by Lynn Shurr
“Yes, my twin sisters are a handful and always late.”
“I will meet them, Ja?
“Yes, and more of my relatives than you can remember or want to know.”
They drew up before the wrought iron gates of Lorena Ranch open for this day of many arrivals, but still under the watchful eye of Knox Polk, ranch manager and retired soldier. Still trim and ramrod straight, his very short hair a white contrast to his light brown skin, he waved Dean in and paused to shake his hand. “You’re early.”
“Made good time.”
“I know what that means. Be careful going back. Lots of drunks on the road on a holiday evening.”
“I will. Junior looked good playing for the Flames. He’s got the talent. Oh, this is Ilsa, my guest.”
“Welcome, Miss Ilsa. I’ll let the house know you’re coming.” Knox pressed the call box on the side of the gate and spoke into it quietly as if he told a secret or played a game of Telephone.
Ilsa took in the long drive lined with ancient live oaks, the white mansion sitting in their midst, and the bayou beyond. “Is like Gone with the Wind, nein?”
“I think that was the idea my dad had. His taste is a little questionable sometimes, and he was in the process of building the place before he married my mom. But, we do have a movie theater and a gym I am certain Tara lacked.”
“I like it very much.” Ilsa squeezed his arm. “You are my Clark Gable.”
“No mustache and I have my own teeth,” he answered, making her laugh though he’d been quite serious.
Knox had warned the family about the unexpected guest. As they entered through the kitchen door, his mother stepped forward immediately with hands out to take Ilsa’s and a strained smile on her face. The air-conditioner ran full blast offsetting heat from the stove where Mawmaw Nadine had taken over to bake her sweet potato and pecan pies after she’d chased Corazon from the kitchen and told her rest for the cleanup. His robust, outspoken grandmother shoved the last pie onto the oven rack and straightened to give Ilsa the once-over.
“How you gonna sit down and eat in that tight dress, cher?” she questioned Dean’s guest.
“Oh, it is stretchy. I like to eat very much.” Ilsa plucked at the electric blue fabric and let it spring back snug against her body.
“Ilsa, this is Dean’s grandmother, Nadine.” Nell attempted to move the couple along. “I’m so glad Dean invited you, but I warn you things get very chaotic here on holidays. Coffee is on the counter. Cold drinks in the fridge. Help yourself and try not to get trampled. His other grandparents are in the den keeping an eye on the little ones. They tend to get into things. Why don’t you join them?”
“We brought wine.” Dean held up a canvas sack full of clinking bottles. “Ilsa picked it out.”
“Four bottles of good German Riesling. Will it be enough?” Ilsa asked.
“We have plenty of beer and other beverages, so this will be fine. The men just sit around, drink, and watch football all day once they get the turkeys fried.”
“Fried turkeys?”
“You have to see it to believe it. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Grandma and Grandpa Abbott.” Dean deposited the bottles on the counter and steered Ilsa toward the hall.
They didn’t move fast enough to completely escape the Mawmaw Nadine commentary. “Another skinny one and a foreigner. Why doesn’t he find a nice Cajun Cat’lic girl? You Cat’lic, honey?” Dean’s grandmother called after them. Age hadn’t made her any more diplomatic, probably worse.
“Nein. Lutheran,” Ilsa said over her shoulder.
“A Protestant non-Cajun exactly like me,” Nell reminded her.
“You turned out okay, cher. Gave me lots of grandkids. Besides, Episcopalians are almost Cat’lics. Those Lut’rans tried to wreck the Church.”
“Better check your pies. I think I smell something burning.” Nell waved her son and his guest urgently away to the safety of the den. “Dean, come back when you get Ilsa settled. I need you to carry the gallons of peanut oil out to the pavilion.”
“Sure thing.”
The Abbotts, his safe, normal grandparents, small in stature and a little frail with age, nodded benignly when he introduced Ilsa and made no comments. Once he got her seated he asked, “Can I bring you something to drink after I do the peanut oil run?”
“Some wine, Bitte.”
Dean returned unconcerned to the kitchen. “Mind if I take Ilsa some wine first?” He searched a drawer for a corkscrew and the cupboards for a glass oblivious to the tension in the spice and molasses scented air. “Where’s the peanut oil?”
“It’s in the pavilion. Your father carried it out this morning. He’s there setting up the frying pot. Dean, Stacy is coming. She’ll be here any minute. We had to work on her for days to get her to do this. Really, you should have warned me about bringing Ilsa.”
“I thought everyone was welcome to Thanksgiving at the ranch.” He played it cool but spilled some of the wine he poured.
“Normally true. We’ll manage somehow.”
Nothing wrong with Mawmaw Nadine’s hearing as she often told everyone. “Stacy and this Ilsa don’t get along? My, my. Why is that? This handsome grandson of mine involved?” She tweaked Dean’s cheek. “Neither one good enough for him.”
“Just different personalities,” Nell blurted. “Oh, here’s Tom and the rest of the gang. Dean, take Ilsa her wine and let me smooth the way.” Like a quarterback with no receivers in sight, he took off running.
****
The kitchen filled with young women, Tom, Teddy up on his crutches, and one yapping little dog. “Smells great in here. When’s dinner?” Tom asked his mother.
“In a couple of hours. Snacks in the den, but…”
“Come give Mawmaw some sugar.” Nadine offered her cheek.
Dutifully, all of them lined up to give Mawmaw kisses and their mother hugs. Nadine did her usual inspection and critique of grown grandchildren she hadn’t seen for a while. Nell stood helplessly by unable to get a word in to deflect the upcoming shock of Ilsa’s presence.
“Teddy, good to see you using your sticks instead of being in that chair all the time. Jude and Annie, how you expect to meet nice boys wit’ all that gunk on your eyes and such short skirts. They think you a whore. Tom, stay out of the sun, and you won’t have so many of them freckles. Stacy, you need some feeding up. Them Polish cheekbones is sticking out. That dog housebroken yet?”
“Almost.” Stacy edged for the hallway and made her escape before the observations went any deeper. Entering the den with Mati trotting by her side on his leash, she spotted her grandparents first and went to give her kisses. Mati broke into another outburst of yaps and drew her attention to Dean and Ilsa sitting on the far end of the long sofa. Unlike Mawmaw, she did have diplomatic skills honed by her interpreting services.
“Oh, Ilsa. How nice of Dean to bring you. I didn’t know myself if I was coming until this morning or I would have invited you.”
“Macht nichts,” Ilsa replied with a shrug. “I am here.” She wrapped her arm around Dean’s broad shoulders.
“Well, a Billodeaux Thanksgiving is something to behold. Excuse me everyone. I should take Mati outside. He’s been in the car for three hours.”
She escaped down the long burgundy-tiled hall to the front door and let herself outside to suck in some air. The wind had picked up skirling fallen brown oak leaves into small dust devils. Rain coming. Possibly a thunderstorm with the air too warm for late November. Someone had placed a cypress garden bench near the graves of Titi and Macho. Stacy sank down on the seat and released Mati. “Run, get some exercise. People will be sneaking you food all day because you are adorable.”
Whether the wind or her own misery covered Dean’s approach, she didn’t know. He simply appeared, took the place next to her, and knotted his hands between his knees. Mati ran in frenzied circles around them.
“You know they call that the Bichon blitz. The breeder told me that.”
“The Bichon blitz. I like that.” He’d coaxed a reluctant smile from her.
“Yeah, football terminology. I like it, too. He’s not a bad dog for a puffball. I’ll bet Mawmaw said you needed some feeding up.”
“I could stand to lose the pounds and maybe a few more.”
“No, you were great as you were. Look, I’m sorry about bringing Ilsa. I didn’t think you’d be here. I mean you let her take your place at the game and in the restaurant.”
In his bed, she thought. “Macht nichts. That means it doesn’t matter. Who you bring home to meet your mom and dad is none of my business.”
“They already met her in New Orleans.”
“It’s not the same, Dean. When you bring a woman to a big family gathering it means you are serious about her.”
“No, it doesn’t. I brought my high school and college girlfriends here, and they were only temporary.”
Stacy stopped focusing on the little graves to meet his eyes. She recalled only too well her teen anguish over watching Dean with those girls three years older than her and experienced. “I can’t believe you didn’t figure out your parents encouraged you to be here with them so they could keep an eye on you.”
“I never could do anything under their roof or in their barn or on the beach with all those cameras around. Plenty of other places outside the compound. Not a good day for the beach,” he said thoughtfully as if his mind had gone elsewhere for a moment, possibly to the place of the crossed palm trees. She went there in her mind all the time, very unhealthy.
“I just thought I’d invite Ilsa to an American Thanksgiving, nothing serious. But you can’t really mean you’re going to shut down Anchi Services as hard as you worked to get that business started like Mom said.”
“I shouldn’t have come to New Orleans and gone to work right out of college.” For the wrong reason—because Dean lived there.
“What about Xo and Ilsa? They’ll be out of a job. You should think about them.”
And about getting away from seeing Dean with Ilsa wrapped around him like a German flag at an Olympic event. “Our contracts come up for renewal at the end of the year. Xo can pick the ones she wants. Ilsa has some clients now she might want to retain, or she can go back to Germany. I’m thinking I should travel to Berlin or Vienna and stay a year to pick up the language, see new sights, meet new people.”
“You mean people like Dr. Rivera.”
“Why not? Unlike you, I’ve never had a German. Dean, when you pay for a woman’s apartment, she’s your mistress, not only an easy lay.” That had come boiling out of her like the rumble of thunder and flash of lightning above their heads. Mati stopped running and cowered against her leg. She picked him up and held him close. The temperature plummeted around them as a cold front forced its way in, an uninvited guest for the holiday.
“Ilsa said you put her up in some dump, and she couldn’t afford better. It was a dump. I’m helping her out until she can afford the rent.”
“Oh, noble Sir Dean to the rescue. She picked the place herself because it was close to the streetcar lines, near the Trade Center and within her means. We didn’t force her to live there. I gave her my own bed when she arrived. But, now she has yours, so no worries for poor Ilsa.”
Dean stood up and towered over her. “Forgive me for helping someone who really needs it, Princess.” He strode back to the house as the first fat raindrops began to fall.
Just like that, they’d returned to their old adversarial role, maybe for the best. Mati whimpered as the thunder rolled again and the lightning flashed nearer than before. Her Aunt Nell stood in the doorway and called over the rumbles, “Anastasia Marya Polasky, get in here before you’re soaked.”
Stacy obeyed that voice as she had in childhood, but bypassed her aunt as she came indoors. She proceeded straight up the wide, elegant staircase and down the long hallway into the new addition that had housed her and Teddy when they both arrived out of the blue one summer day so long ago and were taken in with kindness and love. Her cream and gold bedroom remained fit for a princess. She sprawled across the queen-sized bed with Mati held tight and bawled in private as hard as she had the day she stumbled across Dean making out, hot and heavy, in his pickup truck with red-haired Heather McAvoy, the second of his high school girlfriends. Nothing changed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nothing stopped a Billodeaux Thanksgiving either. Relatives arrived in high-rise trucks and massive SUVs that defied the flooded roads. Sheltering their covered dishes, aunts, uncles, and cousins waded to the house in their white rubber fisherman’s boots or barefooted with their shoes tucked under their arms. The men gathered in the barbecue pavilion to deep fry the turkeys while the women set out the sides on the dining room table in the house since no one would be dining outside today.
The Billodeaux boys gathered round their elders to learn this fine Cajun art. It seemed strange not to have Pawpaw Frank giving the directions, but he’d died one hot day of a heart attack in the air-conditioned cab of his cane tractor, parked under an oak tree and the engine still running. Now, Daddy Joe, hair gone to the color of steel, presided.
As those over eighteen nursed their beers, he gently lowered the fry basket with the big bird rubbed down in Creole seasoning into the boiling oil. “Be careful not to fill the pot more than three-quarters. You don’t want any spillage making the propane flare up. Open up the neck so all that oil circulates. In forty-five minutes, we have a moist, juicy turkey. We’ll serve this one cold and the next one hot. Now, all we have to do is wait.”
Some of the great-uncles organized a card game of bouree. Joe’s four brothers-in-law debated the merits of smoking a turkey instead and the best ways to do that. Uncle Charlie worked on getting drunk as usual, summoning T-Rex to fetch him another brew and letting him have a taste of the suds for his service.
Dean stood back a little from one of the screened walls of the pavilion where the rain filtered in and stared at the downpour. His dad came to stand beside him starting off with a general remark that would veer in the direction he wanted it to go like a good quarterback sneak.
“Good thing your mom is in the kitchen with Charlie letting T-Rex drink from his bottle. I still don’t understand why your Aunt Lizzie keeps taking that man back.” Joe shook his head.
“Habit, I guess. It’s hard to break a habit, even a bad one. You aren’t worried about T-Rex?”
“I was raised sucking the suds off my daddy’s beers. Didn’t hurt me none. Mais yeah, I miss my old man on days like this. I treasured a quiet day of fishing with my dad away from the five women in the house. One too many women in the household today, huh?” Joe said as subtle as he ever got. “When I went back to get the matches, your mom told me you’d talked to Stacy. How’d it go?”
“Not well. Started out okay, then the princess turned all pissy about Ilsa. I didn’t start seeing the woman until after we broke up. It’s not her fault Stacy played me for a fool.”
“I can’t say your sisters are being very welcoming to Ilsa today. Pretty much ignoring her though your date doesn’t seem to care. Sorry about that. If she’s your choice, we’ll work on that, but we’d still like you to make your peace with Stacy.”
“Ilsa isn’t my choice. She’s just a woman I’m seeing right now. Really, I tried to make up with Stacy and told her not to close down Anchi Services. She started in on Ilsa, and then we were right back to being bickering teenagers again. Women, I don’t understand them.” Dean took a long swallow from his bottle of Dixie and drained it to the bottom.
“You think Stacy made a fool out of you, but you don’t have to act foolish because of it.” Joe eyed his son’s drink, though he had one in his own in hand.
“I swear I’m done overindulging and getting tattoos on my butt. This is my first drink today. Honest to God.” Dean crossed himself for good measure.
“There are other ways of being foolish. Be careful. Want to tell me about the tattoo?”
“It’s your old devil’
s tail heart with Sinners written on the inside.”
“I’m honored. Look, Tink the Shrink says Stacy is brokenhearted and jealous of Ilsa,” Joe said, referring lightly to his psychologist wife. “She’s trying to cut herself off from all she loves as self-punishment for nearly getting Prince killed. Deep. We can’t allow that, now can we?” Joe threw in a paternal pat on the back with that statement.
“Easy for we to say. Maybe I should be the one to leave. I’ll be a free agent at the end of this season. The Sinners could get some good defensive players under the salary cap for what I’ll cost them. Maybe get Little Joe Bullock out of those snowdrifts up north.”
The legendary Joe Billodeaux choked and sputtered on a sip of beer. “That would be heresy! You were born and raised to be the Sinners’ quarterback.”
“Maybe I was born to do other things elsewhere.” His dad looked too stricken to respond. Dean attempted to lighten up their conversation. “Does Mom know you call her Tink the Shrink?”
That got a grin out of Joe. “Let’s keep that between us. No telling what will set a woman off, especially one like your mother. She might find it endearing or maybe not.” Joe checked his watch. “Time to get the second turkey started. We want to eat before the first game starts.”
Dean stayed where he was contemplating a big puddle growing wider and deeper with every splash of a raindrop. He didn’t want Stacy to be heartbroken and pitiful, so maybe it was better they’d gone back to sparring, familiar roles they both knew.
****
Stacy pulled herself together with the help of a wet washcloth and a stash of makeup she’d left behind in a bathroom drawer. About the time she finished becoming presentable, Xo came searching for her. “Thought I’d find you here. Mom says dinner is almost ready. And don’t tell me you aren’t hungry.”
“I’m not, but if I don’t eat something Mawmaw will tie me down and force feed me. Dean and I talked. It blew up when we got to Ilsa. She’s taking advantage of him, and he just doesn’t see it.” Stacy ran a brush through her wind-tangled hair until the waves fell perfectly around her pale face.