Beyoncé,” Jenn pointed.
“Perfect,” Mom squealed as she raised her glass.
Everyone watched her throw back another shot and I decided it was time to cut her off.
“No more for you, Judy,” I told her as I moved the bottle out of her reach.
“Girls just wanna have fun,” Mom sang out.
Oh, dear Lord.
“Time to sing,” Jess laughed so we all stood up and headed towards the stage. Mom threw her arms around Jess and my necks kissing us both on the cheek.
“I love my girls,” she told us as she let go then crawled up the stairs, tripping on the top step, and falling to her knees.
“Like mother like daughter,” Martha commented as she helped my mother to her feet.
Lucy handed the book back to Ralph, who was running the machine for the night, and we all got into two lines with Jess, Jenn, Mom, and me in the front row. There were only four microphones so we doubled up. Jenn and I shared one and Mom and Jess did as well, though they fought over who would hold it. When the music started, we all started bouncing one hip in unison, though Mom started bumping hips with Jess. No one knew the choreography so we all ad-libbed. Jenn and I stood back to back wiggling as we sang, but the twins must have watched the video a few times because when it got to the oh, oh, oh’s, they knew the moves. Martha didn’t have a clue so she just rocked back and forth and Maxine turned around and shook her ass at the crowd.
Near the end of the song, the door to Last Call opened and to my surprise Max walked in with Jack, Shane, Chester, Buddy, and pulling up the rear was my dad, Brian and Jake.
Max and Jack grinned when they saw us and then crossed their arms in unison as they leaned against the bar. Jenn and I had already noted how similar the two men were. Except for Max being taller, they looked like brothers. Seeing those gorgeous men, standing in the same pose, confirmed my suspicion that God had broken the mold when he created Gunnison men.
When “All the Single Ladies” ended, I had an idea so I walked over to Ralph and whispered in his ear. He pulled up the screen on the computer and typed in the song I needed. Then I moved to the center of the stage, looked Max in the eyes, and told him, “This one’s for you, baby. I couldn’t celebrate our future together without a little Joel for old time's sake.”
Max’s lip twitched when he heard “Joel” and he pushed off the bar and moved closer to the stage as the rest of the women exited. Then I nodded to Ralph and Billy Joel’s “Shameless” began.
I changed the word man to woman and sang about being shamelessly in love with him. Max’s face grew hard as the song went on and when I got to the part about never being in love like this before, he was at the edge of the stage. I was barely able to get the words out at that point, my love for him choking me, so Max jumped on the stage, picked me up, and carried me down the hall to our dark corner.
“I love you so much,” I cried as he placed me on my feet and then cornered me against the wall.
As I ran my hands up his chest to wrap them around his neck, Max leaned in and put his forehead on mine.
“We aren’t spending the night apart. That’s why I came here tonight. I want you in my bed the rest of our lives and I’m not missin’ a minute of it,” he whispered as he cupped my face with one hand and dried my tears with the other.
“Okay,” I whispered, smiling.
“Okay? No fightin’ me about bad luck or your mother throwin’ a fuckin’ fit, just okay?” he grinned.
“Sheesh, you seem to be under the impression I argue about everything.”
“Babe.”
“What?”
“Stop bein’ cute . . .”
Five years later
Raven-black hair tied into two pigtails bounced around the yard as three-year-old Peyton Hunter chased a ball. Dressed in a carto
on tee with a Care Bear on the front, Max watched as his daughter laughed with his wife. Mia, who was chasing their daughter as she giggled, did it slowly as she held her expanding waistline. Their son, who was due in three months, was finally giving her a break from her constant morning sickness.
To the west Max saw movement and watched as Booboo came meandering out of the forest. When his daughter saw the great bear, she squealed in delight and clapped her hands together. Mia picked Peyton up and waited for Booboo to make his way towards them and then, like she’d done a hundred times before, Mia placed Peyton near his face and his daughter gave the bear a hug.
Descending the stairs, Max made his way towards his girls, his heart swelling at the sight of his family. When he reached them, he took Peyton from his wife, curled Mia into his side, and they both watched as Booboo went to his bowl and began to eat.
“Babe,” Max whispered.
“Yeah, Honey?”
“You remember when I told you I’d waited all my life to find you and that the reality of you was better than the dream?”
“Max.”
Curling Mia into his front, his daughter firmly in his arm, Max’s breath caught as Peyton leaned her little head on his shoulder as she ran her tiny hand down his face. Breathing in her fresh scent, his eyes closed as he kissed her raven-colored hair and then thanked God for his precious gift. Clearing a knot that had formed in his throat, Max looked down at Mia, placed a hand to her stomach, and then told her, “I was wrong, this, right here right now, paradise.”
Look for other titles
by
CP Smith
“A Reason To Breathe”
“Restoring Hope”
Chapter One
Rain pelted the cobblestone streets of the French Quarter, forming pools of water like little ponds as rainbows of oil danced across the surface. The day’s heat, trapped in those stones, rose like a steam bath as the rain cooled the hot streets, making an already humid night, more so. There was a feeling to the night, thick and hungry, like an unseen power wielded its influence over the city. But, it was of no concern to Nic Beuve as he lit another cigarette, the last one barely extinguished. He welcomed the night; day only brought pain. Raising a glass of whisky to his mouth, he listened to the sounds of cars as they drove past, splashing water on those still out walking. The French Quarter never slept. Like a miniature New York, businesses opened early and bars stayed open late. Laissez le bon temps rouler—”Let the good times roll” was the Crescent Cities motto.
Throwing back the rest of his drink, Nic scanned the back of the bar looking for Henri, the bartender. The night was still young, and he was still sober. The Bayou, a neighborhood bar, owned and operated by the same Cajun family for three generations, was Nic’s home away from home. Maman Rose, the current proprietor, took care of her customers and didn’t water down the drinks. Dark wood paneling hosted black and white photos of the swamps around Louisiana. Pictures of moss covered trees, a Heron standing in the shallows of a slow moving Acadian river, and Cypress trees standing tall, surrounded by the black water like sentries of a forgotten time.
The musty smell of the river drifted through the door as another local walked in and sat down, as Henri came from the back with a box of beer to restock. Nic raised his empty glass indicating he needed another round, and Henri, a local Cajun with black hair and a devilish smile the ladies fought over, nodded once showing he’d seen the request. Just another night of solitude and whiskey to take away the bitter taste of loss that he couldn’t seem to shake, and if he weren't careful, he’d spend the rest of his miserable life drinking away his pain, but at that moment, he didn’t seem to care.
***
Hope Delaney entered through the backdoor of The Bayou, her first day on the job as a cook. She’d looked for a position that kept her out of the public eye, somewhere to hide while earning a meager living. She’d come to New Orleans hoping to blend in, or preferably, vanish. Eyes down, as she entered the back, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, just do the work she was hired to do and then go back to the one room hole she called home.
Maman Rose had hired her the day before, and she could have kissed the woman. She’d had some money when she’d slipped into the night, enough to keep her safe for a while, but now that money was gone. Desperate, out of money, and afraid she wouldn’t secure a job before her new landlord wanted another week's rent, she’d walked into The Bayou with the paper folded to the help-wanted section on a wing and a prayer. Unfortunately, she needed to be paid under the table, she couldn’t risk using her name or social security number, and that was always the hitch with an employer. Maman Rose, a big, boisterous Cajun woman, with coffee colored skin and a rich Cajun accent had seen through her immediately, knew she was on the run and took Hope under her wing.
“Pauve ti bete, I don’t know what’s chasing you Cher, but Maman Rose will keep you safe,” Rose had replied while looking her up and down. Hope hadn’t answered the woman’s questioning v eyes. Keep your head down, don’t look people in the eyes and they won’t remember you. Don’t stay long in one place, don’t make any friends, and be ready to run at a moment’s notice. That had been Hope’s motto for the past three months.
The air was thick with scents from the kitchen as she entered the back of the bar. Cajun spices wafted through the air like honeysuckle on a warm day back home. Each new town she’d lived in came with new and different smells. New Orleans came with the smells of magnolia flowers and spices so abundant that if you had an ounce of Cajun blood in you, you’d feel at home.
Hope didn’t have a clue how to make Gumbo, Crawfish Étouffée or Shrimp Creole, but that didn’t stop Rose from hiring her. Tucking her hair into a hairnet and throwing on a blue jacket Rose had given her to cook in; she entered the kitchen, and headed to the man Rose had introduced her to as Big Daddy. He stood well over six feet, and if she had to guess, close to three hundred pounds. Somewhere in his fifties from the looks of him, his caramel colored skin beaded in sweat from the heat of the kitchen and his bald head was covered with a matching blue cap to keep the sweat from running down his face.
“There she at,” Big Daddy smiled as Hope waited for instructions. He looked her up and down shaking his head. “Cher you notin’ but skin and bones you. When it slows down, Big Daddy gonna feed you yes he is.”
“Big Daddy that’s kind of you, but I can eat when I get home.”
“Be̒be̒, don’t tell me lies. You gonna eat while I stand over you, can’t have my kitchen staff fallin’ over from hunger. What dat’ say bout’ Big Daddy, pauve ti bete?” Hope nodded, knowing when she’d lose a fight, and since her last meal was stale bread that morning, she had to admit having a full stomach sounded like heaven.
Big Daddy watched as Hope acquiesced and shook his head. Bon Dieu, Rose was right, he thought. She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in weeks, and the haunted look in her eyes told him they needed to keep an eye on this ‘tit ange. Maman Rose knew a lost soul when she saw one, and though this woman was in her late thirties, she was clearly lost.
Moving to the vegetable station, Big Daddy dumped a basket of colorful vegetables into the sink for Hope to wash and then cut. Yellow corn, plump and juicy, red peppers, big and firm, and crisp green cucumbers all would be used in the meals that night. The corn would go in the crawfish boil, a favorite at The Bayou. Local Cajuns set traps and brought them fresh crawfish daily. His regulars could go through hundreds of pounds of them in one night.
“Cher, I want you to start slow now. I know you don’t have experience wit’ Cajun cookin now, so Big Daddy ain’t gonna rush you, non.”
“Okay, Big Daddy, and thank you,” Hope answered, as a small smile crossed her lips.
“Arre̒te sa petite fleur, we take care of our own, be̒be̒.” Nodding again, Hope moved to the sink and started washing the vegetables while worrying at her lip. How long would she be able to stay this time? A week? A month? He’d find her if she stayed too long, she knew that,
he’d found her once already. Luckily, for Hope, she’d seen his man first and escaped. John was ruthless, and he always got what he wanted, and what he wanted was Hope dead, and he wouldn’t stop until she was.
Ten years she’d endured abuse, scared if she left her husband he would kill her, scared if she didn’t leave he would. And she was right, he had tried to kill her, but now he couldn’t ‘cause she was free, and she was determined to stay that way, or die trying.
Standing at her workstation, listening to the rhythmic slice then pound of the blade connecting with the wood of the cutting board, her mind drifted to an evening not long ago when she’d been cutting vegetables for her own dinner. She’d never eaten that meal; it had ended up on the floor of her kitchen, another victim of a violent temper. The loud crash of a pot landing on the floor broke Hope from her chilling thoughts of abuse and focused her head back on her job. She had to concentrate; she couldn’t afford to lose a finger daydreaming, or in this case, waking nightmare.
Maman Rose watched Hope from behind the bar, the kitchen pass-thru giving her a view of the entire kitchen. She knew when she’d laid eyes on the woman she was running from something, or someone. Her own Chantelle had that same look when she’d come home to her Maman. A woman only looks like that when she flees for her life, and the way Hope had kept her eyes lowered, not making eye contact with anyone, not getting close, only answering with yes or no, Rose knew it had to be a man. Probably some no account fool, who thinks beating a woman till her soul is broken, and can’t remember what it’s like to breathe deep and feel safe, had no doubt taken a hand to her. It takes a soulless man to raise a fist to someone smaller, to control them with strength and temper, Rose thought.
“Dieu, just look at her. Too thin, and jumps at da’ slightest noise she do.” If her eyes were better, Rose was sure she could see the poor woman tremble like a dog who’d been kicked. “Da’ man who’d raise his hand to dat’ ‘tit ange should have bad gris-gris cast on his ‘tit boule,” Maman Rose mumbled to herself and slightly smiled at the thought of this unknown man’s balls shriveling to the size of a pea.