Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “Just another reminder—I am not your cousin. I thought you’d want an experienced woman, and I had nothing to offer. Hugo taught me what I wanted to know. He didn’t take advantage of me.”

  “How about that junior year abroad?”

  “I experimented a little, so what.” That defiant lower lip poked out.

  “Nothing. But it would have been a privilege to be your first, Princess.”

  “Oh, stop being such a boy scout, or I’ll pinch you again.”

  Dean presented her with a lazy smile. “Just try it.”

  She did. He rolled her over into the sand with ease and pinned her fair shoulders and the length of her body to the ground. “Tell me, how do I compare to Adam? Then, I’ll let you up.”

  “At nine, I could hardly judge, but I’d say favorably. The tats were rather fascinating though.” She gave a small buck to see if she could unseat him. No dice.

  “I could get some anywhere you want.”

  “Oh, then you’d be big, bad Dean. It would serve you right if I said on your penis and balls. I can only say Adam underwent some terrific rite of passage. But no, I like you unadorned exactly as you are.” Stacy raised her hands to stroke his back and parted her legs to let him sink between them, a perfect surrender—until he relaxed and she pushed his body over and seated herself firmly on his thighs.

  “If you think I am going to throw you off, you are so mistaken, Princess. Go on, have your way with me.”

  Oh, she did, nipping at his lips and ear lobes, stroking until he hardened again, and she could mount with ease and ride the hell out of him with her blonde hair lashing his chest. Both finished hard and fast. In the distance, car doors slammed and a dog yipped.

  They jumped up covered in sand glued to their bodies by sweat. No problem for Dean to cover himself fast with that tiny Speedo, but he did have the grace to tie Stacy’s bows and rehook her bra top. Shaking out the blanket they’d long abandoned, they started back to the house, skirting the pool on the way. She should have known not to let Dean get behind her, but evidently, the thought did not occur. With one mighty shove, he sent her flying into the deep end. As she sputtered to the surface, he said, “That’s for the purple nurples.”

  “They aren’t purple, just a little puffy! Now I have to dry my hair before we leave for the game, you big lout. Give me a hand out.”

  “Don’t think so. I know that game. See you at the house.”

  Dean swaggered off. Fuming enough to warm the water, Stacy stroked to the side and caught up to the man who’d finally admitted he’d wanted her since the age of eighteen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stacy sat in the black convertible parked on the Ste. Jeanne d’Arc church lot. She might as well be displayed on one of LeJeune Pommier’s cake stands for all the eyes turned her way this Sunday morning. Dean simply had to duck into Pommier’s hole-in-the-wall bakery for a sack of beignets before they started back. As good as the ones served at Café du Monde, he claimed.

  Of course, she could have gone inside with him, but Mr. Pommier, gone gray but no less of a gossip than ever, would have mixed up a tale about her and Dean along with his famous square doughnuts and carried it to his infirm mother in the nursing home during his Sunday visit after he closed the shop at one. Old Madame Pommier might be toothless, but she sank her gums into any story she thought good enough to tell the aides and Sunday visitors at the facility where she spent her last years. “Not likely to ever die,” her beleaguered Mexican daughter-in-law said. “She’s a bruja, a witch.”

  Stacy tended to agree. Her childhood memories were of a spare, white-haired old woman always dressed in black relieved only by a full white apron. Rumor had it that Madame donned black the day her middle-aged son married. Her sharp, black eyes demanded that little girls beg for cookies, though she rarely gave a free treat. Fine if Aunt Nell bought a dozen, then she’d make it a baker’s by adding one more. Stacy could imagine her cackling to her bingo buddies. “My son saw Dean Billodeaux riding around with his cousin in that black convertible. Doesn’t that kind of thing lead to incest?” Madame Pommier would be wrong, that wouldn’t stop her.

  Stacy didn’t bother to cover her head, and the sun shone brightly on her blonde waves. She did retain her sunglasses, not that in a town this size they amounted to any real disguise. The parishioners filing into the church recognized Dean’s flashy car and knew her from childhood. A few waved. They’d wonder why Dean hadn’t gone to Mass with his Mawmaw Nadine and the other boys in the family despite the kind of pressure the elder Mrs. Billodeaux excelled at applying. Dean merely said, “Not this time, Mawmaw,” and gave his grandmother a big hug that lifted her off her feet. “Got to get back to New Orleans. Sorry to miss that great Sunday dinner you always put out.” He knew how to get around her with affection and cooking compliments, a skill Stacy had never mastered.

  Daddy Joe clapped his oldest son on the back before going into the sanctuary. “Haven’t been to confession lately, huh? Been there, boy. Just promise me to be careful.”

  Dean did promise right there in front of Stacy as if she hadn’t caught the comment. Made her glad Aunt Nell raised her Episcopalian like the rest of the girls except for Xochi. She had no need to confess to anyone but God directly. Not that Mawmaw hadn’t tried to convert her. “You know the Pope is Polish,” she’d wheedled, and at the time the man had been, but not any more. “Polasky, that’s a Polish name.”

  Her deceased parents had rarely felt the need to attend a service of any kind. “No, thank you. I prefer being a Protestant,” she’d replied in that precocious way of hers. Mawmaw labeled her canaille, tricky, not a favored child in that woman’s eyes. Since Mawmaw doted on Dean, she’d freak when she learned they were together. No slouch when it came to being canaille herself, maybe Mawmaw already did know. She sniffed these things out like the sheriff’s bloodhounds did wanted criminals.

  The three recently refurbished church bells, saved from a fire and warehoused for years, pealed, beckoning the stragglers to hurry. A family of five rushed from the back of the lot, a fat, red-haired mother hen of a woman leading three straggling chicks with light and dark heads bobbing. They entered through a side door of the historic Catholic church that sat on a green strewn with live oaks and could have been transplanted from a New England postcard.

  The rooster, a blond man with a solid belly pressing against the buttons of a good suit and a strut to his step, took his time bringing up the rear of his gaggle. Stacy glanced away when he stared directly at her. She turned her eyes to Pommier’s and willed Dean to reappear. A shadow fell over her from the driver’s side of the convertible, not Dean come from another direction, but the fair-haired father. Up close, he seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

  “Why, Stacy Polasky visiting from the Big Easy to grace the hinterlands of Chapelle with her presence. Heard you graduated from college a year early, started your own business, and hardly show up here at all. Can’t say as I blame you.”

  She’d last heard that voice, full of sarcasm and anger, over the phone in her fifteenth year. “You think you’re too good for me because you live in a mansion and I live in a doublewide, Stacy Polasky.”

  “No, Kent, no. My aunt and uncle say I can’t date until I’m sixteen. They’re standing firm on that. I shouldn’t have told you yes to the prom when you called. I am sorry. I mean, gee, who wouldn’t want to go with the quarterback of the Ste. Jeanne Flames.” A girl who’d never said “gee” in her life had struggled to repair a bad case of wounded vanity.

  “I told the guys I was taking you. Why don’t you sneak out to be with me?”

  “That’s pretty hard when you live in a fortress like I do, cameras everywhere, codes on all the doors.”

  “I heard you’re really smart. Think of something.”

  “I really can’t break the family rules.”

  “Then not that smart. I bet you’re a bad lay, too.” With her heart pounding, she’d hung up on Kent Gonsoulin. She’d s
een him around glaring at her, but never spoken to him again.

  Stacy checked the door of the bakery once more. A family of four in church-going clothes emerged with bags, but no Dean. Kent opened the door of the convertible and took possession of the driver’s seat. “What, you don’t remember me? I’m on the TV all the time. Go, go, go to Gonsoulin’s Mobile Homes before they’re gone, gone, gone. Does that ring your chimes?”

  Stacy plastered a fake smile on her face like bad makeup. “Certainly I remember you, Kent. I heard you have a lovely wife and three children now as well as that great business.”

  “Kelsey turned to fat right after the first baby was born and as far as I can tell, all three of the kids are dumb as ditch water.”

  Considering that the children appeared to be around six, four and two, poor Kelsey probably had little time to diet between pregnancies, an observation Stacy did not share with her unwelcome visitor. Kent hadn’t exactly kept his figure either, but he still had a full, square-jawed face some might consider handsome sitting atop a bull neck and a big, white smile just dying to sell a person a bill of goods. Stacy trolled her brain for small talk. “Your children are young. They might be smarter than you think. What are their names?”

  Kent compressed his thick lips, not pleased by the direction of the conversation, but he answered. “Kermit—and not after the frog. That’s my dad’s real name, and he insisted the boy be called after him. Then, Katrina for the hurricane because Kelsey thought that would be cute. She’s the only blonde so far. The last boy is Kent Junior after me. The boys favor my wife who isn’t a real redhead. Back when, the guys bet me you weren’t a true blonde either. I said I’d find out and let them know.”

  “You can tell them I am. No need to keep them in suspense all these years.” Stacy dropped some ice into her voice like cubes falling into a full glass of tepid water. She’d perfected that skill over the years of waiting for Dean. “I need to go see what’s keeping Dean. We have to get back to New Orleans. Your wife is probably wondering where you are.” Two very elderly women with their hair dyed black and bright red left the bakery with their purchases clutched in arthritic hands and their canes stabbing the sidewalk, but no Dean.

  “Hi, Miss Lolly, Miss Maxine,” Stacy cried out to them with a vigorous wave for the early Mass goers. Maybe they would return inside and tell Dean his cousin had unwelcome company, but they simply squinted their ancient eyes against the sun and nodded before creaking down the road toward the massive Lincoln Continental they drove hazardously around Chapelle like an aircraft carrier commanding the seas.

  Kent kept his seat as if he intended to bask in the sun all morning instead of going to church. “So what’s that business you have in the city—teaching Mexicans to speak English, right?”

  “No, Xochi and I started an interpreting and translating service. We offer four languages and recently added two more.” Stacy reached over the seat to get her purse and woke Mati curled asleep in a white, fluffy ball. He bounded to join her in the front and met Kent’s hand slapping him back. “My dog!”

  “Jesus H. Christ, I thought it was a white rat. You call that thing a dog?”

  Mati whimpered, and Stacy gathered him into her lap. “It was hot in his crate, and I let him out. Here.” Trying to keep things professional, she shoved a card for Anchi Services into Kent’s hands. “That’s our business in case you need our services.”

  Kent ran a thick thumb over the heavy, pale gray cardstock with the purple lettering as if he caressed a woman’s breast. “I remember Xochi. Built, she budded out real early. Pretty if you like those Latina types, but I prefer the blondes and redheads.”

  “Like your wife,” Stacy reminded him. A middle-aged man opened the bakery door and held it for his wife who carried the coffees.

  “I could have done better if she hadn’t gotten knocked up,” said Kent like he had nothing to do with it.

  The scent of sugar riding on a waft of cold air signaled the opening of the bakery’s door again. Dean stood in the open doorway obviously saying goodbye to someone. Finally, he turned and stepped out with a large, greasy white bag and two tall paper cups of café au lait. Mati sat up and barked eagerly in his direction. Taking his time, Kent slid out of the front seat with his belly rubbing against the steering wheel. Drawing Stacy’s attention back to him, he said, “I’ve been thinking I might expand the family business into Old Mexico, so maybe I will need your services. I have a mobile home show coming up down your way. Maybe we could have dinner and discuss it.”

  “Make an appointment. My business number is on the card.”

  Dean approached. Kent sucked in his gut and stood up straighter. He held out a beefy hand and offered a salesman’s smile to go with it. Dean put the coffees in the cup holder and slung the bakery bag into the car before shaking with a grip so firm they appeared to be arm wrestling. Dean used his other hand to deliver a fake buddy punch to Kent’s gut that made the man drop his hand and take a step back.

  “How’s my old backup from Ste. Jeanne d’Arc?” Dean asked almost combatively.

  “Thriving business, beautiful family. Just getting reacquainted with your cousin who jilted me for the prom.” Kent showed all his pearly whites in one hostile grin.

  “Believe me, that wasn’t her fault. My parents were pretty strict.”

  “You always did get the prettiest girls.” Kent eyed Stacy as if wondering about the best sales tactic to employ to put her into a deluxe model mobile home.

  “I only dated two of them in high school. Plenty left for you.”

  “Say, was Heather McAvoy a real redhead?”

  Kent kept his gaze on Stacy until she blushed. Why was this jerk totally obsessed with pubic hair? She kept hers neatly waxed but enough remained to attest to her blondness.

  Dean stepped between them. “A gentleman never tells. Great seeing you, but we have to leave.”

  Dean took over the driver’s seat and started the engine with an aggressive roar. Kent took another step back to avoid having his foot run over as the Mustang left the parking lot. He stood staring after them as they reached the red light by the church and had to idle even though no traffic passed with everyone attending services, out golfing, or gone fishing. Mati snuffled the beignet bag, and Dean dipped into the lumpy pocket of his white shirt to retrieve a little plastic bag tied with leather strip.

  “Homemade dog biscuits. Some woman in town is making them, and LeJeune let her put a rack in the bakery.”

  “Very thoughtful of you.” Stacy offered one to Mati who thoroughly approved. “What took you so long? That encounter with my past was really getting awkward.”

  “Our past. We share a past. The Methodists get out of church when the Catholic Mass begins. LeJeune had his hands full serving the first shift of the worshipers of the beignet cult even with his daughter Selena helping out. I had to shake hands, sign a few autographs. You know how it goes.” Preparing to drive south on a brilliantly sunny day, Dean took his sunglasses from the visor and hooked them behind his ears.

  “I know only too well. I didn’t sense much old buddy camaraderie between you and Kent.”

  “From middle school on, Kent never made quarterback because I always did. Only year he got to play was after I graduated, and he couldn’t get the team to the state playoffs. Some guys never get over high school.”

  “Okay, I’m going to admit this only once. You did save me from a gross guy when I was fifteen. In that case, Dean knew best.” She kept her eyes straight ahead to avoid seeing his told-you-so expression.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered with only the minimum of gloating in his voice.

  The light turned green. Dean put the Mustang into gear and made it growl like a beast eager to escape its cage. They tooled out of Chapelle with the breeze tangling Stacy’s bright hair and Mati’s small ears flapping in the wind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  With a Thursday night game scheduled in Green Bay, the Sinners practiced long and hard before getting
on the plane to Wisconsin. Stacy saw more of Dean on the television while watching him play than she had all week. Bundled up to keep their muscles warm, the players exhaled steam into the cold night air of the outdoor stadium. In New Orleans, the air-conditioning continued to run up the electricity bill, though gradually the summer heat dominated only the afternoons and allowed the mornings and evenings to be mild and pleasant all on their own.

  Stacy and Xo watched the game with a big bowl of popcorn set between them on the purple sofa. Occasionally, they refilled Ilsa’s smaller wooden bowl since she sat in a side chair. Stacy had invited her out of guilt because the woman seemed a little lonely, maybe even homesick. Ilsa did her job with more call for her Russian skills than for German, but out of jealousy Stacy had let her dangle socially when she should have been showing her around more often. Now secure in her feelings for Dean and his for her, Stacy acknowledged Ilsa as no particular threat. Having to explain the game to her every five minutes, now that was annoying.

  “The quarterback, he tells everyone what to do and so makes the big money,” Ilsa stated.

  “He calls the plays, but plenty of people tell him what to do. At this level, most of the team makes fairly good money,” Stacy answered.

  “Tom, he kicks the ball like in German football and makes points, also.”

  “Yes, one after a touchdown and if the team can’t get the score any other way, he can try a field goal for three points. Tom is great at what he does.” Xochi fielded that one.

  Mati sniffed at Ilsa’s toes, then sat down charmingly by her feet and cocked his head waiting for a piece of popcorn to be tossed his way. She nudged him aside. “Go away, doggie. I am not so fond of animals.”

  Mati took the hint and stationed himself close to Xo, his easiest mark. He caught the morsel thrown to him in mid-air. “Don’t feed him junk food,” Stacy said.

  “We’re eating it practically naked, hardly any butter or salt. Besides, dogs are omnivores, right, Ilsa?” Xochi launched another puff of popcorn Mati’s way.