No, if she couldn’t have Jefferson Villare, then it would be best that he just leave. Having him as a brother-in-law would be the worst possible thing.
“Go set yourself, Girlie,” Papa called. “The food’s gettin’ cold and I’m gettin’ old a-waitin’.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said as she forced her attention in his direction.
Fortunately he gave no indication of having noticed that she’d been staring at Jefferson. Unfortunately, when she turned her gaze to Nicolas, who stood beside Papa, she knew for sure that he had.
While Mama bundled the little ones off to their own smaller table in the corner, Papa took his seat at the head of the big table and instructed Nicolas to sit on his right. Mathilde settled in the chair on his left. Jefferson was ordered to deposit himself in the spot beside her.
Somehow, when all those in attendance were seated, there was only one place left at the table for Angeline—next to Nicolas and across from Jefferson. Mathilde rested happily next to the young doctor, her silliness already apparent in the way she monopolized the conversation with him.
Angeline’s gaze met Mama’s, and she cringed when her mother’s eyes narrowed. Should she raise a fuss about the awkward seating arrangement, Mama would say something for sure. Rather than risk yet another embarrassment, Angeline meekly slipped into the spot next to Nicolas and bowed her head while Papa prayed.
As her father offered up thanks for the meal and a blessing for those in attendance, Angeline added a silent prayer of her own. Please, Lord, get me through this evening.
Nine
Please, Lord, get me through this evening.
Jefferson added an “amen” to the chorus, then held out his bowl for white rice and gumbo. He tried in vain to catch Angeline’s attention, but she seemed inordinately interested in the elderly maiden aunt seated beside her. At least that conversation kept her from talking to the Arceneaux fellow.
The discussion also kept him, at least in part, from thinking about the kisses he shared with Angeline. Still, as the sweet elderly lady droned on about chickens and eggs, he drifted back to those few blissful moments on the porch when time had fallen backwards and he and Angeline hadn’t a care in the world.
“Are you listening, Young Man?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said as he forced his attention back to the present.
Half an hour later, he’d dropped his spoon three times, allowed a sizable shrimp and some roux to land on his trousers, and spilled rice down the front of his shirt. He finally gave up when Angeline’s father caught him picking rice out of his pocket.
During the entire time, Angeline did not look at him once. Had she not been as moved by their kiss—actually, kisses—as he? Surely she had, for he’d seen the look on her face before she fled.
As long as he lived he would never forget that look.
He neatly tucked the fluffy white grains under his napkin and attempted to pay attention to a loud conversation between Ernest and the Acadian. He did all this despite the constant flow of words from Mathilde, to his right.
His mind wandered and so did his gaze. Both landed on Angeline.
Silhouetted in the lamplight, she now gave her complete attention to the fisherman as he told another story, the topic of which totally escaped Jeff. When Mathilde’s elbow collided with his rib, he nearly knocked his plate of peach pie off the table. Recovering with an embarrassed grin toward the incredulous Mr. Breaux, he ignored Angeline’s stare to turn his attention to her younger sister.
Even in the yellow light of the kerosene lamp, he could see her skin was pale and the dark smudges beneath her eyes had deepened. The doctor in him sounded a warning, while the man in him wanted to voice his irritation. Instead, he remained silent as she leaned toward him.
“The last thing you want Papa to know is how much you care for my sister,” she whispered.
He cast a quick glance at Mr. Breaux, who was now heavily involved in a debate over water rights with the fisherman. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re looking like a lovesick puppy, Jefferson Villare, and everyone in this room except Papa and Angie has noticed.” She punctuated the statement with an innocent smile, then dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Once Papa notices, I’m sure he’ll speed up the wedding just to save Angie from the likes of you.”
“Wedding? What wedding?” Jeff knew he’d spoken too loud when all conversation at the table ceased.
Mathilde dropped her napkin into her lap and broadened her smile. “We were talking about Sissy Fontenot’s big Christmas wedding. Jefferson here didn’t realize little Sissy had gone and got married without sending him an invitation. They were practically neighbors, you know.”
“Well, how about that, eh?” Mrs. Breaux chimed in. A moment later, the various members of the Breaux clan were buzzing with their memories of what must have been the wedding of the century.
The only two people not participating in the conversation were Jeff and Nicolas Arceneaux. Jeff gave the intruder a direct look, sizing up his competition, and Arceneaux seemed to do the same. Without breaking eye contact, the fisherman quirked a corner of his mouth into a smile and placed a hand on Angeline’s sleeve. As she turned her attention to him, Jefferson pushed away from the table.
“Excuse me, folks, but I really must leave.”
“Sit down, Young Man.” Theophile Breaux’s voice echoed in the room, bouncing off wooden walls to land square in Jeff’s gut. “Nobody goes anywhere just yet. I got somethin’ to say.”
❧
Angeline nearly jumped out of her chair when Papa turned his attention to her. Nicolas removed his hand from her arm and rested it around the back of her chair.
All through dinner, she’d expected Nicolas to repeat the question she hadn’t answered. When he did not, she’d felt some relief. Now that relief turned to stone in her throat.
Obviously Papa and the groom were going on with the wedding plans even if the bride hadn’t yet said she would attend.
“What’s this about, eh?” Clothilde asked as she dropped her napkin onto the table. “You running for mayor or somethin’, Theophile? ’Cause if you are, you don’t have to make no speeches in this house, no. We would all vote for you, now wouldn’t we?”
Peals of laughter erupted at the comment until Papa held up his hand to bring order to the room. “Now you just go and be funny some other time and place, Cleo, why don’t you? Can’t a man be serious in his own home?”
Mama hid a smile behind her hand as she nodded. “Of course you can, Dear. Please, don’t let me interrupt. Go ahead with what you were going to say.”
Papa cleared his throat and stood, placing his palms on the table. “We all had some good gumbo tonight, eh?”
When the cries of agreement from those settled around the table died down, Papa spoke again. “Well, my girl Angeline, she made that gumbo. She’s a right good cook and she helps her mama with the babies too.” He slapped Nicolas on the shoulder. “She’ll make a man a good wife someday, eh?”
“Oui, Monsieur Breaux,” Nicholas said as he gave her a brief but admiring look. “She will indeed.”
Waves of embarrassment washed over Angeline. Surely Papa didn’t intend to announce her wedding, not in front of Jefferson.
“Goodness, Papa, now you’re making it sound like Angie’s running for office,” Mathilde said with a giggle.
“Lord, please deliver me from the females in my home,” Papa muttered as he glared at Mathilde. “Now, as I was tryin’ t’ say—”
“Mama! Angie!” Amalie’s plaintive cry interrupted her father’s words. “I’m thirsty.”
“I’ll see to her.” Angeline jumped up and raced toward the back bedroom with a cup of water, not waiting for an answer.
“Angie, tell me a story,” the little girl whispered. “I want to hear the one about T-Boy the gator and his friend Redfish.”
“A little later, maybe,” she said. Right now she couldn’t tell a
story if her life depended on it. Her mind, such as it was, held only one thought, and it had nothing to do with a fictional alligator and his fishy friend.
As she held the cup to her little sister’s lips, she gave thanks for the small reprieve she’d been granted. Just in case Papa decided to try again, Angeline nudged Amalie over a bit and climbed into bed beside her. If anyone came looking for her, they would find her asleep—or at least pretending to be asleep.
And while that might only delay the inevitable by a day, it might also give God time to act. What He would do was a mystery, but surely He didn’t intend for her to be wed to a stranger.
❧
A moment later, with Theophile Breaux distracted, Jeff made all the appropriate gestures of gratitude to Clothilde and made his escape. He got all the way to the car before he heard someone call his name. Praying he could still leave quickly, Jeff turned toward the feminine voice.
“Yes?”
Clothilde Breaux stood on the bottom step of the porch with a dark, round object in her hand. “Hold up there, Jefferson, eh?” she called as she began to cross the shadowed lawn.
His heart sank. If Mrs. Breaux insisted, he would stay all night. He couldn’t possibly let the sweet woman down, but he also couldn’t possibly spend another moment in the room with Angeline and the Acadian.
“Here, Bebe,” she said as she thrust the dark object toward him. It was the covered pie plate, and she’d put something inside—it felt heavy and sloshed a bit. “You tell Mrs. Mike that was the best pie she’s ever made.”
“I’ll do that,” he said as he leaned over to set the plate on the floor of the car.
“I sent her a little gumbo. I know how she likes the shrimps, so I put her some extra in.” Clothilde touched Jeff’s sleeve. “You don’t have to run off, you know. Uncle Joe, he’s gone play his fiddle for us in a bit.”
Jeff smiled. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m tired. I think I need to get back home.”
Her smile didn’t quite match his. In the moonlight, she looked so much like her daughter—older and wiser, to be sure, but none the less beautiful. How funny that she held her beauty and the inner peace that radiated around her, even though she’d never left the banks of the Nouvelle.
How could anyone be that happy in a place this small and stifling?
“I understand,” she said. “Tell Mrs. Mike I’ve got her some Easter lilies ready to go.”
“I will.”
To his surprise, she winked. “And don’t you worry about our Angie. God’s got something special for her; I just know it. And you’re gonna know it too, you’ll see.”
“What do you mean?”
Her smile grew. “Leave Angie’s papa to me and the Lord. You pray to God about your problems, and He give you the solutions, eh?”
“I will,” he said, although he had no idea what she meant.
As he drove away, he glanced back and watched the cabin fade in the shadows. He wondered: Was he destined always to remember this place in that way—as a comfortable spot that had faded to black?
All the way back into town, he thought about the Acadian’s smile and his hand atop Angeline’s.
The way Arceneaux huddled with Mr. Breaux indicated the two were in league with one another. Could Mathilde be correct? Did Angeline’s papa intend to marry her off to Nicolas Arceneaux?
By the time he parked Pop’s car and trudged up the back steps, he’d almost convinced himself that nothing Angeline Breaux did mattered anymore. He would have completed the process had he not been confronted by Mrs. Mike.
“Waiting up for me?” he asked with a grin.
“I wish that were the case,” she said. “But Doc’s been here twice looking for you. He left you this note.”
She fished a piece of paper out of her pastel-striped housecoat and handed it to Jeff. Struggling to read the doctor’s handwriting, he finally deduced that he was needed at the clinic immediately. Something about having too many patients and not enough doctors.
Jeff groaned. When he agreed to help Doc, he hadn’t actually expected he might be needed.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“I hope not.” He handed her the pie tin. “Mrs. Breaux sends her thanks along with some shrimp gumbo and said for you to come see her. She’s got some Easter lilies for you.” He shucked off his tie. “Oh, and she said this was your best pie ever,” he added as he rounded the corner toward the front foyer.
“How is Clothilde?” he heard Mrs. Mike ask.
“She’s very well. Very well indeed.”
“And Angeline?”
“Why don’t you go on out there tomorrow and see for yourself?”
“I just might.”
As Jeff took the stairs by twos, heading toward his room and a change of clothes, he could hear Mrs. Mike expounding on the virtues of the Breaux family. He strode past the bed and pulled a clean shirt out of the armoire. Thoughts of Angeline mingled with concern over the emergency that would keep him from much-needed sleep a bit longer.
When he arrived at the clinic, he saw the need for the urgency. Three families waited on the porch and four more sat inside. Each had at least one member exhibiting signs of the dreaded influenza.
Thoughts of Angeline Breaux fled as Jeff went to meet Doc in the exam room. Three hours later, the patients continued to trickle in, and Jeff had given up any idea of sleeping that night.
Ten
Angeline stood beside the shed and watched Mama work at tending her precious bed of flowers. With the little ones taking a Monday morning nap and the others playing quietly, it was the perfect time to have a heart-to-heart talk with the one person in the world besides the Lord who knew her best.
Thankfully Nicolas had left after church yesterday to return to his fishing, and Papa and Ernest were out this morning in the pirogue. For a short while, she and Mama would be left alone to talk.
Grabbing a trowel from the peg on the wall, she strolled toward Mama and dropped down beside her. Mama gave her a smile, then went back to her weeding.
“Something on your mind, Bebe?” she asked without looking up from her task. “Maybe something to do with your intended, Mr. Arceneaux?”
“So Papa told you?”
“Of course he did. You don’t think my Theophile can keep something like this from me, do you?” She paused. “Besides, the mama of the bride’s got to make the plans, eh?”
“Bride,” she said with a groan.
“Maybe you think you the only woman in love who is gonna get married, eh?”
Angeline stuck the trowel in the ground and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not in love, Mama. That’s not the problem.”
Mama stopped her work. “Then maybe you tell me what’s the problem, eh?”
“Men, that’s the problem.” Angeline shook her head. “Why do they all have to think they are the only ones with an opinion? And why is it that when we have an opinion, no one asks us for it?”
“And yet this don’t have nothing to do with love?”
“No, Mama,” she said, “it has to do with Papa.”
Her mother smiled. “Now that’s a subject I know a little about. Why don’t you and me go get a cool drink of water and sit over there in the shade and talk about your papa, eh?”
Angeline stood and helped her mother to her feet. Together they walked in step toward the well. While Angeline poured two dipperfuls of water into tin cups, Mama settled on the bench beneath the magnolia.
“I am forever grateful to your papa and brother for making me this little resting bench,” she said as she accepted the cup from Angeline. “It does a body good to sit a spell when you’re tired, eh?” She shook her head. “But we were talking about your papa. What is it he’s done this time, Bebe?”
“You know what he’s done, Mama.” She took a furious gulp of water. “He’s gone and sold me off to the highest bidder against my will. That’s what he’s done.”
Mama seemed to contemplate the statement a moment. “And you
said this had nothing to do with love.”
Angeline fairly jumped off the bench. “It doesn’t! Papa never asked me if I loved Nicolas Arceneaux, and he certainly didn’t ask me if I wanted to marry him.”
“And if he had, what would you have said?” Angeline’s silence must have spoken for her, for Mama began to smile. “You’re just like me, you know? You love a man, and you love him forever. That’s how it is with me and your papa.”
Angeline settled back beside Mama and took her hand. “How did you know, Mama? What told you Papa was the one?”
Mama patted Angeline’s hand. “Not what, Bebe, but Who. God—He told me your papa was the one.”
“Well so far, God’s not the one making decisions around here, is He?” Since Mama looked like she was about to launch into one of her lectures about God always being in control, Angeline pressed forward with her point. “See, Mama, Papa’s making all the decisions. He’s not even bothering to ask me.”
“But do you know whether he’s bothering to ask God? That’s the real question, eh?” Mama sighed. “Do you know why your papa picked Nicolas Arceneaux for you?”
She nodded. “Nicolas told me Papa made a deal with his father, something about furs and other things.”
“That’s only a part of it, Angie.”
“So you admit that Papa traded me like a pile of furs?”
“No, I admit nothing of the sort.” Inside the house, the baby began to fret. Mama stood and stretched her back. “What I’m trying to tell you is that Papa picked Nicolas Arceneaux for a reason, and it has nothing to do with the fact that his papa needed some furs for the winter.”
Mama tossed the remains of her water into the flowerbed and returned the cup to its place at the well. Angeline followed suit, then tagged behind her mother as she trudged toward the steps. “I’ll get her, Mama. You just rest here.”
After the baby had been changed and returned to Mama to nurse, Angeline broached the subject of marriage once more. “Mama, will you tell me why you think Papa sold me off to the Arceneaux family?”
Mama toyed with the baby’s dark hair and looked off into the distance. “The bayou, she is a beautiful thing, eh? For a man or woman of proud Acadian birth, she is our life.” She looked to Angeline for confirmation.
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