The Road to Bayou Bridge

by Liz Talley

  Such insight from an unexpected source. Like his sister, he’d tried to deny who he was. After leaving Beau Soleil, he’d tried to erase the boy he’d been. No longer would he be the kid who trashed study guides or snuck bourbon from his daddy’s liquor cabinet, but he’d be the kid who studied hard and ignored the boys tearing out of the academy on Saturday nights for a little fun. He’d chain himself to his desk, drive the speed limit, think rationally and repress the charming laissez-faire boy he’d once been. But thing was...he was still that boy. He had to own all parts of himself. He couldn’t change the past, but he also didn’t have to pretend he didn’t love his home. That he didn’t love the meandering bayou, the moss-bedecked trees and the sweet Louisiana girl he’d left behind.

  Embrace who you are, Darby.

  The wind whispered this message to him.

  Or maybe it was Picou.

  Because she was standing behind him uttering those very words.

  “Mom,” he said, spinning around. “How long have you been standing there?”

  She shrugged. “Long enough to know you two are like cream cheese and pepper jelly. Put you two together and magic happens.”

  Della started laughing. “You’re comparing us to an appetizer...an easy one at that?”

  “Tell me you don’t like dipping a cracker into cream cheese with pepper jelly poured over it. I could live on it myself. Plus it was an analogy. I didn’t say it was a good one.”

  Another way he was like his mother. Darby pushed his rocker into motion. “I’m flying out tomorrow.”

  “What?” Picou stilled his rocker and held it firmly. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to build a life in a place where they eat granola and make you wear Birkenstocks?”

  “Mom, you have Birkenstocks.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He had to actually think about that. “Well, if I wanted to move to Seattle, I’d damn well go to Seattle, but as it were, I’m not moving there. Just getting my stuff sent here then taking a trip down the West Coast on my bike. After coming home and reevaluating things, I know it’s not where I belong. Shelby knows it, too. We were both trying to shove our feet into shoes that weren’t made for us.”

  His mother smiled. Big. She might as well have rubbed her hands together and drawled, Just as I had planned.

  But she didn’t. Thank God.

  “So you’re coming home? For good?”

  “Don’t get the Star Wars sheets out just yet.”

  “So does Renny know about this?” Picou asked, releasing his chair before leaning against the rail.

  “Actually, this isn’t about Renny.”

  “Renny’s a touchy subject,” Della said, eating another praline. “Good night, I gotta stop eating these things. I won’t fit in my clothes.”

  Picou reached over and moved the plate closer to Della. “You could stand to gain a little.”

  He didn’t want to talk anymore about Renny, but as he’d sat there, he felt oddly soothed by the women sitting with him on a porch over which he’d once rolled Matchbox cars. A warm sort of rightness seeped into his bones, as he thought about the way a person felt when he knew things were right.

  When he found the person made for him, or in his case, rediscovered her. She never seemed to come along at the right time, but often it was in the nick of time.

  Right when a man was about to make a big mistake and force something into his life not meant to be.

  And a strange notion formed in his mind—a notion born from a classic movie about two people hoping love would work out, and meeting at the top of the Empire State Building. He’d fallen asleep to it playing on the TV last night. Two people caught up in circumstance, finding love and hoping it would pan out.

  What if he and Renny weren’t An Affair to Remember but were a love of a lifetime?

  What if? He nearly snorted.

  Nah.

  They were.

  Time to toss the ball into Renny’s court and see if she would hit it back.

  And so that’s what he’d done. He’d sent her another letter—this time delivered certified because he wasn’t taking a chance on his proposal not landing in her hands.

  Then he’d set about recreating a new direction for himself—one that included looking for a place in between Bayou Bridge and Baton Rouge, procuring a job and winning back his wife.

  The sound of two men arguing about football at the bar dragged him back to his present. He looked down at his watch. Nearly three o’clock. He should head to the Quarter or he’d be late.

  He signaled for the check.

  This was an appointment he didn’t want to miss.

  For better or worse.

  * * *

  DARBY STOOD BY A HUGE banana plant trying not to look like a stalker since there was a group of high school girls clad in plaid skirts and white oxfords shuffling around with a nun who kept giving him the evil eye. He pulled out his phone and pressed the ESPN app. At least he’d look like he had a purpose, rather than looking desperately at the iron gates that opened to the courtyard housing the statue of Andrew Jackson on his steed. The statue stood in the middle of the courtyard of St. Louis Cathedral, which rose magnificently from the swath of humanity milling below, an elegant testament to the toughness of the inhabitants of the Crescent City since 1720.

  He struck thoughts of Louisiana history from his mind as he wondered for the hundredth time that day—would she come?

  The question beat in his gut, pounding in his chest.

  He scrolled through scores he’d never remember and then pocketed his phone with shaking hands.

  Hell.

  He couldn’t believe how nervous he was. Almost anxiety-attack nervous. Of course, it felt a bit like going into battle again—when the last go-around hadn’t gone so well.

  He passed a woman who dragged a screaming toddler behind her. She kept saying, “Just one time for mommy? Please? Mommy wants a picture.”

  He knew about wanting something, too.

  Hope they both got what they wanted.

  Darby moved toward the statue, but it was a prime place for tourist photos so he moved away again, glancing beyond the iron gates to where horses and carriages stood awaiting fares and artists displayed their work, propped along the bricked walls and scrolled wrought iron. People moved past at fast clips with the occasional tourist poking along, head moving back and forth as he or she took in the eclectic city with its Old World crumbling buildings melded with high-tech capability.

  Where was she?

  He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes past the time he’d given her in the letter he’d sent.

  If you can.

  Those words haunted him.

  Should he have used the exact lines from the movie? Would she think it was stupid? Or desperate? Or... He had to stop overthinking everything. He glanced at his phone to see if she’d messaged him. Should he call? No. It was her decision.

  Besides, just because she hadn’t shown ten years before didn’t mean she wouldn’t come today.

  An hour later, he wasn’t so sure about that.

  It looked pretty certain Renny had made her choice.

  And it wasn’t him.

  He’d milled around for so long, a fortune-teller took pity on him and offered him a beer out of her cooler. He’d declined, but presently wished he hadn’t. He was tired, thirsty, but more than anything else, he was heartsick.

  And he felt like a fool.

  “You sure you don’t wanna cold one, man?” The fortune-teller lifted a silver can and wiggled it. “I don’t usually share, but I’ll be damned if you don’t look like a kicked pup.”

  Great. He was officially pathetic.

  “Nah, I probably need something stronger.”

  “She stood you up, huh?”

  He didn’t know whether to admit his heartache or deny it. So he shrugged.

  “Well, from where I’m standing that gal looks like a horse’s ass. Or is it a fellow?”
<
br />   “Uh, woman.”

  The fortune-teller nodded her head. She had curly red hair that streamed past her shoulders. Could’ve been a wig. She wore a black dress that had cutouts, revealing colorful tattoos. She had two small rings in her nose, and warm blue eyes that looked like they belonged to a grandmother, not a street performer. “Want me to give you a free reading? It’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, no thanks. Wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Then you can pay me. Business has been slow today.”

  Hell. He didn’t want to have his palm read, but the older woman had been nice to him—at a time where he needed someone to be nice to him.

  So he walked toward her little folding table, sat down on the warped metal chair and stuck his hand out.

  “Well, ain’t you just a get-right-down-to-business sort of fella.” She grinned, and he saw she was missing a couple of teeth, but still she had a nice smile.

  She clasped his hand and he didn’t feel anything.

  He’d once heard there was supposed to be some kind of energy or something. But there was nothing. Maybe he was numb because Renny hadn’t shown up.

  Renny hadn’t picked him.

  The woman bent over his hand making a lot of “uh-huh” sounds along with a couple of grunts. “Well, you have a nice life line. See here?”

  She dragged a red fingernail across his palm.

  “This is your love line. It’s very interesting.”

  He didn’t bother looking down. He did one more sweep of the area, hoping Renny had gotten held up. Damn it, now he knew exactly how Cary Grant’s character felt in the movie. He almost wished he were an artist himself, so he could lose himself angrily in his work. Pissed-off art. He and Cary Grant.

  “Lots of misunderstanding in your love life. You aren’t very forthcoming and that causes pain and mistrust.”

  “You need to tell me something good if you want a tip,” he muttered, giving her a sideways glare. Tell him something he didn’t know.

  “But I like the way the lines merge. Tells me there will be a long-lasting love in your future.”

  “You just want a good tip.”

  She dropped his hand. “The palm doesn’t lie.”

  “Sure, it doesn’t.” He stood and dug into his back pocket for his wallet and drew out a twenty. At her “ahem” he added another twenty to it and dropped them on the red silk cloth.

  “For another ten, I’ll read the tarot cards for you.”

  He gave her the nun’s evil eye and it made her laugh.

  “Cheer up, sailor. May have been a rough voyage, but it was worth making.”

  “How did you know I’m a sailor?”

  “You are?” She lifted painted-on brows in what should have been surprise, but her blue eyes probed him. “I see many things, and I’ll tell you one you must heed.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “Look to the past to find your future.”

  Great. He’d already done that—and the future hadn’t shown up.

  “Thanks.” He pushed the metal chair in and gave her a nod. She gave him a secret smile and nodded back.

  Then he started walking, heading around toward the cathedral and the museum next door—the Cabildo, which contained collections of Spanish and French artifacts from the days of early Louisiana. Darby had always adored history, loving that Beau Soleil held a little bit of it in the form of Indian mounds on the land.

  A sixth sense compelled him into the foyer of the museum he hadn’t visited in too many years. He hadn’t seen the displays from Hurricane Katrina and wouldn’t mind perusing a brochure on it, maybe even drop by tomorrow since they looked to be closing up.

  “Darby!”

  He’d been sliding a brochure from a slot on the docent’s desk when he heard her voice. He froze, his heart dropping into his toes. He’d never thought that could happen—a heart plummeting that fast, but he was sure he’d felt it all the way down into his trail runners.

  “Renny?”

  He turned to find her sitting on a bench with her leg elevated on a stack of books, a bag of ice sitting on her ankle. “I can’t believe you found me. My phone is dead—I forgot to charge it.”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  She started laughing. “Yeah, but I can’t walk. This damn leg buckled—” she motioned to her bad leg

  “—and I tripped, landed on a grate and twisted my ankle so badly I can’t walk on it. Luckily a nice man helped me hobble into the foyer here.”

  He moved toward her, trying not to get his hopes up, but letting them fly anyway. “You came.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  He laughed. “Oh, my Lord, woman. That’s your response?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry, but how’s this for irony? It’s like the movie, the one you quoted in your letter, though I didn’t think another accident could happen. I mean, I was already crippled in the last one.”

  He shook his head and sat down on the end of the bench, sliding the ice bag off her ankle. Sure enough it was red and puffy. “Do you think we need to go to the hospital?”

  “I don’t know.” She peered down at the ankle and wiggled her toes. “I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe you waited.”

  “I’ve been getting my fortune told.”

  Renny made a face. “Your fortune told?”

  “Yeah, and you know what the last thing she said was?”

  “What?”

  “That I should look for my future in the past.” He looked around. “I’m not sure if she meant literally or figuratively.”

  Renny raised her eyebrows. “Um, both?”

  He took a moment to study Renny. Her face held the vestige of tears and she looked a little sweaty. Not exactly the romantic reunion of two destined hearts he’d intended. “Did you come here to say yes or just let me down gently?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I only know what I hope.”

  A woman in a navy jacket interrupted. “Miss Latioles, I’m assuming this was the gentleman you wanted us to look for?”

  Renny looked up and nodded. “Yes, thank goodness he hadn’t left.”

  “Yes, well...” The woman looked at the guard standing inside the inner door to the museum. “We need to close up so...”

  “We’ll be out of your hair in just a minute,” Darby said, readjusting the ice pack. He wasn’t exactly sure how they’d manage, but they would. “Okay, Renny, I’m going to have to carry you.”

  “You can’t do that. I’m too heavy.”

  “Come on, I work out, and you weigh maybe one-twenty.”

  She smiled. “I’ll let you keep thinking that.”

  He laughed. Like he gave a good damn what she weighed. She could weigh 150 or 200 and he’d still be giddy that the woman he loved had shown up to claim a life with him. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have been able to carry her very far. He didn’t work out that hard.

  “Hold the ice and your shoe,” he said, handing them to her before scooping her up under her arms and knees.

  “You want me to call a cab?” the docent asked, her silver head swiveling toward a phone on the desk.

  “Nah,” he said. “I have a better idea.”

  Darby walked out of the Cabildo, carrying Renny, who kept shouting her thanks over his shoulder, and strolled about seventy yards to where a horse and carriage sat.

  “A buggy ride?”

  “Why not? It’s more romantic than a regular cab and probably just as fast considering the end-of-the-day traffic,” he said, helping her onto the red leather seat that had seen better days. It didn’t matter that the white paint was chipped or the horse pulling the buggy wore a ridiculous feather on her head—at that moment nothing else mattered but the woman sitting next to him.

  The driver turned around and stated his route, and Darby slipped him an extra twenty to stop them at his hotel, which was right off Bourbon. The man clicked his tongue and set “Blanche DuBois” off at a steady clip. D
arby pulled Renny’s ankle into his lap, took the dripping ice bag from her hand and placed it on her ankle.

  She hissed then unwound the scarf thing around her neck. “Here, wrap it in this.”

  “Won’t it ruin your thingy?” he asked.

  “At this point, I don’t really care, though it’s not hurting as badly since the lady at the Cabildo gave me a few pain relievers.”

  He wrapped the soggy bag in the wrap and gently replaced it on her ankle. She probably had a nasty sprain, but it wouldn’t hurt to get an X-ray. As soon as they got back to his hotel, he’d send for his car and take her to the closest emergency care clinic.

  “So, you came.”

  She opened her mouth, but he stopped her from tossing out the snarky comeback with a kiss.

  She sighed against his lips and he caught it, absorbed it, became that sweet sigh of submission. Because he’d submitted to her weeks ago. His heart belonged to Renny Latioles.

  He broke the relatively tame kiss and looked into her eyes. “Thank you for choosing us, Renny.”

  She brushed his cheek and gave him another kiss. “After we talk, you might not be as happy.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  RENNY STUDIED DARBY in the waning light of the day. It was a Saturday and business in the French Quarter had slowed to a lull with all the day-trippers heading home or to their hotels, and the night-birds awaiting the sinful cloak of darkness so they could haunt the old bricked sidewalks much like the ghosts of Lafitte or Marie Laveau—except with the notorious Bourbon Street hand grenades or Pat O’Brien’s hurricanes in hand.

  “What does that mean?” Darby asked, alarm shooting through those mesmerizing blue eyes. “I may not be happy after we talk about it?”

  She patted his hand. “It’s not bad. I promise. Just some more thoughts I had about where we go from here.”

  Darby shifted his eyes away with a confused frown. “But you came.”

  “Yes, I’m choosing us, but not the way you think I am.” She sighed as the driver pointed out the first bar to serve a Sazerac and then swiftly launched into tales of slaves who’d been tortured and movies that had been filmed among the cobbled streets and wrought iron that garnished the Quarter.

  Darby rolled his hand in an insistent “get the show on the road” manner.