by Sandra Hill
“Thanks, sweetie,” Charmaine replied, in a not-so-sweet voice, giving Amelie a sweeping head-to-toe survey of disdain.
Mon Dieu, next he would be witnessing a catfight.
“You are not going anywhere, dressed like that,” he said, dropping his hand from Amelie’s shoulder and walking slowly up the wooden steps. He was so angry he could hardly breathe.
To her credit, or to her stupidity, she didn’t back up one bit. “I beg your pardon,” she said, batting her eyelashes, which were too big to be real. “Who died and named you master? Oops, sorry, have you suddenly decided to become my forever husband?”
“Charmaine, stop acting like a child.” But, man oh man, you don’t look like a child. Not in those pants you must have painted on. Not in that tease-me shirt that outlines every curve of your breasts. Be still my heart . . . and other body parts.
She put her hands on her hips. “Get out of my way, cowboy. I’m going dancing.”
“You are not.”
“Try and stop me.”
“Rusty, let her go.” Amelie had moved to the bottom of the steps and was tugging on his sleeve. “She’s a big girl. You are not responsible for her actions.”
“Yeah,” Charmaine said. “Let me go, please . . . pretty please.”
His eyes bulged and his hands fisted. He probably looked like a lunatic. He didn’t care. “Hell, no, I’m not letting her go,” he informed Amelie. “For reasons I can’t go into, Charmaine’s life is in danger. She needs to stay out of sight.” He tried to tamp down his temper when he addressed Charmaine. “Now, go back inside and watch TV or something, like a good girl.” He immediately recognized his poor choice of words and wished he could take them back.
“Good girl? Are you for real, Lanier?” Charmaine just laughed. “Do they sell oyster shooters at this bar?” she asked Clarence.
“Oh, yeah,” Clarence said. He and Linc were enjoying this argument immensely.
“Oh, goody.”
I’d like to give you a good dose of “goody,” you willful, outrageous bundle of female orneriness. “Listen, Charmaine, if you go to The Horny Bull dressed like that, every cowboy within fifty miles is going on testosterone alert. The cowboy grapevine is going to broadcast your presence. Bobby Doucet is for sure going to hear about your whereabouts.”
She totally ignored his warning, but instead homed in on a tiny portion of what he’d said. “That’s the second time you’ve remarked on how I’m dressed. Well, I don’t like the way you’re dressed either. You look too damn sexy, if you must know. The way your jeans hug your legs and your butt, the way that blue shirt brings out the highlights in your dark eyes, the way your jacket shows off your broad shoulders, the way your belt calls attention to your narrow waist. Yep, every female within fifty miles will go on hormone alert. Men will be fighting with you because their wives or girlfriends have the hots for you. The police will be called. Nothing but trouble. Best you stay home, boy, and twiddle your thumbs.”
She was probably being sarcastic, but he couldn’t help himself. He grinned. Which caused Amelie to elbow him in the side and Charmaine to gloat and Linc and Clarence to slap their knees with glee. Dumb as a dingo, that’s what he was. Naturally, what came out of his mouth was dumb, too: “So, you think I look sexy?”
“As sin,” was her blunt reply.
I don’t care if she thinks I’m sexy. I don’t care if she thinks I’m sexy. I don’t care . . . much. He grinned some more.
She just looked sad all of a sudden.
Amelie was right. Charmaine was an adult. If she wanted to get herself killed, it was no skin off his nose. Or it shouldn’t be.
“Just be careful,” he cautioned Charmaine as he took Amelie’s hand and led her to the car.
Charmaine stared at them sadly as they pulled out of the yard. It was an image that stayed with him all night.
Cry me a river . . .
She cried buckets for the first hour after everyone had gone, having decided after all that it might be dangerous to be seen in public.
But Charmaine had never been one to wallow in self-pity for very long. It was, frankly, boring.
So she brushed out her hair and gave herself a hot-oil conditioning treatment.
Then she redid her fingernails and toenails with Peach Passion, no longer being in a Red-Hot Mama mood.
Then she made herself some Bananas Foster . . . and ate three of them, covered with vanilla ice cream and about a pound of whipped cream, all by herself, along with three cups of “burnt roast,” the thickest of Cajun coffees.
Then, on a sugar-and-coffee high, she decided to scrub the kitchen floor, pluck her eyebrows, rearrange the pantry, and order some cosmetics off the Internet.
Then, while she was still on the computer, she did about an hour’s worth of work, inputting information from the boxes of ranch paperwork that still lined the office in daunting piles.
Then she treated herself to a peach-scented bubble bath while sipping on a glass of beer, which was the only alcoholic beverage she’d been able to find in the house.
Since it was only ten o’clock, and she was still wide-awake, she put on her favorite cow pajamas and fuzzy cow slippers—comfort clothes—and slapped a peach mud facial on her face. Rusty probably wouldn’t be back from his date for another couple of hours, she figured, not that she was watching the clock. She expected to be snoring away in bed by then with a beer buzz.
To make sure of that, she went out on the back porch, carrying with her another beer and the portable radio tuned to a local Cajun music station. That was what she needed, a little Acadian joie de vivre to lighten her spirits.
“Hi, there, Jude,” she said to the plastic statue sitting in the other rocking chair. That was where Rusty had put it, after being tired of it being on the other porch. He claimed it watched him through the front window.
Jude didn’t answer her. Surprise, surprise.
“Welcome, folks, to our Cajun country dance party,” the announcer on the radio said. “We’re gonna have us a little fais do-do down on the bayou, guar-an-teed.”
Well, I wanted to dance tonight. Guess this is the next best thing. Charmaine loved to dance, and she’d been looking forward to going out tonight. Nothing bad. Just dancing. Her second husband, Justin, had been a really good dancer. His moves had been so smooth, people had stopped to watch. He’d been one good ol’ Cajun boy who could charm a woman up one side and down the other till she didn’t know her engine from her caboose. Unfortunately, Charmaine had found out that his smooth moves were being spread to engines and cabooses throughout Louisiana. Justin had been a larcenous rat, as well. When he’d left, he took everything, including the gumbo pot.
Her third husband, Lester, hadn’t been a Cajun, but he’d left, too. Thank goodness! He’d been boring as bayou mud.
Her fourth husband, Antoine, had been a Cajun . . . a Cajun nerd. She must have thought she’d be safe with a more serious fellow. Hah! Antoine had some kind of sexual addiction because he’d wanted to make love morning, noon, and night. And he wasn’t very good at it, either. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been working while he’d been chasing her around the house, except for diddling with his computers, of which he’d had five. When she’d laid down the law, refusing to support him anymore, he’d gone off with some other Sugar Mommy.
And all of them had wanted her to strip for them, like her mother. In fact, Antoine had urged her to strip to support them in a grander lifestyle, as if being a beautician and then shop owner hadn’t been enough for him. No wonder she had relationship problems. But that was all in the past. She was smarter now.
She listened appreciatively as various Cajun musicians played old favorites like “Ode to Big Mamou,” “Devil’s Dream,” “Ways of a Cajun,” and “Girls Like Cowboys.”
She hadn’t needed to hear that last song to know just how much girls liked cowboys. She was the worst of the lot. Show her a pair of spurs and a cowboy hat, and she swooned, especially if they were tacked onto a sexy-a
s-sin cowboy. Like Rusty.
No, no, no, I’ve had enough of that bum. Giving me orders like I’m one of his cows. As if! Another couple of weeks and I’m out of here. I promised myself some new beginnings, and that’s just what’s going to happen. A whole clean slate. Minus cowboys. Or minus one cowboy in particular.
Maybe she should become a lesbian. Hmmm. Could a woman decide to become a lesbian? She laughed softly as she took another drink from her cold bottle of beer. Hell, if I can decide to become a born-again virgin, why not a new sexual preference?
Stop swearing, she thought she heard a voice say. Probably that plaguey St. Jude. She glanced over. He said nothing, just rocked with the breeze, but he talked plenty in her head. You would not be speaking so lightly of hell if you knew just how bad it is. Whew! Talk about heat. Southern Louisiana in midsummer has nothing on hell. And forget the lesbian nonsense. I have other plans for you.
Chapter 7
Horny as a bull . . .
“You don’t seem to be having a good time.”
Raoul was sitting on a picnic bench, leaning his back and elbows on the table with his legs extended and crossed at the ankles. Amelie’s comment had jarred him from the reverie that had plagued him all evening.
“I’m having a great time, Amelie. It’s just a little disorienting for me. You know, mixing socially with so many people. I’m out of practice.” I didn’t get much chance to exchange chitchat in prison. That’s for sure. Plus, the people I got to mix with were all men and they weren’t your normal barbecue crowd. Murderers, sex offenders, drug dealers.
“No one made you feel bad, did they?”
Well, there was the time I rejected George the Hammer. And the time my cellmate said I was suffering from delusions about my innocence.
“Here at the party, I mean.”
Oh. Here at the party. She looked genuinely offended on his behalf as she sat down and put a hand on his thigh in comfort.
“No, everyone’s been really nice.” They whisper behind my back, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. He glanced once again at Amelie’s hand on his thigh. Odd thing about that. From Amelie, it was just a friendly gesture. If Charmaine had done the same thing, he would have taken it as an invitation to sex. Sparks would have been shooting up to his groin by now. His cock would have been singing cock-a-doodle-doos and doing the chicken dance.
“Why are you smiling?”
Uh-oh! “I didn’t realize I was.”
“Are you thinking about my offer?”
Hardly. Amelie had made him a surprising, generous offer to join her veterinary practice here in Lake Charles, now that her father had retired. He would have to be just an assistant till he got his medical license back, but when he did—and it was heart-lifting to know that Amelie had that kind of confidence in him—he would be a full partner.
“I am, but I’ve gotta stick with what I said before. I have too much on my plate right now. Getting the ranch back in order. Clearing my name. Investigating my father’s death. Straightening out my marriage situation.”
Why didn’t I just say divorce? Marriage situation? Talk about skirting the issue! He saw a spark of what almost seemed like anger in her eyes at the mention of his “marriage situation,” and for the first time wondered if Charmaine hadn’t been right in implying that more than friendship existed between him and Amelie . . . or at least on Amelie’s part. That suspicion was strengthened when he noticed that her hand still rested on his thigh, up higher.
“Why not just sell the ranch? Cut your losses and be done with it.”
He shrugged. “I can’t. Not yet. And definitely not to the oil vultures. The Triple L has been in my family for 150 years. I would feel like a traitor selling out.”
“Your father never treated you very well. You didn’t spend all that much time on the ranch. Does the property hold that much sentimental value for you?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
“I wonder . . . does it have anything to do with Charmaine?”
He frowned. “Hell, no. Her ties are all in Houma and Lafayette, where she owns businesses, and she grew up mostly in Baton Rouge.”
“I just thought . . . well, maybe subconsciously you’re looking at the ranch as a way of getting back together with her.”
Why do women have to analyze everything to death? At first, he was sort of insulted, but he gave her comment consideration anyway. Then said, “No, this isn’t about Charmaine. Why would I be looking to hook up with her now when I haven’t sought her out in ten years?”
Good question, Lanier. How about it’s the first time in ten years she hasn’t been married to someone else? How about you’ve had time the past two years in prison to think about her and what you might have done differently? How about there is still a spark when she enters a room? Spark, hell! More like fireworks. How about I’m as horny as a rutting bull when Charmaine is within a ten-mile radius?
There was a moment of companionable silence as they both watched the other party attendees, about two hundred of Cletus Ancelet’s closest friends. A half-consumed side of beef still sizzled on the grate of a stone barbecue pit, where people occasionally came back for another helping. A pigload of side dishes crowded several long tables, along with an assortment of mixed drinks and plenty of beer on ice.
“She certainly is . . . um, interesting.”
“Huh? Who?” He scanned the partygoers to see which “she” she referred to.
“Charmaine.”
Why is she so fixated on Charmaine?
Probably because I’m so fixated on Charmaine.
“Interesting would be an understatement,” he replied.
“I never would have expected you to be with a woman who was such a . . . well, bimbo.”
“Amelie! That is a catty remark, especially coming from you.” Be careful, Amelie, I am starting to see a different side of you, and it’s not attractive.
“I’m just being honest, Rusty. My God, did you see that outfit she had on?”
Oh, yeah, I saw it.
“There is no subtlety about her. She’s a walking billboard for promiscuity.”
Yep, a whole new side. Mean comes immediately to mind. “Hold it now, Amelie. You know better than to judge a book by its cover.”
“Are you saying she’s not the slut she appears to be?”
That remark went beyond mean into the realm of vicious. Raoul gritted his teeth and counted to ten. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” And Raoul surprised himself by how sure he was of that fact. “She likes to be outrageous in her clothing and her actions, but it’s all for show.”
“Why? That’s what I don’t understand. Why would anyone deliberately want to look like a floozy?”
I am really uncomfortable talking about Charmaine with anyone else. Isn’t that odd? “I’m no psychologist. I don’t have all the answers when it comes to Charmaine.” But maybe—just maybe—if I found out what makes her tick, I might get a clue into a few mysteries. Like why she really left me. Isn’t it interesting that I was married to her, crazy in love with her, but didn’t really know her?
“Oh, my goodness. I think I know why she dresses the way she does.” Amelie’s face lit up as if she’d just discovered gumbo. “Protective coloration,” she said gleefully.
“I beg your pardon.” I should cut this conversation short right now.
“Think about it, Rusty. You and I have both studied animals in college classes. Animals adapt to their surroundings as a defense mechanism, often by changing their color or fur to camouflage them in the wild.”
“And you think Charmaine does this to camouflage herself?” Dumb, dumb, dumb. Keep this conversation going, Dumbo. If Charmaine ever hears about it, she’ll cut off my tongue . . . or other body part.
“More as a defense.”
“Hmmm,” he remarked noncommittally. But what he thought was, Oh, yeah. Charmaine, the Cajun Chameleon. She would really appreciate that. “You might like her if you got to know her.”
>
“I doubt that, Rusty. I can’t imagine anything in the world we would have in common.”
“I can’t say that Charmaine and I are alike in many ways either, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like some things about her.”
“Like what? I mean, really, Rusty, what’s to like?”
Raoul didn’t understand Amelie’s persistence on this subject. It bordered on hostility toward Charmaine, which made no sense unless . . . He looked at her more closely and at the hand that still rested on his thigh. Holy crap! She’s attacking Charmaine because she considers her a threat. Amelie doesn’t look at me as a friend, after all. Have I really been that blind all these years? With a sigh, he said, “Charmaine has a good heart. She is generous to a fault. Although she had a rotten life as a child, moving around so much with her stripper mom and constantly being rebuffed by a dad who wanted nothing to do with her, family is very important to her. She would do anything for Tante Lulu or her half brothers. She even treated my dad as family, and you know how unlikable he was. And kids . . . man, you should see her with Jimmy. She even made him meat loaf, for chrissake. And yesterday she trimmed the kid’s hair so he’d look good for his overnight trip. As for the dumb bimbo image, you have got to give her credit for two successful businesses. She’s smarter than anyone gives her credit for.”
“Well, she can’t be that smart if she lost all that money and went to a loan shark.”
Raoul was beginning to regret having filled Amelie in on Charmaine’s recent history on the ride over here. “Lots of people have lost money in the stock market since the 9/11 terrorist attack. I’d be willing to bet your dad is one of them.”
She ducked her head sheepishly, which pretty much confirmed his suspicion.