Under the Cajun Moon
Page 26
“I guess dat’s more macho,” she laughed. “He got his deep fryer out there tonight. Y’all ’scuse me while I brings him some paper towels and the sugar.”
She got up and went to the kitchen, leaving me free to whisper to Travis across the table.
“Whatever you do, do not make me eat a pig’s ear,” I hissed.
He just laughed and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
“I’m thinking we can hang around just a little bit, then maybe I can borrow my uncle’s car and we’ll hit the road, find somewhere safer by car.”
“That’s not a bad idea, considering that the last anyone heard we were in a boat. I just don’t want your family endangered by us being here,” I whispered, looking toward the happy group at the other end of the room.
“You kiddin’? There’s more firepower in this place than you could imagine—and every person here knows how to use it too.”
“What’s that about firepower?” his aunt asked, bustling through the room with a roll of paper towels and a box of confectioners’ sugar.
“I was just saying how you used to make Sunday dinner,” Travis replied, giving me another wink.
“Not that old story,” his aunt laughed, shaking her head as she moved out the back door.
“How did she make Sunday dinner?” I asked Travis, curious.
“The chickens ran loose in the yard, and when she wanted to cook one up, she’d just go upstairs, open the window, pick out a good one, and shoot it. She had such good aim, she’d always get it right in the neck.”
I thought maybe he was exaggerating, but then we were joined by the teenage girl who had been at the other end of the room, playing the game. She nodded adamantly in agreement, saying that Tante B was such a good shot with a rifle that the local gun club had to change their rules.
“She kept winning in the competition every year, and the men were getting mad because they were being shown up by a woman.”
“Of course, that was a long time ago,” Travis added. “Things aren’t quite that bad anymore.”
The screen door opened and the woman in question stepped inside. She was so small and unassuming, I had a hard time picturing her with a rifle in her hand, picking off chickens in the yard.
“Yes, indeed, it’s a different world. It’s nice that women have more opportunities and things nowadays, but I kind of miss some of the old-fashioned ways too.”
“That’s why a real man does both,” Travis said. “I fully respect women as equals, but don’t ask me not to open doors for them or stand up when they come in a room, because that’s going to happen regardless.”
“That’s a good boy,” his aunt cooed, pausing to pat her nephew on the shoulder. “Your grandmere done raised you right.”
As an expert in etiquette, I didn’t comment, but I couldn’t help thinking that Travis’ chivalry might fly here in the South, but if he insisted on holding doors and pulling out chairs in certain parts of this country, his actions might be misconstrued as condescending or even disrespectful.
I thought of the fight Travis and I had had about what had happened when we were teens, the argument where he claimed I’d had no respect for Cajun culture and that I had overlooked a people group that was essentially right under my nose. Sitting here with this group, I realized that I wanted to know more about Cajun rules of behavior, those unwritten rights and wrongs that could convey respect or disdain without saying a word.
“So if you had to describe Cajun culture to an outsider,” I said to the aunt, “what would you say is unique about it? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
“The obvious?”
“Language, food, music. Other than that, what’s different about Cajuns than the rest of the world?”
She stared at me blankly, obviously not understanding my question.
“My friend here is an expert on good manners,” Travis explained on my behalf. “I think she just wants to know what proper behavior looks like inside a Cajun home.”
“Proper behavior? We’re civil to each other,” his aunt said, still confused.
“I know what you’re asking,” the teenager added, “like how it’s rude to put your fingers in your mouth in China?”
“It is? Even if you have a hangnail?” the old man called from the other end of the room.
“That’s right, Grandpere,” the teen answered back to him.
“Yes, exactly like that,” I said, smiling encouragingly at the teen. “Are there any rules like that for Cajuns, ones that are unique to this culture?”
“Well, goodness, if I couldn’t put my fingers near my mouth, I couldn’t eat crawfish,” the aunt said, shaking her head.
“What do you think, Travis?”
He had a bemused expression on his face, and while he looked as though he would rather observe the conversation than take part in it, he nodded, saying that for one thing, Cajuns never left anybody out, no matter their age. Whatever they did, wherever they went, the whole family was almost always welcome to tag along, from the very youngest to the very oldest.
That led the aunt to explain why a Cajun dance was called a fais do do. Literally, the term meant “go to sleep,” because that’s what the women would say to their babies on Saturday nights at the dances, waiting for their kids to drift off so they could keep on dancing.
“They brought their babies into bars?” I asked.
“Not bars, cher, dance halls. They was clean, family places, not sleazy joints.”
Travis and his teenage cousin began brainstorming about other Cajun rules of etiquette. In the end, they actually thought of quite a few, from hospitality to the use of “practical charities,” to the food-centric way that they socialized and entertained.
“What’s the rudest thing I could say or do to a Cajun?” I asked. My question seemed to stump them, as they looked at each other and shrugged.
“I guess that would be if you turned down a good meal,” the aunt said finally.
“Acting like you’re better than us,” the teen added.
“Failing to see that the best thing that could ever happen to you might be right in front of your eyes,” Travis said slyly.
I was startled by his words, but he simply grinned. Across the room the old man made catcalls, the teenager burst out laughing, and the aunt simply beamed and patted us both on the arms. Before anyone could say another word, the screen door swung open and Travis’ uncle burst in bearing a platter of deep-fried pigs’ ears smothered in confectioners’ sugar.
Soon, everyone was gathered around the table, grabbing at the disgusting treats and eating them rapturously. Even the three cousins showed up at that point, the delicious smell apparently strong enough to have enticed them in from their game of Frisbee.
“I’ve got to say,” Travis declared, “now that I think about it, the rudest thing you could do to a Cajun is to not eat one of their pig’s ears.”
Up to that point, there had been such a commotion around the table that I’d been able to avoid partaking of that particular delicacy. Now, thanks to Travis and his big mouth, all eyes were on me, waiting to see what I would do. Though I didn’t appreciate being put in this position, Travis had underestimated me. In my travels to various countries, etiquette had required me to eat more than my share of unusual or even repulsive foods. When faced with a choice of personal revulsion and proper etiquette, for me etiquette always won.
Meeting his gaze with fire in my own, I reached out toward the platter, grabbed the smallest pig’s ear that remained, and popped it into my mouth. At least it tasted nothing like I had expected. Instead of a pork rind sort of flavor, this treat was surprisingly delicious and almost reminded me of beignets.
“You know what a pig’s ear is made of, cher?” Travis asked. Before I could answer, his uncle supplied the recipe, which was primarily a mixture of eggs and flour and sugar.
“Why is it called ‘pig’s ear’?” I asked, wondering if maybe the pastry was fried in pork fat.
“Because of the l
ittle twist you make when you drop it in the oil. See the way they puff up like that? Looks just like a pig’s ear.”
I kicked Travis under the table and promised with my expression that I would be getting even.
Soon, the three male cousins were back to playing zydeco music and the children and adults were dancing, the table pushed back against the wall to create more space in the screened room. I think I danced with everyone there, and though I obviously didn’t know the steps to their well-practiced Cajun moves, they were generous with their good humor and their instruction.
At one point I found myself in Travis’ arms.
“This is nice,” he said softly, leading me in a Cajun waltz. “It’s just right, you know?”
“I know,” I replied, thinking I had never felt quite so comfortable so quickly with any man in my life. As Travis’ aunt beamed at us from the sidelines, I found myself being swept around the room by a handsome Cajun and loving every minute of it.
After a few minutes the music slowed, and when I felt his hand gently pressing the small of my back, I responded by moving closer so that we were cheek to cheek. Closing my eyes, I inhaled the musky scent of him, feeling the warm, sharp smell sink into my very being. It conjured up visions of pine and Spanish moss and old oaks and the slow, lazy bayou. It brought back thoughts of our time together earlier in his cabin, his mouth seeking mine in the dark.
He obviously was thinking about kissing me too. I could feel his warm breath against my neck, and where our skin touched it felt like fire. Yet somehow, when the music came to an end, we managed to pull apart without moving into a kiss in front of his entire family—though it wasn’t easy for either one of us.
Travis looked into my eyes, smiled, and then turned to the others and said that we needed to go, but the family seemed determined to keep us there. They begged Travis for a song on the guitar first—and for me to sing along. Earlier, he had introduced me as a singer, and I could see the panic on his features now as he took the guitar that was being offered to him and tried to think of a way of getting me out of having to join in. I wasn’t good enough for a recording contract, but Travis would have been surprised to learn that I actually could sing fairly well. I had been a frequent soloist throughout my years of boarding school, and in college I had even had a good part in a musical. Of course, I wasn’t going to spell that out for him now. Instead, I let him squirm for a bit before agreeing to sing, as long as he would lead and I could harmonize. Though I didn’t know any Cajun or zydeco songs, we tossed some ideas back and forth and finally agreed on an old hymn we both knew well.
Once we began, the surprise on his face secretly filled me with glee. There, sitting on the screened porch in a modest house in the Louisiana swamps, my Cajun hero artfully strummed his guitar and sang in a voice that was rich and true. When he reached the refrain, I joined in a third down, artfully blending my voice with his. Around us, his family simply took in the music, smiling and tapping their feet and one even closing his eyes in prayer. The moment was perfect, and I truly didn’t want it to end. There was no escaping the fact that I was falling for Travis Naquin, and falling hard. Singing with him now, enjoying the surprise that reflected back to me in his eyes, I knew this relationship might turn into something that could change my life forever.
Our song ended to an enthusiastic round of applause, and I could only hope that my singing had been good enough not to blow my cover.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Travis whispered as he leaned across me to hand the guitar back to his cousin.
“Untold depths,” I replied with a wink. “Trust me, Travis. You’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Rising, we told the family we simply had to go. They tried to talk us into spending the night, insisting that it was silly to take off when there was a perfectly good guest room right there for me, not to mention a sofa bed in the living room for Travis.
“Besides,” the aunt added, “Minette and them are going to be here any minute.”
I glanced at Travis, who looked sharply at his aunt.
“Minette? I thought she was staying over at Ophé’s house.”
“She is, but I thought she’d want to see you and maybe meet your new friend, so I called her while I was heating up y’all’s dinner.” She glanced at her watch. “They should be here real soon.”
I wasn’t sure why Travis was so upset, but it probably had to do with wanting to keep his grandmother safely away from any danger that might be looming around here. Besides that, there was also the little matter of me and my false identity. I hadn’t seen Minette Naquin in years, but there was a good chance she might recognize me once she saw me and my telltale icy blue eyes. We had been so careful to keep me incognito that it would be a shame to blow my cover now.
Travis seemed torn, so when no one else was listening I put a hand on his arm and softly told him that we should probably hang around until Minette arrived, at which point he could give a more stern warning to the cousin who was supposed to be keeping her safe. We could all leave at the same time, and as long as we headed in opposite directions, any bad guys who might happen to be out there would surely follow after us and not her.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Travis said curtly.
Five minutes later, when we heard a car crunching in the gravel driveway and voices echoing in from outside, I would learn just how complicated it actually was.
THIRTY-THREE
LOUISIANA, 1721
JACQUES
Jacques’ heart pounded as he read the letter he had been waiting for for two long years. It had been written by the royal goldsmith himself, and the very first sentence contained an apology. According to the letter, on December 10 of last year, the French economy collapsed and John Law was forced to flee Paris. In his wake, an inventory of his home and offices had been conducted, and much to everyone’s surprise, a trunk filled with two hundred brass fleur-de-lis statuettes covered in gold leaf had been found hidden away in an office basement.
Faced with such irrefutable evidence, a former servant of Law’s confessed to having been a party to the very deception that had fooled all of them that day. According to the servant, as soon as Law heard what was going on, he had sent several of his men out to the blacksmith’s shop to retrieve the statuettes, destroy all evidence, and bribe the neighboring farmer and his wife. Though that part of the mission was a success, there had been no way for Law to change out the trunks unseen before the Beau Séjour left port. Though he had hoped to rectify the situation in a later exchange via transatlantic shipment, it was now, of course, too late for him to do so.
As to your father’s remains, the servant alleges that they found a sickly old man on a cot in the room that day. He was feverish and out of his head, so they carried him as far as Charenton and left him at the hospital. Upon hearing this news, I sought to confirm the matter with the prior, who told me that a man suffering with a lung disorder had indeed shown up on the doorstep at Charenton that very day, and though the Brothers took him in and cared for him, the man never regained consciousness and died the next. He was buried in the cemetery, name unknown. Ironically, that cemetery lies not twenty feet behind the very building where you were being housed at the time.
I know this apology cannot erase the pain and shame of the last two years, but I hope it will be a start. As your father’s shop in the Place Dauphin had already been closed down and its contents impounded, I asked the bookkeepers to provide an estimate of the value of the goods seized from within. Enclosed please find that amount, paid in full.
As you know, the passing of a master goldsmith leaves a vacancy for another, so that title has been awarded elsewhere and your father’s name has been engraved on the plaque of former masters that hangs in the guild’s central office. I hope in some small way this helps to make up for the pain and misery that M. Law’s actions have caused you. Should you choose to have your father’s bones reinterred elsewhere, please remit instructions, etc.
The letter ended with general good wishes and an open invitation, should Jacques ever return to France, to visit him at the guild and see the plaque with his father’s name on it.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Jacques’ hands began to tremble anew when he read the next letter, one which had come from Angelique. She said only that she had heard the news about the clearing of his name, and she wanted him to know that it came as no surprise to her, for she had always maintained his innocence. She went on to say that her father’s entire fortune had been lost through speculation when the bubble burst.
Considering all that has happened, I took the liberty of asking my father to secure a few treasured items from those confiscated from your father’s shop. I am sending them with this letter in the hopes they will reach you safe and sound. Thank you for writing to tell me of the circumstances of your marriage, and my condolences on the loss of your wife.
Yours,
Angelique
Jacques folded the letter and placed it in the envelope, and then he brought it close to his nose and inhaled deeply, trying to capture the scent of his lost love. When he allowed himself to miss her, the pain was as sharp as any dagger slicing through gold leaf.
Back inside the store, Jacques turned his attention to the stack of parcels that were piled under the mail slots and had not yet been sorted. His was near the bottom, and when he opened it up what he saw brought tears to his eyes. The package contained three tools of his father’s: his crucible, his tongs, and his muffle. Leave it to Angelique to think of this! Pulling the items from the box, holding their heft and weight in his hands, Jacques almost felt that Papa was with him now. The man would never know all that Jacques had gone through to clear his name, but considering how important his reputation was to him, Jacques could only hope that he had finally made his father proud.