Putty in Her Hands

by Lynn Shurr

  Julia let her skepticism show. “The bedroom, really? Why not this balcony?”

  “Like I told your uncles, better view up there, nice breeze.”

  She shook her head at his transparency, but went along with it for now. They did go directly to the balcony. Remy set down the platter on one his little metal tables and positioned another to take the wine and glasses. He snapped open a folding chair with a black canvas back, and seated himself. “Please, take the lounger and be comfortable.”

  “How comfortable do you expect me to be?”

  “Take your shoes off. I’ll feed you some grapes, but you must try the crawfish boudin. It’s really great.” He poured two glasses of wine, half full.

  Julia took part of his suggestion. She removed her pain-in-the-arch heels and put her feet up. Remy dangled a stem of red grapes over her mouth. She bit one off and tried hard not to laugh at her Cleopatra imitation. All they needed was a discreet servant fanning both of them with ostrich feathers. After she swallowed, he offered a circle of boudin impaled on the end of a toothpick. Really good, she acknowledged with a nod, but now she’d have crawfish breath.

  “Why don’t you have some too. You’re the one who’s hungry.”

  “I will, but ladies first. Cheddar or brie?”

  “Brie.”

  Remy smeared the soft cheese on a cracker and offered it to her mouth with his fingertips. They grazed her lips when she took it in, sending tingles right where he intended. Oh, he was good at this, very good. Next, he handed her the glass of wine to sip and helped himself to the spread. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “The sun is going down right behind the Bayou Queen.”

  The live oaks stood out in black relief as the red orb drew tendrils of orange, gold, and pink from the sky and pulled them into night. The bayou reflected it all in a hazy brown mirror. Treetop breezes kept the mosquitoes off when darkness and their feeding time descended. Peeper frogs and crickets tuned up for their mating serenades.

  Julia finished her wine. Remy refilled it immediately—attentive or trying to get her drunk, she couldn’t tell. She allowed herself to relax on the comfortable cushions covering a lounger big enough for two. It had been a while since she’d been with a man. The demands of the company kept her on the road, and she wasn’t one to pick up a guy in a bar, or cavort with a construction worker she’d hired. Usually too tired anyhow. Right now, here sat a fellow, handsome, clean, and well-spoken, who obviously knew his way around women. Why not enjoy despite their differences? She sensed she should make the first move, give the green light, whatever.

  “That chair seems uncomfortable. There’s room enough for two over here.” She moved to one side. He hadn’t turned on a bug-attracting outdoor light. Hard to read his expression in the dusk. Julia got her answer when Remy set aside both wineglasses and took up her offer. As he settled beside her, one arm went around her shoulders and drew her close. The other cupped one side of her face as he moved in for the kiss. She’d been told she had voluptuous lips, and his weren’t so bad either. Remy Broussard knew what to do with them. They nibbled and tongued before going deep. He completed the job of seducing her mouth before moving his free hand to open the buttons of her blouse.

  She did the same, working his shirt open and enjoying the lack of a T-shirt beneath as well as a patch of dark hair on his tanned chest that her fingers combed through lightly. Remy shivered beneath her hand despite the warm evening. She circled his nipple with a fingernail and delighted in its pucker. He’d removed her blouse and made headway with her nude-toned bra, nothing fancy, but uplifting, and applied those talented lips again to the peaks of her breasts. Her turn to shiver.

  They took their time with each other. Despite the strength of his erection, Remy didn’t grope beneath her skirt. He unzipped it, laid it aside, and slowly removed those nude bikini panties down the length of her legs. He came up kissing her thighs, working his way to her center. No danger he’d miss those nether lips or the firm clit throbbing for more. His fingers thrust inside of her, bringing on the slick of passion. She felt the gathering of her orgasm, the tightness, the release like a bowstring being plucked.

  Time to reciprocate once she’d savored her moment by removing his trousers and a black pair of boxer briefs. Somewhere along the way, he’d toed off his shoes and shed his socks. Somewhere handy, he’d retrieved a condom.

  “Let me do that for you.” Julia smoothed the rubber over the swollen tip of his penis and rolled it down the hardened shaft. “Not like putty, strong as plaster.”

  He rewarded her comment with a slight laugh. “I certainly hope so.”

  Spreading her legs, he went onto his knees and took the first plunge deep inside of her, touching her womb. She jerked, still close to the edge from her first orgasm. He wouldn’t have to do much to guarantee a second, but Remy was not a man who rushed. He teased her with short thrusts, then longer, holding on beyond her expectations until she wished she had longer nails to score his back, urging him on. As her body started to seize, Remy allowed his release. He stayed only a moment collapsed against her breasts before rolling to the side and disposing of the condom into its open wrapper. They lay side by side allowing the night air to dry their bodies of love sweat. The stars twinkled in the humid air. The gentle lap of the bayou water against his dock far below lulled.

  Julia bolted upright. “What time is it?”

  Remy checked the glowing dial of the watch he’d left on a side table. “Only nine-thirty. We have plenty of time for more wine and another round.”

  “You do. I don’t. May I use your bathroom?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Julia gathered her clothes and the small purse she’d slung aside earlier. He gave a soft sigh of regret when she moved away, certain her backside glowed in the moonlight. She’d intended merely to clean up a little, but that big bathtub and all its amenities beckoned. She closed the door and turned on the taps. As the water rose, she selected a bath bomb and tossed it to foam and fizz and release its fragrance. Another little basket contained packets of hair clips and scrunchies. Remy Broussard did think of everything.

  She selected a clip and twisted her hair to the top of her head. Stepping into the warm bath, Julia laid her head back against the cold of the porcelain and washed her still sensitive nether regions with a black washcloth and a tiny, scented guest soap. She selected another cloth from the baskets and patted her face hoping to keep her makeup in place for the return to Alleman and the uncles who might still be up waiting. Her swollen lips stung a trifle. She’d definitely need a new application of lipstick.

  Sorry she couldn’t linger in more ways than one, Julia emerged from the bathtub to dry with one of the thick, black towels so nicely heated. She dressed again and shoved the hated shoes onto her feet. The nice thing about having the sinks and mirrors in a separate space, they hadn’t steamed over. She bent close to apply lipstick. A masculine hand released the hair clip and sent her hair tumbling again.

  Remy lifted the strands and kissed her neck. “If I’d known you were taking a bath I would have joined you. That tub is big enough for two.”

  “So I noticed. You certainly thought of everything a woman could want in there, right down to a way to put up her hair.” She picked the clip off the counter and snapped it at him playfully.

  “The last person to use that bath was my sister, probably the woman your uncles saw on the staircase. She makes the obligatory trip to see our grandparents once a month, but can’t be bribed to live here like I was. Amelia has more integrity. Anyhow, I keep the clips and scrunchies for her because she forgets to bring them or loses hers.”

  “And she’s the only one who does?” Julia raised her dark, defined brows.

  “Obviously not, since you did—but I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. You?”

  Julia shook her head. “I don’t have much time for relationships.”

  “A thing we have in common. Tonight was good though, very good for me.” He waited for her to say the
same.

  She hated to inflate his already large ego, but she also believed in giving credit where it was due. “Very good, excellent in fact. I’d hire you for a gigolo any day, if you ever give up architecture.”

  “Good to know I have an alternate career waiting in case the Black Diamonds deal falls through. You must understand I have a lot riding on it.”

  “Move your development elsewhere. Sell out to Jonathan Hartz and accept the position as project manager. He pays well for expertise.”

  “I can’t do that. I owe the investors.”

  “You could if you wanted.” They’d moved so well together on that double lounger, but apparently were no closer on the fate of the Bayou Queen. Wondering if her uncles watched the lighted staircase tonight, Julia headed rapidly down the steps and out Remy’s front door. Flicking on the garage lamps, he followed her all the way to the truck. Julia mounted the cab before he arrived to lay those tempting hands on her. She did lean out for a goodnight kiss that went on way too long.

  “Despite our differences, I hope we can do this again sometime,” he said in parting.

  “Maybe,” Julia answered. She turned over the engine and backed away. Maybe—if they didn’t end up becoming enemies about the Bayou Queen.

  Chapter Seven

  Remy rolled the plans for the Black Diamonds development he’d left out overnight and secured them with a stout rubber band. He replaced the small sculptures that had held down the edges on his desk. Often, he could tell much about clients if they remarked on one of them: cat lover, nature lover, lover of women, free spirit. But Julia had given nothing away. He suspected she rarely did.

  After she took her leave, he’d gone back to the top deck, polished off what remained of the wine and boudin, and went to bed. He slept well, very well, only sorry Julia hadn’t agreed to join him under the black satin spread. In the morning, he didn’t bother to shave. A little dark scruff would help him fit in better at the noon luncheon investors’ meeting as would a black fitted tee that showed his lean strength, and the jeans he donned after his morning run and a brisk shower. He placed the plans next to a slim briefcase that contained the prospectus headed Black Diamonds Development—Find your perfect setting. Julia had it right. His target buyers were city people seeking an escape from crime, noise, and traffic—who still didn’t want to mow lawns in order to live in the country.

  Breakfast consisted of two cups of black Community Coffee and a couple of slices of toasted whole wheat bread smeared with strawberry preserves from a hand-painted jam pot, both made by the local traiteur, the faith healer Rosemary Leleux. Supposedly, her pots brought luck. He’d need it today. Considering he’d run five miles, it wasn’t much of a meal, but the provided lunch would tilt toward fried and greasy.

  He fiddled away the rest of the morning making calls, the most important to the man who would bush-hog the Bayou Queen property and make it accessible from the road again. He phoned another to install heavy-duty culverts in the drainage ditch that could handle the weight of heavy equipment. When his watch showed eleven, Remy set out for the shady home of his ancestors and their contribution to Cajun culture, Broussard’s Barn, an old-timey dance hall, some distance out in the country among the cane fields.

  The Barn had started out as a country general store way back before the turn of the twentieth century. Barely providing enough income for a very large family, the Old Broussard of the day cleaned out his barn, knocked down the stalls, and turned the place into a dance hall with enough lively chank-a-chank music to whet the thirst of the dancers for his wife’s lemonade and cherry bounce. Should they get hungry, the store stayed open to provide soda crackers, tins of sardines, and other salty snacks, or canned peaches in heavy syrup for those who had a sweet tooth, all innocent enough.

  Eventually, an enclosed ramp connected the store to the barn to keep the customers out of the weather and above the mud. Everyone entered through the store, nowadays to pay a modest cover charge, but the hall, expanded and updated over the years, had many exits that satisfied the fire marshal but owed their origins to its days as a speakeasy. Even a trapper could get a jar of white mule, known for its kick, in exchange for a muskrat pelt during the days of Prohibition. Hot jazz bands out of New Orleans replaced the accordions, fiddles, and triangles. The high and low classes mingled and got drunk at Broussard’s Barn. The family kept the peace with a shotgun, a baseball bat, and a pearl-handled pistol still kept beneath the counter. Cops were not called then or now. The Broussards made a fortune that even the Depression didn’t whittle away. No stocks for them. They bought up land from defaulted farmers and sold or rented it later for solid profits when the good times rolled again. “Because da land, it never goes away, no,” became a family adage.

  Remy parked in the shell-paved lot near the store. Across a half-grown cane field stood the ancient cypress and bousillage house where many a Broussard had been born and died. Two-hundred-year-old oaks shaded its newer tin roof. As the barrier of the cane field implied, business was never conducted there.

  The strings of clear bulbs that illuminated the lot were turned off for now, as were the lights by each door of the rundown motel to the rear of the dance hall. The girls who rented them by the hour at night probably still slept. Starting out as cribs for prostitutes, the ladies of the evening now had slightly better accommodations and the protection of the Broussard’s bouncers for a cut of their profits. Everyone knew. No one talked about it.

  Remy also turned his eyes away. He had nothing to do with this end of the family business. Entering through the darkened store, not open as this hour, where the shelves of old canned goods had only fairly recently been replaced with convenience store foods and a large beer cooler—cigarettes, snuff, and condoms still kept behind the counter—he descended the creaking ramp into the Barn. The stage and the dance floor, now more likely to host country/western bands and their fans, stood empty. Overhead, the house lights burned illuminating a section of four tops pushed together and set for a meal with cutlery wrapped in paper napkins. Sweating bottles of beer sat at each place.

  The smell of meat splattering fat on a griddle filled the air. All the aroma and noise emanated from the kitchen behind the substantial and well-stocked bar. Well, he’d arrived a little early. Remy pushed two more tables together and unrolled the Black Diamonds plans. No handy sculptures around, he used a bottle of hot sauce, the salt and pepper shakers, and a metal napkin caddy to hold down the edges. As he fanned the brochures out to one side, thunder sounded in the tunnel, and he knew his great-uncle had arrived along with—he counted the place settings—six of his minions, all relatives.

  Hard to believe the currently reigning Old Broussard was his grandfather’s brother. A morbidly obese belly strained at his bib overalls, a white T-shirt with stained yellow armpits worn beneath. Sure, the former mayor possessed a prosperous gut well-hidden beneath his tailored suits, but nothing like this rotundity. Both still sported full heads of thick, steely gray hair, his grandfather’s beautifully styled and his grand-uncle’s cut saying he’d paid all of twenty dollars to have it clipped.

  “Nonc,” Remy said, using the regional term for uncle, technically noncle. He braced for an all-encompassing handshake from the huge, puffy hand, but got instead a crushing hug to the fat man’s belly, once a hard pile of lard, now as soft and drooping as a woman who had birthed a dozen children and nursed them all judging by his sagging breasts.

  Remy stepped back and gestured to the table with his brochures. “If you’d like to take a look before we dine…” he said and heard the snickers from his relatives at his formal use of the word dine.

  “Where you from, boy? First, we eat, den we take a look at dem plans.” From deep in his treble-chinned neck, Old Broussard summoned an impressive holler. “Dose burgers ’bout ready, NuNu?”

  “Comin’ in a few minutes. Gumbo is up.” Remy’s second or third cousin, anyhow the one who lived next door to him, appeared toting a tray of thick-walled soup cups. He gave
Remy a grin missing two top teeth. Unlike most of the family, NuNu had long dirty blond hair coiled under a hairnet, and light blue eyes most folks described as crazy. Acne scars studded his pale face like seeds on an unripe strawberry. Some thought he’d been born of one of the prostitutes from the motel, but if so had definitely been folded into the family and raised accordingly.

  NuNu plonked down a cup at each place, spilling some of Remy’s on the checkered oilcloth and barely missing his lap. The gumbo came with an island of white rice in the center and a spoon tucked in the side. “Soup’s on. Turkey/sausage. Broussard Burgers next on the menu.” Shaking his skinny behind practically in Remy’s face, NuNu boogied back to the grill.

  Old Broussard sank into his custom-made armchair at the head of the table, the one usually behind the cash register out front. He patted the place on his right with a heavy hand. “Sit by me, Remy. Talk wit’ me. Slick, take dat udder end chair.”

  Slick Broussard, head bouncer, conceded his usual seat. Maybe five years older than Remy, he slid toward forty with bulging biceps from pumping iron and a hard gut on him like a Romanian weightlifter. He still wore his hair in a greasy pompadour ending in a ducktail as if he’d never gotten over the death of Elvis. Now, it bore a few threads of gray. No one messed with Slick or ridiculed his retro style. Most predicted he’d become the next Old Broussard when this one died of the expected heart attack.

  Remy started to pick up his spoon, but let it drop when the old man bowed his head and muttered the usual Catholic blessing. Then, the slurping began, and conversation ended. The burgers with a side of fries arrived just as Remy finished, leaving much of the rice in the bottom of the cup. A Broussard Burger consisted of a half-pound of ground beef topped with two slices of cheese, double bacon strips, and a mound of grilled onions, all on a toasted bun slathered with a special sauce Remy suspected to be spicy mayonnaise. Devouring one tested a guy’s manhood. Not to finish every bite earned taunts of “wimp”. Remy knew that. His appeared to be topped with extra onions and more goop than the others. He ignored the fries and applied himself to getting the enormous wad of meat and toppings down with sips of beer in between. “Great burger,” he muttered.