Second Chance

by Linda Kepner

  Dear Bat,

  Don’t yell at me, please. I’m doing my best, really I am. I’m still on the straight, and staying there. But I just met the only man I would ever marry, if we both weren’t trying so damn hard not to ruin our lives.

  He’s a cute Frenchman, and I’m tutoring him for pay, so I have double the reason not to screw up.

  He’s got everything wrong with him. He’s a widower, he’s done time, and he was involved in a scandal. Remember when we were in Paris, the papers printed something about a crime of passion involving a member of the Dessant Cigarette family? Well, this is Louis Dessant. Triple the reason not to screw up.

  But, man. Talk about my dissertation coming to life and hitting me in the face. Quadruple the reason not to screw up. Fortunately, I’m only the interpreter. Apparently, he still carries a torch for the woman who screwed him to the wall. She blew her brains out while he watched, and left him to be arrested as accessory to all her crimes. Okay, so maybe he’s not smart. Or maybe it really was passion. I’ve heard him speak of the tobacco business, and he’s got his head together on that, so I’m inclined to think it’s the latter.

  I never really forget you. Fair’s fair. I’m doing my hitch for the doctorate, just as you did yours for the Marines, and yep, I’ll come take up the slack when I’m done. But whew, this guy affects my breathing. Is it love, or just tobacco fumes?

  Write back. Without yelling.

  Love, Bishou

  She needed a breath of fresh air and decided to walk to the campus post office with the letter and the notes to her students. But first, she changed out of her skirt and stockings, into slacks — the last thing she needed was another run in her stockings, and this was evening, her leisure time, after all — and put on her comfortable walking shoes.

  It was nearly dark out, a soft warm April evening. Bishou couldn’t distinguish people’s faces underneath street lamps, although their hair glowed. She walked across campus on the paths, reached the post office, and popped the notes and letter in their respective slots.

  Then she just walked around the campus, and thought a lot. Yes, she’d rather be at a nice dinner with some fun people — but around here, that would be a ticket for destruction. Now that she’d written Bat, she’d got it out of her system. Bat would either send fatherly advice, or else a diatribe that would scorch the paper, no telling which. But she wasn’t worried about that. Bishou smiled to herself. She was in a good place in her life right now. President Lanthier and Dr. Roth were completely right. Get that sheepskin, and then the world would be her oyster. More or less. Just don’t start a tradition of blowing things.

  Chapter 4

  The bus was one of the university’s oldest — a flop-windowed, low-slung, green-and-blue diesel-stinking nightmare. Bishou climbed aboard, to discover Louis already had a seat for them near the rear of the bus and was waiting for her. She sidled back to him. He rose and stepped into the aisle.

  “No, no, you take the window seat,” she said. “You’ll want to see things on this tour.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, in the voice of someone who really wanted the window seat anyway.

  She smiled. “Absolutely.”

  He didn’t need much persuading to slide in. He stared out the window, looking like a kid on a school bus.

  “Where on earth did they come up with this antique?” she asked.

  “It looks average for my island,” Louis said. “Most of ours don’t even have roofs, let alone windows.”

  “What do you do when it rains?” she asked.

  He looked at her, his eyes twinkling. “Get wet.”

  “I had to ask.”

  The bus started up. Dr. Gardiner, bus microphone in hand, was their tour guide. He pointed out the rivers, the soils, the tobacco fields, the plantations, the cotton fields, the forests and mountains as the bus rolled along slowly.

  Louis Dessant was not the only kid on this school bus. The men were all talking, pointing to this and that feature. Louis took it all in. He asked questions of Vig, seated a few rows ahead of him, and Gray, in the back, and the Texans who were all over the bus. Their wives were here, too, interjecting occasional comments.

  They stopped at the first tobacco plantation, got out, and walked around. For the men, it was almost a calming experience to be among tobacco leaves again after a few days in academia. Bishou saw Louis stroke a tobacco plant like an old friend, and he was not the only one. The damp, almost steamy atmosphere had its own particular young-tobacco scent. From the look in the eyes of these men, their concentration, even the way they walked, this was serious business. Bishou watched the men with interest as they came to life.

  Louis, deeply in conversation with a host tobacco planter, motioned her to him. “Mademoiselle, comment dit-on ‘filtre’ en anglais?”

  “The same as in French,” she replied, in English. “Filter.”

  “Oui, merci,” he said and continued speaking to his host.

  Bishou felt someone grip her arm, and looked to see a substantial Southern lady hanging on to her. “You’d be the interpreter, then. The college professor?” she drawled.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Bishou admitted with a smile.

  “I’m Sukey Hansen. How come you didn’t come to dinner last night? I wanted to meet you.”

  “I had to write excuses for all the courses I’m skipping today, to come on this trip,” Bishou answered.

  “It’s nice of you to make time for Messyoour Dessant,” Sukey said, “though he’s awfully sweet. Definitely worth a woman’s time. You known him long?”

  “As long as you have,” Bishou said. “I’m a paid translator from the university.”

  “Good golly! I didn’t know that. You’re doing this for money?”

  “Beats waitressing.”

  “I suppose it does.” Sukey looked impressed. “The menfolk told me you two were a couple.”

  “If we were a couple, I’d be fired,” Bishou replied, putting it as plainly as she could manage. “It’s against the rules.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I was mistook. But he is cute, isn’t he?”

  Bishou admitted, “Yes, he is. And completely hands-off.”

  “That stinks,” said Sukey Hansen. “I won’t nudge you the way Vig wanted me to, then.”

  “Vig wanted you to nudge me?”

  “Mmm-hmm. He said that lonely widower would fall into your arms at a touch, and that I should tell you to touch him.”

  “And I would be in deep shit,” said Bishou.

  “Mmm-hmm. Now I can tell Vig to mind his own business, with good reason. Okay, if you don’t want to accept our invitations to dinner, I understand. Like matches to the kerosene. But I wish you’d come sometime, just to talk. Us womenfolk have got to stick together, you know.”

  Some of the other women gathered around them. They were curious about the interpreter, college professor, whatever they wanted to label Bishou. Her daily life was completely beyond the imagination of most of these women.

  “You got other college professors in your family?” one woman asked her.

  “Yes,” Bishou said. “My father was a college professor, and my mother taught in an exclusive private school in New England.”

  Before the men returned from their inspections of the tobacco barns, Bishou’s biography had been thoroughly brought out and examined by the women on this tour. She felt like she had passed some kind of test, or at least hadn’t been thrown out of the ring.

  Back in the bus, Bishou asked Louis, “Where is your jacket?”

  He gestured toward the front of the bus. “Up there. It is too hot to wear it.” He wore a silk shirt, decorated with small white grids and tiny colored squares. His shirt was unbuttoned at his throat, and he had rolled up the sleeves not quite to his elbows. “La grange était comme un four.” The barn was like an oven. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  For a few moments, Bishou regarded his handsome face, the dark brows, the closed eyes, the perfect lips. His forearms wer
e slightly bronzed and muscular. Muscles strained against the silk shirt — no undershirt, probably. Frenchmen wouldn’t wear them in the African heat. This is like a French movie, Bishou thought uncomfortably, where the woman lies back seductively and waits for the man to touch her and undress her, except the roles are reversed. He may mean it or not, but if I don’t find something else for my hands and eyes to do, I’m going to be in very big trouble. For a few moments, Bishou regarded his attractive face, the dark brows, the closed eyes, the perfect lips. His forearms were slightly bronzed and muscular. Muscles strained against the silk shirt – no undershirt, probably, either. Frenchmen wouldn’t want them in the African heat.

  Bishou reached for her tote bag, took out one of the books she had assigned to her Intro to World Lit class, and sat back to read. She made notes in the margins, guessing where students would have problems or would miss an important point. She needed to bring these points out in her lectures. Can’t expect them to continue with their studies if you don’t give them a few handholds, she thought. Bishou glanced at Louis and realized he was sound asleep. Quietly, for another half-hour, she worked on her notes while the bus trundled down the highway.

  The bus shuddered and turned down a rustic road, probably the driveway to the next stop. They arrived at a large farm. The first thing she saw was an open-air building with picnic tables in it. Our lunch stop, she realized. People were waiting for them. The bus vibrated to a stop in front of the group. People rose from their seats.

  One of the Texans grinned at her. “Out cold, is he?”

  Bishou nodded, and smiled back at him. Waking up Louis Dessant would be awkward. She grasped his shoulder, feeling silk and damp warmth. “Monsieur Dessant, levez-vous.” He did not respond. She shook his shoulder. “Monsieur Dessant. Louis. Levez-vous.”

  Gray Jackson now stood in the aisle beside her, grinning. “Louis said he was having trouble sleeping in a motel room, but it doesn’t seem like it’s any problem at all on this old bus.”

  “It doesn’t look that way,” Bishou agreed, changing her tactic to the one that annoyed her brother the most. She stroked Louis’s cheek, drawing the nails of two fingers from the corner of his mouth across the trace of dark beard — a rasping sound that could be like sandpaper to the beard’s owner.

  “D’accord, d’accord, je me leve,” murmured Dessant. His eyes snapped open suddenly. He sat up in surprise as if he wondered what happened.

  “Good trick,” Gray chuckled.

  “Three brothers,” she replied.

  Gray laughed out loud. “You must be an annoying kid sister.”

  “Yep.” She stepped into the aisle in front of Gray Jackson, who placed a hand on her shoulder, as she’d expected, and drew her toward him. In turn, she reached out a hand to Louis Dessant. “Lunchtime. You coming?”

  “Hmm. Mmph. Yes.” Sleepily, he took her hand, but brought himself to his feet under his own power. “I was sound asleep. I was so comfortable.” Seeing Gray’s grasp on Bishou, he slid out in front of her, and stumbled. “I’m all right, just — how to say it — fuzzy in the thinking.”

  She caught him, thinking, he’s slightly smaller than my brother, a nice size. With Louis before her, still sleepy and needing support, and Gray behind her, hand on her shoulder, she found herself thinking, Feminism be damned, this feels normal and nice. However, her very next thought was, Damn, Bishou, keep your mind on your work!

  They were introduced to their hosts, then seated at the picnic tables. The lunch boxes were passed out, and iced tea was provided in paper cups.

  “All you gentlemen should drink plenty of tea,” Bishou said to her table full of Texans and North Carolinians. “Those hot auction barns dehydrated you more than you realize.”

  “You’re right, I know,” Louis agreed, drinking his first cupful. “I should not be minding this so much, but I have spent too long away from my island.”

  Seated between Louis and Gray, Bishou sipped slowly and nodded. “Tea or water — you aren’t drinking enough of it. Liquor in the evening doesn’t help, either. Alcohol dehydrates you.”

  Vig, sitting opposite them with Sukey, chuckled. “But that cold beer tastes mighty damn good, and so do the ice cubes in the bourbon.” Everyone laughed. “How do you know all about dehydration, Bishou? You’re a Yankee.”

  “My brother the Sergeant Major.”

  “Holy crap.” Vig stared at her. “Marines?”

  “Semper fi,” she affirmed. “My parents may be cloud-minders, but my brother takes up the slack. He drills the family just like we were his recruits.”

  “I will be damned. ’Nam?”

  “Two hitches. Out a year now.”

  “Jesus God.” Gray was staring as well.

  “I did not understand all of that,” said Louis. “What is semper fi?”

  “Semper fidelis,” Vig explained to him, passing lunch boxes down the table. “Always faithful. The motto of the United States Marine Corps.”

  “Ah.” Louis nodded. “When you said Marine, I thought — marin.”

  “I know you did,” replied Bishou. “That’s the most common mistake in the French language, I think. A U.S. Marine is definitely not a sailor, un marin. We have to watch out for dehydration in New England, too.” Seeing their blank looks, she explained, “Instead of the water evaporating, it freezes. Your body still can’t get water, do you see?”

  Sukey stared. “I never thought of that.”

  “Do you hike in snow?” asked Louis.

  “With a brother who’s a Sergeant Major? What do you think?” she returned with a grin. “Oh, oh, he’ll be after me for spending too much time sitting in classrooms and being out of shape.”

  Louis Dessant stared at the table, and said, “I hate snow.”

  “It all depends on how you’re prepared for it.”

  “I suppose so,” he said, but she noticed an unpleasant look on his face.

  Louis read the handwriting on his boxed lunch. “Roast — what? Is that biftek?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Some French words come from English. Beefsteak here, biftek there.”

  “Roast beef sandwich? Is that what you’ve got?” asked Sukey. “I’ll be darned. Now I know a word in French.”

  Her comment dispelled Louis’s unpleasant mood. He laughed. “You must learn more, so that you and Vig can come and visit me someday.”

  “Someday,” she agreed, “when the kids are in college.”

  “As if we’ll have any more money then,” Vig grumbled.

  Louis’s eyes twinkled. He said something in French so quickly to Bishou that it took her a moment to get it. Then she started to laugh. “Monsieur Dessant says that you should visit his plantation, we’ll get you a tobacco subsidy.”

  The table roared with laughter. Tobacco humor.

  Louis laid out his food carefully; Bishou ate hers directly from the box. The EVU Food Service had come through with a pretty good lunch.

  After they’d finished eating, they got back on the bus to tour the plantation, which also grew cotton. Bishou thought that was odd, but apparently Louis Dessant didn’t. “They make filter cigarettes,” he explained to her. “So they do not have to buy cotton from somewhere else for the filters.”

  “I never thought about that before,” Bishou admitted.

  “Mmph.” It was a very French sound. He pulled out his notebook, and opened to a page where he had drawn the parts of a filtered cigarette. “I’m not sure Etien is ready for this, he is so very cautious, but I think we have to begin thinking about filter cigarettes. It is — effeminate, comment dit-on?”

  “Sissy?” she asked, stifling laughter.

  “Oui. Sissy, to have filters on the cigarettes, n’est-ce pas? But I think women will want them more, and health issues will make them — more prominent, that is the word I want.”

  “You might have something there.”

  “I have been thinking about it all through this conference.” He made a note on his page with the cigarette drawin
g. “But machines must be modified, and I am not sure there are any French manufacturers making what we need for a filter cigarette. Then there is the promotion and marketing. I am not sure Etien is brave enough to risk it.”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “I take risks.”

  “Suppose it doesn’t work?”

  “Then I look stupid. Not for the first time. But it is my name on the package, not Etien’s.”

  “You’re very brave.”

  For the first time, she saw a smile touch both Louis’s eyes and lips. “Non, I am stubborn. And, as I said, it is my name on the package.” He leaned back in his seat, stared toward the roof, and sighed. “I might be wrong. If I am, I take responsibility for my mistakes. Not for the first time.”

  “Do you have to consult with the rest of the Dessant family, like so many of these tobacco families do?”

  “There is no family,” Louis Dessant said. “I am the last.”

  “Oh,” she apologized, “I’m sorry. I was rude.”

  He patted her hand. “De rien. The Campards inherit everything if I die childless, which, right now, is the case. The cigarettes will last much longer than the Dessants did.”

  They had circled the small plantation, Dr. Gardiner pointing out things like a tour guide. Then they left the plantation for the highway. Louis turned to look out the bus window. “This feels so comfortable. Not like on an airplane, so cold and sterile. I don’t like being cold. And I like to know there are people around me.” He quoted a line from a French poem, something she did not recognize. “‘Which has killed more people, passion or loneliness?’”

  “I don’t know that quote,” she said.

  “Modern. I read it somewhere, I don’t remember, but it stuck with me.”

  No wonder, she thought.

  “I think we have one more plantation to visit. Then we will go back to campus.”

  “Maybe you want to stay awake,” said Bishou. “We’re going up into the mountains.”