Bayou Fever

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  Jeff could only pray this man was the new pastor at the local church or perhaps an itinerant preacher set on a nice meal and an afternoon nap beneath the overhang of the Breauxs’ front porch. Given the temperament of Villare men, the stranger could be his only hope of escape.

  Angeline slipped out of Jeff’s grasp, and had Ernest not enveloped her in a bear hug, she might have reached the path to her cabin in short order. Instead she stood motionless. The stranger shifted to stare at Angeline, his expression still unreadable.

  “Pleased to see you again, Monsieur Breaux.” Jeff forced the apprehension from his voice and attempted a pleasantry in the older man’s native tongue. “Comment ca va?”

  “Ain’t no bidness o’ yours how I is,” he said, “but rather you ought to ask how steady a hand I’ve got these days.”

  To his credit, Theophile seemed not to have the slightest tremor. The barrel of the shotgun still rested against Jeff’s temple, the only shaking possibly his own.

  Now what, Lord?

  “Doc Broussard tole me you been closin’ up that big house o’ your papa’s over t’ Latanier an gettin’ rid o’ his things,” Theophile said.

  Jeff swallowed hard and gave thanks for what looked like the beginning of a civil conversation. “Yes, Sir, that’s right. I have.”

  He could stand here all day facing the old man, but Angeline shouldn’t have to endure the humiliation. The fault for the situation was his alone.

  “Then if you gots bidness in Latanier, I don’t reckon you got any bidness down here.” He peered down the barrel, then shook his head. The strangest look of sadness passed over his tanned, weathered features. “Sa fini pas.”

  It never ends? What an odd thing to say.

  “Il n’a in bon boute, Villare,” Ernest said flatly.

  Jeff smiled. “Yes, it has been a good while, Ernest,” he managed to say without taking his gaze off the gun. Perhaps his former fishing buddy had finally come to his senses. “How about letting Angeline go, old friend?”

  No response. His hopes for rescue plummeted.

  “She had nothing to do with this. You see, she was just minding her own business when I—”

  “When you mistook her for her sister Mathilde and let your heart run off wid your good sense.” Theophile lowered the shotgun and stared at Jeff, then cocked his head to one side. “Now ain’t that right?”

  Had the Acadian lost his mind along with his good sense? He’d never even been on speaking terms with little Mathilde, much less anything resembling what he suggested. “Well, Sir, I really don’t know what you—”

  “Theophile Breaux, what on earth have you gone and done? Put that shotgun away afore someone gets hurt, eh?”

  An obviously pregnant Clothilde Breaux pushed past her husband to clasp Jeff’s hand into hers. The years had been kind to the woman, and he could see much of her eldest daughter in her graceful bearing and unassuming beauty.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Breaux.”

  “Jefferson Villare, is that you?”

  When he nodded and said, “Yes, Ma’am,” she released his hand to drag him into a tight embrace.

  A moment later she held him at arm’s length and gave him an appraising look. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, for sure, you. Look at you all growed up and handsome and. . .” She paused and then touched his cheek. “What happened to you?”

  “Actually I—”

  “Theophile, what you gone an’ done to this boy here?” She turned her attention to her husband, hands on her hips. “He look like he done been dropped by his feets into the shallow end of the bayou, then rolled over by a big ole gator. Is this how we treat Doc Villare’s boy? After his papa done come doctor you for nothin’ but a pot o’ Angeline’s gumbo an’ a couple a eggs from my layin’ hen? Be ashamed.”

  Before Theophile could protest, Clothilde pried the shotgun from his fingers and handed the weapon to Angeline. “Scoot on up to the house with this an’ put it somewhere safe, eh, Bebe? You an’ me, we talk about this later when the mens aren’t underfoot.”

  When Angeline hesitated, her mother turned to Jeff. “Walk her home, would you, eh? She don’t look like she could find a piece a straw in a hay bale about now.” She leaned in close and winked. “I can handle her papa, but you’d best skedaddle quick till I do.”

  Jeff nodded. “Oui, Madame Breaux, merci beaucoup.”

  “You don’t got to thank me, no. You papa, he a good man, and you dear mama, a real lady if I never did saw none, Lord rest they souls. They raise you right, to go to church an’ love the Lord, an’ that’s what a good mama and papa do, eh?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  “That’s right. Now you know you welcome here always, eh? Say, how ’bout you come back for supper?”

  Possibly the worst idea he’d heard since deciding to take a quick side trip to the bayou this morning. And yet it held a certain appeal.

  “I couldn’t really.”

  But as he said the words, he caught Angeline’s gaze and felt his resolve weaken. A few more hours with her before he took his leave permanently did sound enticing, even if it meant enduring her overprotective father and strangely menacing brother.

  Clothilde nudged him and smiled. “Angeline’s gone make us up a mess o’ shrimps and gumbo. You still like that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  In truth he hadn’t had shrimp gumbo since he left for Boston. Even during holidays back at home, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to partake. No one could make gumbo like Angeline Breaux anyway, so why bother?

  “Just like you daddy a lovin’ that gumbo. Well, je va vous voir plus tard, Young Man,” Clothilde said loudly to Jeff before placing his hand on Angeline’s elbow and giving them both a shove. “Now scoot, the both of you.”

  “You won’t be seeing him later, an’ that’s fo’ sure, Clothilde Breaux,” he heard Theophile say. “And take yo’ hand off my girl, Villare, or you’ll draw back a nub next time you try it.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he said as he quickly complied.

  “Hush now, Theophile. Have you left your manners back in town, eh?” Clothilde asked. “We might be poor folk, but the good Lord still expects us to be charitable. The Villare boy’s coming back for supper and that’s that. Now who is this nice young man you’ve brought to see us today?”

  Five

  Angeline shouldered Papa’s shotgun and lit out down the path toward home. What had she done? Losing Papa’s Sunday trousers was nothing compared to what just happened. In front of God, her papa and brother, and who knows who else, she’d kissed Jefferson Breaux like the Jezebel they all thought she was.

  She allowed an ironic chuckle as she tried in vain to balance the big gun and keep Jefferson’s jacket hanging around her shoulders. At least she hadn’t disappointed them.

  If only the kiss hadn’t been all she’d imagined—and more.

  No, she couldn’t think on it any further. Papa brought a man home from town and, unless she missed her guess, the man was for her. Now she had to go home, get herself cleaned up, and cook a meal. To make it worse, Jefferson tagged a half step behind her.

  There would be no rest for the weary—or the humiliated—today.

  Angeline whirled around and put out a hand to stop her shadow. He pulled up just short of running her over. “Stop following me.”

  “Just following orders. I told your mother I would see you got home, and she isn’t someone I’d like to cross.” He shrugged and gave her that goofy smile she used to find so cute. “Besides, you’ve got my jacket.”

  Sliding the damp coat off her shoulders, she thrust it toward him. “Here, now go home,” she stated as calmly as she could. “I can find my way back just fine.”

  “I’m sure you can, Ma Chere,” he said as he folded the jacket over his left arm and linked his right arm with hers. “Still, I’m going to keep my word and walk you home.”

  It was the fastest walk Angeline ever took. By the time she’d wrenched free of
Jefferson’s grip and crossed the porch to close the door behind her, she was out of breath. Her apron hung limp and her skirt stuck to the backs of her legs as she leaned, eyes closed, against the heavy old cypress door.

  “Lord, what am I going to do?” she whispered.

  “You’re going to move out of the way and let Papa and that handsome man in, Angie.”

  Angeline opened her eyes to see Mathilde standing at the hearth, baby Eileen on her hip and the four-year-old twins on the floor at her feet. Amalie hid behind her skirts, still looking flushed.

  Before Angeline could say something back, Papa’s heavy footsteps rocked the wood beneath her feet. She stepped out of the way just before the big door crashed open and Papa filled the doorway.

  Eileen began to wail, and Mama slipped past Papa to grab the baby and bundle her outside. The boys toddled behind her, oblivious to the situation. When Mama called Mathilde and Amalie to follow them, Angeline found herself alone in the cabin with Papa and the stranger.

  What Mathilde called handsome Angeline preferred to call merely pleasant, at least in comparison to the city boy who’d just left. He had a kind face, this man who looked to be only a few years older than she, and a mouth that appeared capable of a broad smile. Now, however, he held his lips in a tight line, and only the slight tint of red on his cheeks hinted to Angeline that embarrassment might be the cause of his own discomfort.

  For an eternity, Papa stood staring at her, taking in every inch of her wet and muddy clothing, her damp hair, and her shame. Hot tears threatened, but somehow she managed to hold them back. Outside of disappointing her heavenly Father, disappointing her earthly one was possibly the worst thing she could ever think to do.

  She’d only done it once before, andthe pain of that moment still stung.

  “Nicolas Arceneaux,” Papa finally said, “meet my eldest daughter, Angeline.”

  Mr. Arceneaux gave Papa a quick nod, then wiped his palm against the bib of his overalls before thrusting his hand toward Angeline. He mumbled a few words of greeting, eyes averted, and she responded as she’d been taught.

  “May I offer you coffee, Monsieur Arceneaux?” she added when a sideways glance caught sight of Papa’s frown.

  “Fetch the pot quick, Girl,” Papa said. “We’ve business to discuss, eh, Arceneaux?”

  The look that passed between them told Angeline they had already been in discussion. Unfortunately, it didn’t take a city education to know what they’d talked about. As she headed for the summer kitchen, she cast a glance over her shoulder at the man who could someday be her husband and sighed.

  “So what you think of my girl?” she heard Papa ask. “She all I tole you an’ more, eh?”

  “She is indeed, although. . . ,” she heard Arceneaux say before Papa’s laughter and the closing of the front door drowned out the rest of his statement.

  As she passed by the open window, she slowed her steps to listen again. This time Papa’s words were clear. “The man, he is nothing to her. T’es trompe.”

  But was he mistaken? Angeline carried that question all the way to the summer kitchen and back onto the porch. As she set the coffee in front of the men, she looked into the eyes of Nicolas Arceneaux and heard the answer.

  He is mistaken. The man—Jefferson Davis Villare—is indeed something to me.

  But what? And even if she could figure it out, what could she do? How could she stop this thing Papa had already set into motion?

  “She’s just shy, that’s all,” she heard Papa say a moment before he jerked the coffeepot from her hand. “You pour youself some o’ my Mathilde’s good coffee, an’ me and Angeline, we be right back, eh?”

  Papa’s hand clamped around Angeline’s wrist and jerked her toward the door. Out in the yard, he brought her to an abrupt stop beside his tool shed.

  “What you think you doin’, baby girl?” he demanded. “That man there, he a good man what wants to make you his wife, an’ you go an’ throw youself on some boy what run off an’ don’t even give you the time of day for all these years?”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  He released her and stood back to look at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. A second later, his harsh features softened.

  “My girl, she’s good, an’ I know it.” He swept his hand toward the bayou. “But people ’round here, they don’t know what I know, eh? Not a one o’ them gone let they boys come ’round here after you long as they think you. . .”

  Papa’s words faded and he cast a glance skyward. Angeline bit her lip as the first tear fell.

  “To find you a husband, you gone have to go somewhere else, but I don’t want nobody to take you off o’ this bayou,” he continued, his voice rough. “Angeline, this man, he promised me he’ll not take you away. He got a boat an’ he fishes down t’ the Gulf. He need a good woman what to help him and to give him strong sons.” Papa reached to take Angeline into his arms. “Le Bon Dieu, He tole me this morning you was gone meet your husband today, baby girl.”

  Angeline buried her face in the familiar curve of Papa’s shoulder. “He did?”

  “Oui,” he whispered as he smoothed her hair, then held her out at arm’s length. “Now get yourself cleaned up an’ set to cookin’ the gumbo, eh?”

  Angeline swiped at a tear and chose her words carefully. “Papa,” she said slowly, “when God told you I would meet my husband today, did He specifically say it would be Mr. Arceneaux?”

  Papa’s eyes narrowed and his face flushed bright red. “Get on in that house an’ do as you’re tole, Angeline Breaux. I ain’t gone talk about this no more.”

  ❧

  Easing into the welcoming softness of Pop’s favorite chair, Jeff leaned his head against the smooth leather and tried to make sense of the morning. With all he could want in the way of things to think about and deal with spread across Pop’s desk, his mind couldn’t settle on any of them. Instead, his focus kept returning to Angeline Breaux.

  “Busy?”

  Jeff looked up to see Doc Broussard leaning against the doorframe, his ancient black medical bag caught in the crook of his arm. When Jeff smiled and stood, his father’s dearest friend approached to envelope Jeff in a bear hug.

  “You know I’m never too busy to see you, Sir,” Jeff said.

  To his credit, the man said nothing of Jeff’s rumpled appearance and the still untreated scratch on his cheek. Instead, he dropped the well-worn satchel, settled into the chair across from Jeff, and perused the thick stacks of papers littering its surface. “Made any headway in all this?”

  “Does it look like it?”

  Doc studied him a moment. “Actually, it looks like you’ve been busy with something altogether different. Dare an old man to ask what that might be?”

  “You could ask.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me.” He smiled. “I understand. It’s just my meddling ways, you know. After all, either your papa or I delivered just about every baby born in this parish in the last thirty years—you and Miss Angeline Breaux included.” He paused and feigned innocence. “Not that I’m of a mind to think you’ve been down to Bayou Nouvelle today.”

  “You heard?”

  Doc’s smile bloomed into a full-fledged chuckle. “Gertie Cousins had it on good authority from Teensie Landry, who heard it from Enola Joseph, that your daddy’s Model A was left beside the road a skip and a jump from the Bayou Nouvelle. I believe it was Marie Boudreaux who added that it was just a quarter mile or so upriver from the Breaux property, although Ouida Simon said she thought it was more like a half mile.”

  Jeff leaned back again and contemplated what the wagging tongues of the parish would make of it if they knew any more details of his morning. Absently, he touched his cheek. He thanked the Lord that no one had seen his dip in the bayou or watched Angeline’s endearing attempt at a kiss.

  Or his more practiced response.

  “Better let me take a look at that scratch,” Doc said. “You got to be careful with bayou wa
ter this time of year.” Again, the old man feigned innocence while he made a fuss of examining Jeff’s wound. “Looks like it just needs a bit of cleaning.” The doctor reached into his bag. “Let me just see what I’ve got in here.” He made quite a show of fishing around in the battered satchel. “Ah, here it is.” Instead of cleaning solution, Doc Broussard produced a pair of dark trousers.

  Theophile Breaux’s trousers. Jeff wanted to crawl under the desk.

  “The reverend recognized them right off,” Doc said.

  “What does Reverend Dautrive have to do with this?”

  “Well, you see, Theophile never misses a Sunday service, and he and the family sit right down in front, just a few feet from the pulpit.” Doc looked at him like his answer made perfect sense, then thrust the damp trousers toward Jeff. “If you’ve got any plans to go out there before you leave, you might want to bring these along. Theophile probably won’t miss them until Sunday morning.”

  “If I have plans?” Jeff gave him a sideways look, then balled up the trousers, tossing them into the corner. “Your sources didn’t tell you I’m invited for gumbo tonight?”

  All innocence once more, Doc shook his head and rose. “My sources? I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t have the time to sit and figure it out. I’m afraid we’re going to have another nasty outbreak of influenza.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t spread like last time,” Jeff said. Like when it took my mother, he left unsaid. “Let me know if you need help seeing patients. I’ll do what I can while I’m here.”

  “I appreciate that, Jeff, but I pray it won’t be necessary.” He paused. “However, the invitation is always open to join me in my practice. I could sorely use the help.”

  “No,” sprang from Jeff’s lips much too quickly. “As much as I would love it, I’m afraid God has called me elsewhere.”

  “Well, I never make it a practice to argue with the good Lord.” The old doctor regarded him. “You sure you can handle all this?”