by Sandra Hill
He answered truthfully, “Only one.”
A dangerous silence hovered in the air.
Raoul decided it was time to change the subject just as Don Williams on the radio launched into an appropriate “Louisiana Saturday Night.” “I meant to compliment you, chère.”
“For what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Great cows,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Can I hear you moo?”
“You louse!” She reached forward to slap him on the arm, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him. She landed on his lap. At first, she struggled but, when he assured her, “Relax, nothing’s going to happen,” she shifted her butt in his lap and laid her head on his shoulder.
And, damn, she felt so good in his arms right then. He closed his eyes and relished the softness of her body and the smell of peaches.
“So, what happened with you and Dr. Am-el-ie tonight?” she asked finally, without raising her head.
“Nothing,” he said against her silky hair.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. I told you, we’re just friends.”
“Does she know that?”
“She does now.”
“Oh.”
“She offered me a job as assistant in her clinic till I get my medical license back. Then it would be a full partnership.”
“How convenient! And what string would be attached to that generous offer?”
“None whatsoever. I told you, we’re friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Not in the least.”
He laughed softly.
“Maybe a little bit, but it passed once you started acting like you were the boss and I was the dumb bimbo, ordering me to stay home.”
He considered arguing with her, but decided it was best to pick his battles with Charmaine. Instead, he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Staying home.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I realized that it was dangerous to go out dancing in a public place.”
He did something really stupid then, not that he hadn’t said and done plenty of dumb things tonight. A soft ballad started playing on the radio, “Sweet Cajun Love,” and he asked, “Would you like to dance now, sugar?”
She pulled back slightly to look at him. After a long moment, she shook her head. “I better take a rain check.”
“Why?”
“Because if I dance with you tonight, I’ll end up in your bed.”
I hope, I hope, I hope. “Not necessarily.”
“Liar! I know what a good dancer you are.”
He shrugged. “Most Cajun men are.”
“Besides, you know what they say about men’s opinions of dancing? Just another form of foreplay.”
“You’ve got a point there.” He chuckled. “But I’m beginning to wonder . . . would our making love be such a bad thing?”
“Definitely a bad thing. You’re forgetting something important here, darlin’.”
“And that is?”
“I’m a born-again virgin.”
Chapter 8
And then their world turned upside down . . .
Tante Lulu arrived the next day in a whirlwind. Literally.
Remy circled his helicopter over the ranch about noon before landing in an empty field near the ranch house. Empty, that is, after about fifty cows ran like hell for the border.
Charmaine went out to the front yard to meet Tante Lulu, who was dressed today in what she must consider typical ranch attire—blue jeans, a plaid, long-sleeved shirt with snap buttons, boots, complete with spurs, and a cowgirl hat, all purchased in the children’s department at Walmart, no doubt.
Charmaine, at five-foot-nine, had to bend over to give the old lady, five-foot-zero on a good day, a warm hug. “Welcome, Auntie,” she said. “Oooh, we need to do your hair, honey.”
Her black curly hair had about a half inch of white roots showing all around. “Doan I know it! Ain’t had my roots done since before yer troubles. Mary Boudreaux asked me at church t’day iffen I was goin’ to let my gray hair grow out and start actin’ my age. I asked her iffen she was goin’ to let those chin whiskers of hers grow down to her saggy boobies.”
Charmaine laughed.
Tante Lulu gave her a once-over and asked pointedly, “You still a virgin?”
Charmaine nodded.
“Pfff! That Rusty ain’t the man I thought he was then.”
“Oh, he’s the man you thought, all right. Give me a little credit for being stronger.”
“Mebbe he needs some romance advice.”
“He’s getting all the advice he needs from one senior-citizen love advisor. He sure doesn’t need two.”
“Who you callin’ a senior citizen?” Tante Lulu tapped her chin thoughtfully for a second or two. “You referrin’ to that Clarence Guidry? Good, good. That fella knows stuff.”
Stuff? I do not want to know what stuff Clarence knows.
“Hey, Charmaine. How’s ranch life suitin’ ya?” Remy called out.
“Hey, Remy,” Charmaine replied, waving to her half brother, who was beginning to remove a bunch of bags and boxes and coolers from the helicopter. Big coolers. The coolers must hold perishable food. Oh, my!
Remy was a former Air Force pilot who’d been burned badly during Desert Storm. As a result, one side of his face was drop-dead gorgeous; the other side was not. He’d recently married Rachel Fortier, a Feng Shui decorator from Washington, D.C. A yankee, of all things!
“Where’s Rachel?” she asked. “I thought she was coming with you.”
“No room.” Remy rolled his eyes meaningfully toward the overpacked copter. “Rachel and I will be coming back on Thursday, though. For your Thanksgiving feast.”
Feast? What feast? “That’s nice. A holiday is always more special when there’s company.” What feast?
“Oh, there’ll be company, all right. Me, Rachel, Luc, Sylvie, their three kids. Who else, Tante Lulu?” He winked at Charmaine, knowing full well that Tante Lulu had issued all these invitations without consulting her.
Tante Lulu had been standing with her hands on her non-existent hips surveying the ranch. Without turning around, she answered, “Tee-John and mebbe René if he kin get away from his job up North.” Any place above Kentucky was considered “up North” to Tante Lulu, a born and bred Southerner. Actually, René was an environmental lobbyist who worked in D.C.
Charmaine began to do a mental calculation in her head. Herself, Rusty, Clarence, Linc, Jimmy, Tante Lulu, Remy, Rachel, Luc, Sylvie, Tee-John, three kids, maybe Jimmy’s dad, and maybe René. Sixteen people. Mon Dieu, it will be a feast.
“What a mess!” Tante Lulu exclaimed with a wide smile on her crinkled face. She was staring at the unpainted clapboard house and the seedy landscaping, surely envisioning all the projects she would be able to take on. The old lady turned to Remy then, who had a huge stack of stuff piled in the middle of the yard and was still unloading, including a St. Jude statue even bigger than the one already here. “When you get done bringin’ that stuff in, Remy, how ’bout you shoot me one of them steers. I’m in the mood fer a barbecue t’night. Good thing I brought a batch of my homemade Cajun bastin’ sauce.” She licked her lips in anticipation. With that, Tante Lulu walked briskly toward the ranch house, already making mental lists, no doubt, of all the things to be done.
Remy looked at Charmaine. “Me? She expects me to shoot a cow? And then skin it and gut it. I . . . don’t . . . think . . . so!”
“What’s that?” Charmaine asked as he lifted a big chest out of the copter. It was made of wood, highly carved, about the size of a blanket chest. “Oh, my God! It’s a hope chest. One of Tante Lulu’s famous hope chests.” She frowned with confusion.
“It’s not for you.” Remy grinned.
When understanding dawned, Charmaine grinned, too. “For Rusty?”
“Yep.”
“He doesn’t stand a chance.” I wonder if
that means I don’t stand a chance, either.
“Y’all better stop dawdlin’ and hurry on in here,” Tante Lulu yelled from the front door. She was already holding a feather duster in one hand and a gumbo pot in the other. An apron was tied around her tiny waist, and a kerchief had replaced the cowgirl hat on her head. “There’s a load of work to do here.”
Charmaine and Remy exchanged a quick glance. “None of us stand a chance,” Charmaine said then.
Invasion of the mind-snatchers . . .
“Are you people crazy?” Raoul bellowed as he ran into the house.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Tante Lulu up on a ladder before the fireplace kissing a deer head. Well, maybe not exactly kissing, but she was face-to-face with the twelve-pointer his father had bagged several decades ago. She seemed to be smelling it or something.
“Yikes!” she yelped. He must have startled her because the old lady jerked, the ladder shook, she grabbed for the antlers, and the ladder clattered to the floor. By the time he got to her she hung from the deer head with her tiny feet dangling about three feet off the floor.
Once he helped her down, with her spurs barely missing his family jewels, the first words out of her mouth were, “You got fleas, boy.”
“Huh?”
“And the smell! Pee-you!”
He could feel his face heat with color. “I showered last night, but I’ve been wrestling steers this morning. Dammit, old lady, it’s good, honest sweat.”
She shoved him in the chest, which was about how high her head reached on him. “Not you, lunkhead. That deer head has got fleas. And it stinks. Gotta get rid of it.”
“That’s a family heirloom.” Sort of.
“Heirloom, schmeirloom!”
He ground his teeth together. “Where’s Charmaine?” he inquired, about two decibels above a growl.
“Showing Remy around the barn.”
What could Charmaine possibly know about a barn?
“I dint wanna go ’cause it smells like cow poop. Pheeew! How kin you stand it all day long?”
“You get used to it.”
“I asked Remy to shoot me a cow, but he wouldn’t do it. Can you believe it?”
You’re about three days late, old lady. You could have had four dead steers.
“That Remy, he prob’ly shot lots of people when he was in the Air Force but won’t shoot one lousy cow fer his auntie.”
He probably shouldn’t ask, but he did anyway, “Why did you want Remy to shoot a cow?”
“Fer the bar-be-cue.”
“What bar-be-cue? Never mind.” I really don’t want or need to know.
“He wouldn’t shoot a chicken either. Talk about!”
Shoot a chicken! I need an aspirin. Bad.
“Soz I tol’ him I would do it myself . . . wring the neck of one of those mean ol’ roosters I saw out front, pluck the feathers, pull out the guts. Done it plenty a times before, I reckon. Gonna make some Tipsy Chicken fer t’night. Or mebbe I should save that fer t’morrow. Mebbe I should use some of that catfish I brought with me and make up a pot of Catfish Court Bouillion. Whaddaya think?”
I think I’ve been run over by a cement roller, Cajun style.
“What were you screaming ’bout when you come runnin’ in here?”
“That damn helicopter. You can’t fly that low over a herd of cattle.”
“Uh-oh. Betcha they’s gonna stop givin’ milk.”
He practically crossed his eyes with frustration, though why he would be so surprised at the remark, he didn’t know. Charmaine had said pretty much the same thing. “I run beef cattle, not a dairy farm.”
She made a moue with her mouth that pretty much said, “Big difference!” Same as Charmaine. They might not be related by blood, but these two were alike in way too many ways. “C’mon, sonny boy, let’s have a cup of coffee. I brought you some Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake. I remembered how much you like peaches.”
For the first time since he’d heard that whirlybird fly overhead, Raoul smiled. Oh, yeah, I do like peaches.
He followed her into the kitchen, her spurs jangling the whole way. She looked like a midget clown he’d seen once at the rodeo. Once there, they were greeted by a blast of “Cajun Madness” on the radio, which Charmaine must have left on. Raoul thought, For sure!
“So, how’d you lose your mojo?” she inquired a short time later in that sly manner she had of slipping in a bomb of a question out of nowhere. She’d already plied him with two pieces of cake, to soften him up, no doubt.
He choked on his coffee. “I beg your pardon.”
“Mojo. Ain’t you ever watched those Austin Powers movies? Tee-John watches ’em on the DeeVeeDeedy all the time.”
“I might have seen one or two.” They were really popular in prison, where any excuse to laugh was welcome. “But I can’t imagine in a million years that you would know what mojo is.”
“Mojo is manly magnetism. What draws the wimmen to ya like flies on a honey pot.”
He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his cupped palms. “I gotta admit, there haven’t been many flies on my honey pot lately.” This is the most incredible conversation of my life. Not even the ones I’ve held with Charmaine—and there have been some doozies—could match this.
“See. I toldja. Not to worry, boy, I’m here to help. And St. Jude, too.”
Well, that sure makes me feel better.
“And lookee over there.” She pointed to a big wooden chest sitting in the middle of the dining room. “Thass your hope chest.”
I have a headache the size of a bayou barge. If I keep on talking with this dingbat, she’s going to make my brain explode. He didn’t have the heart to be unkind to her, though, so he tried to talk sensibly to her. “Men don’t have hope chests, Tante Lulu.”
“The men in my family do. I started you out with a Cajun crazy quilt, some homespun towels, and lotsa doilies.”
Yep, that’s what I need in my life. Doilies. Then, the first part of what she’d said registered in his increasingly fuzzy head, and Raoul felt oddly touched that Tante Lulu considered him part of her family.
As if reading his mind, she said, “You and Charmaine are still married. I’m thinkin’ you should work things out. So, you’re family, whether you like it or not.”
“I’m not so sure about working things out. Both of us are hesitant.” Resistant would be a far better word. “Charmaine wants forever, and I . . . well . . .” He shrugged.
“You want a fling?” she guessed.
Tante Lulu always surprised people by being more perceptive than she appeared to be.
“You’ll come around,” she promised, patting him on the shoulder.
“Uh. One question. How did you know I lost my . . . uh, mojo?”
“Charmaine.”
“Charmaine told you I lost my mojo?”
“Nah. Charmaine said she’s still a virgin.”
“I can tell you, for sure, that Charmaine isn’t a virgin.”
“A born-again virgin,” Tante Lulu emphasized. “Anyhows, I’m here now. Me ’n Clarence will help you get your mojo back. Charmaine’ll be warmin’ yer mattress in no time.”
“Tante Lulu! I’m surprised at you.”
“Why? You and Charmaine is married. It’s not like you’d be involved in any hanky-panky. I mean, yeah, it would be hanky-panky, but it would be legal like.”
I do not want my love life directed by this looney bird.
“Do any of those rifles in the gun closet in the living room work?” she asked.
It was always hard to follow a conversation with Tante Lulu because she changed direction so often. “Uh, I think so. Why?”
“Well, if no one else is gonna shoot me an animal, I’m thinkin’ I best shoot my own turkey fer the Thanksgiving feast. Mebbe two turkeys, with the mob what’ll be here.”
Raoul didn’t know which question to ask first. “What turkeys?” There are no turkeys on this ranch, as far as I know. “What fea
st?” This is the first I’ve heard of a feast. “What mob?” Oh, my God! Are there a bunch of people about to invade my home?
Tante Lulu just smiled. “Not to worry, boy. Your auntie is here now. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Raoul was pretty sure everything was not going to be all right. He should tell her to hop back in that copter with Remy and fly away. No busybodies welcome at the Triple L. Instead, he said, “Thank you.”
Friends in low—uh, high—places?
Raoul found Charmaine in the barn with Remy.
She was sitting on a bale of hay with a basket of eggs in her lap. Wearing a white blouse pulled off the shoulders and cutoff jeans—cut off way too high, if you asked him, which no one did—she looked like a freakin’ Daisy Mae. And Remy, showing off his good side, from this angle, was leaning against a support beam, listening intently to something Charmaine was saying and smiling down at her. Li’l Abner, for sure. If he didn’t know they were half brother and sister, he might have been jealous.
He was jealous. Look how relaxed and playful Charmaine was when talking with her brother. She shoved his arm when he said something teasing to her. She giggled at something else he said. On the other hand, whenever Raoul was in Charmaine’s presence, she tensed up like a tightened coil. She was wary and distrustful of him, even when he carried on a casual conversation. There was some message in that, he thought. Something to be examined more closely when he had the time.
Remy was the first to notice him. “Hey, Rusty, how’s it going?”
He stepped forward, and Charmaine bristled. What, does she expect me to say or do something to offend her, right off the bat? What the hell is her problem?
“Gettin’ by,” he answered. And that was the truth in a nutshell. Not doing great. Not getting buried. Just surviving, day to day.
“Sometimes that’s good enough,” Remy remarked. And that was the truth, too.
“Well, I think it stinks. Who wants to just get by?” Of course, Charmaine would take the contrary position. He chucked her playfully under the chin, and she bristled some more. For chrissake, she acted like some uptight virgin threatened by anything on two feet with an ounce of testosterone. And he was packing about fifty pounds under his belt. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, like I’m some rosy-eyed bimbo who doesn’t know sand from granola. Everyone needs to have a positive attitude. If you don’t, it just eats away at you, and you become a bitter old man.”