by Linda Joyce
Out of the corner of her eye, something white moved in the downpour. She stepped closer to the window. With condensation covering it, the view appeared like a wet-on-wet watercolor painting.
In the rain, a brave soul eased his way along the sidewalk in front of the bookstore under the building’s eaves. The man appeared in no particular hurry. A small black umbrella protected him from the overflowing gutters.
A quick flash of light made her breath catch.
Danger! Her brain screamed.
Lightning zigzagged.
Thunder boomed, then echoed.
The windows rattled.
She flinched, scrunching her neck like a turtle retreating into its shell, and closed her eyes.
When the rumbling lessened, she opened one eye first, and remembered the man. Pressing closer to the window, she rubbed a spot in the condensation. Had he made it to safety?
Another slash of light brightened the sky. The hair on her neck stood up. She jumped back and shivered. As though in slow motion, a jagged flash of light struck a pine tree in the Commons. Sparks flew. The trunk exploded. Steam, a visible cloud in the rain, drifted over the remaining stump. Most of the toppled tree blocked the sidewalk between the Student Union and the Administration building.
Trembling, she looked again. Where was the man?
She spotted him off to the left, under the shelter of the deep doorway, the front entrance of the Student Union.
He moved to stand directly on the opposite side of the glass from her. Water splattered as he shook his umbrella.
Thunder rumbled again. A streak of jagged light raced across the sky. She hesitated to move closer to the window, yet, something about the man drew her. She stepped so close to the glass, her breath fogged a spot. Any sane person would have backed away, but fascination held her captive.
The rest of the world was dark and gray—he was in living color. His long sleeve, white shirt looked crisp as though laundered and starched, not just pulled from a dryer. His dark denim jeans looked new. He didn’t appear wet, or even damp, although water still dripped from the tip of his umbrella and formed a small puddle near his pristine leather cowboy boots.
About a foot away, with only glass between them, he appeared to be staring at the damaged pine tree. A stray lock of dark brown hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it aside, but stubbornly it fell again. Was he a student? He looked older than the usual twenty-something, but that didn’t mean anything. She had students of all ages in the adult education class she’d taught before.
She pressed her palm flat against the window. Her fingers itched to move the stray lock of hair off his forehead. Feeling bold, she smiled and winked. She could flirt safely, hidden behind dark tinted glass.
He took a step closer.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
He smiled and winked. When his hand pressed on the outside of the glass in the same spot where hers pressed from the inside, they were palm to palm, but for the tinted glass between them. The man grinned wider.
Had she ever seen a sexier smile? Even his chocolate brown eyes danced with laughter. Something about his sexy smile...she couldn’t look away. Had they met before?
A streak of light flashed like a giant strobe. She covered her ears, anticipating the deafening boom. The next lightning strike sent her diving to the floor.
The lights in the bookstore popped off.
Everything rattled.
She covered her head, expecting the vibrating windows to shatter, certain lightning had struck the building.
Lying there, she waited for disaster. Echoing booms of thunder lessened. Backup lights flickered on. Slowly the world came back into focus.
“Branna, you okay?” Brian Murphy yelled.
“I think so,” she said, afraid to rise.
A deep thrusting groan from the air conditioning system muted the music that started playing again over the sound system. Florescent lights hummed on again.
Panicked, she jumped up. Where was the man in the window? For a second, time had frozen them. Linked them somehow. Only she and he existed in the storm.
Where had he gone?
Who was he?
How would she ever find out?
Chapter 4
The next day, standing on the driveway, Branna shielded her eyes from the bright noon sun. She waited with a furniture moving crew she’d hired from U-Haul to help her dad unload and set up furniture, all the things her parents insisted on bringing from Fleur de Lis. Shifting her weight from one side to the other, she looked at her watch again. Her parents were thirty minutes overdue. Her mother had assured her they had their GPS and would find her house. It wasn’t that far off the interstate.
With her eyes trained down the street at the intersection of the main road, she spied a battered white pickup passing by. She’d know it anywhere. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t contain a grin. How silly. Why would she feel a connection to the guy in the truck? It had to be more of a mental game, like “I Spy.” Momma had made the family play it on their trips to the beach to keep them entertained.
“Who is he?” She hadn’t wanted to know when Meredith made introductions, but now...Had her brain manufactured the quivering sensation from their brief touch? That had to be it.
A minute later, a U-Haul truck turned on to her tree-lined street. She waved both hands to get her father’s attention. Her parents and her furniture had finally arrived.
With hand gestures of a traffic cop, she guided her father’s backing of the U-Haul onto the driveway and kept him from backing too close to the house. When he cut the engine off, she patiently waited while her parents climbed out. She would never admit to them how happy she was to see them, nor how homesickness plagued her every night before she went to bed. She had framed the postcard she brought from home—the one they’d made from Biloxi’s award-winning photograph and sold to tourists—and kept it by her bed. It was the last thing she saw at night and the first thing in the morning.
“Hey!” She rushed in and hugged them. “I’m so glad to see you. You had a good trip, right? Daddy, Tom’s the guy in charge.”
She introduced the furniture-mover foreman to her father. “Tom, this is my dad, Charles.” The two men walked to the back of the truck talking unloading logistics.
“This is it?” her mother asked. Skepticism punctuated her words.
“Let me show you.” She jogged to the front door and waited for her mother to catch up before opening the entryway to the 1940’s bungalow, all the while trying not to hold her breath. It was her choice of homes, she was happy, but she wanted her mother’s approval.
“It’s not exactly what I expected from the photos you took,” her mother said, appearing to scrutinize every nook and corner. An airport-security searcher couldn’t have been more thorough.
“You know I lack Biloxi’s talent with a camera, Momma.”
“It’s rather small, don’t you think? I hope I don’t have to take any furniture back. We thought we’d drop the truck here and rent a car to go home.”
Charles poked his head inside the front door, “We’re ready to bring in the dresser and night stands. When we’re done unloading, let’s have dinner out. I hope this town has other restaurants, more than the ones I saw at the interstate.”
“You name it. I’ll find it for you, Daddy.”
“Tsk. Tsk.” Macy shook her head as she walked-off the living room space. “Fifteen by fifteen.”
“It’s cozy, Momma. It suits me fine. The kitchen is over here.” She walked from the living room, through the dining room and made a right turn past the breakfast bar. Her sneakers squeaked against the terrazzo floor. “I get to do whatever I want to with this place. No family council vote on what color to paint a room. I wouldn’t have that freedom if I rented an apartment. This is fine. Perfect for me. I can do almost any work the house needs by myself. By necessity, I learned to be handy at Fleur de Lis.”
“Yes, there is that.”
“You don’
t like it, do you?”
“No. It’s not that.” Macy paused. “I’m just wondering why you bought a house when you promised to move back in two years and take over your duties.”
Rather than go head-to-head with the old argument, Branna sighed and changed the subject.
“Where do you think the couch will work best, Momma?” She tried sounding chipper.
Who was she kidding? She was the next Keeper of Fleur de Lis. The title had ruled her life since the day she was born. Was it a pipe dream to think she could break free of a hundred plus-years of family tradition encoded in her DNA? Why did legacy trump logic in a place where sweet tea ran more freely than the Mississippi River? Had no one but her ever considered the fact that just maybe she wasn’t the person in the family best suited for the job?
“Well, you know how much I dislike a room with furniture plastered against all the walls—Branna, if you wanted to change the furniture at home in your room, why didn’t you say so. You didn’t need to do all this to make a statement or get my attention. I do value your opinion.”
Little had changed in a hundred years at Fleur de Lis. Not only in the bedrooms, all the rooms, including the office where she spent many waking hours. Afternoon sunlight still streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and cast a warm glow on the ivory Aubusson rug. Matching Hepplewhite wingback chairs still flanked the fireplace. The antique clock on the mantel chimed every hour. Only one change in the décor of that room suggested modern times—a flattop LCD monitor. Her life, like the office, had been structured and well planned.
The teaching job offered a ticket to a whole new life. At least for a little while. And a breather from the humiliation Steven caused.
“Momma, let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work. We’ve only got a few hours before you and daddy head home.”
Chapter 5
Friday morning, Branna glanced at the salad ingredients on the counter. “Potluck dinners,” she mused. “Jello salads and mystery food.”
Every potluck she had ever attended offered at least one mystery—a casserole with unidentifiable ingredients masked by a cap of toasted breadcrumbs. Maybe things in Lakeview were different from Bayou Petite, the little town closest to home. She could hope.
She’d eaten her share of mystery food at church dinners and other community events, but other eating-out opportunities rarely happened. Fast food chains hadn’t invaded Bayou Petite until several years ago. Before, she had to travel twenty minutes to Picayune for a drive-through experience, which held little appeal after growing up with Greta’s mouth-watering cooking. Any white-linen dining event was still a special treat.
With Tab Benoit belting out Jambalaya on the stereo, she sang along and tossed lettuce and spinach with toasted pecans. Next, she sprinkled crumbled gorgonzola cheese on top for color and flavor, which made her mouth water. The salad always tasted better than how it looked in the bowl. She hoped others would enjoy it. First impressions counted, and she wanted to put her best foot forward at the faculty potluck.
She finished off the salad creation by layering thin slices of strawberries—courtesy of Lakeland, Florida, the strawberry capitol—then she covered the large wooden bowl with plastic wrap. At the party, she’d toss the mixture with her special balsamic vinaigrette. The vinegar had been barrel-aged for twenty years. On the rare occasions when Greta allowed her to cook, she used only the best ingredients, especially for guests and strangers.
After placing the salad and bottle of dressing into a sturdy cardboard box, she added wooden “claws” for serving, then nervously hurried to the bedroom for one last check in the cheval mirror, the one her parents brought from Fleur de Lis, and completed a final once-over of her reflection.
Was she appropriately dressed for a faculty potluck? Did designer jeans and a blouse say casual, but smart? Hopefully. She hated the annoying jitterbug in her stomach. This wasn’t an audition. She already had a signed contract for the job. The intention of tonight’s event was fun.
But she hadn’t done fun very well for many months, maybe years. “Organize and execute” were easier. Second nature to her.
“This is a new life,” she said to her reflection.
She wanted a new path, right? That’s what she’d signed up for when she moved to Lakeview. She’d put “respectable” and “tradition” in the back seat and let “adventure” ride shotgun.
Heck, “adventure” needed to drive!
She re-checked the buttons on her sleeveless blouse with the tuxedo ruffle down the front. All buttoned correctly. The ruffle added a feminine touch—just in case she saw him. The mystery man from the storm. After all, that must have been a brilliant first impression she made, diving to the bookstore floor during the storm. He couldn’t possibly not remember her.
The man had gone when she had finally gotten it together.
With a sideways glance in the mirror, she checked her reflection again. A white blouse, dark blue jeans and Jimmy Choo shoes—her one big splurge for the summer. They boosted her confidence. She plucked a tissue from the box on her dresser and wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.
“It’ll have to do.”
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz
She raced to the kitchen without falling off the four-inch heels. The number wasn’t one she recognized. “Hello?”
“Bran—talk—home—” Camilla’s voice, she recognized it, but the connection was lousy.
“I can’t make out what you’re saying.” Why was she shouting into the phone? That never made things better.
“Talk—See—You—”
Before she could respond, the connection clicked, and her sister was gone. She pushed redial, but a rapid busy signal pulsed in her ear.
She waited a minute and tried again. This time the call went straight to voicemail.
“Call me back,” she said after the beep, then hung up. “Crap,” she muttered, scrolling through her contact list. She found the number she sought, then pushed the call button. “Momma, Camilla just called me,” she said before her mother had a chance to say hello. “The connection was bad. I’m on my way to a work function. If I give you the number, will you try to reach her?”
“Word for word, what did she say, exactly?” her mother asked.
“All I could make out was ‘talk’ and ‘home’ before the line went dead. If you reach her, and there’s no emergency, like she’s dying or something, tell her I’ll call her back at that number tomorrow. If it is an emergency, please call me back.”
“I’m just happy she called you.” The relief in her mother’s voice gave her pause. Momma always worried about each of them, but until now, Branna hadn’t understood how deeply Momma worried over Camilla, who was like a cat with nine lives and always landed on her feet.
Neither she nor Momma had handled Camilla’s current disappearing act very well.
“Love you, Momma. Got to run. Here’s the number.”
She ended the call after her mother’s final good-bye, then turned in a circle scanning the countertops for her car keys. She spied them beside the fruit bowl, grabbed them, and then hoisted the box with her dinner offering into her arms before heading out the door.
The sun blazed in the late afternoon sky. A few wispy white clouds scooted across blue. A breeze was like outdoor air conditioning and had swept away some of the day’s humidity.
Starting the car, she turned the A/C setting to high and blasted it, happy that air cooled her neck as she backed down the driveway.
Following the printed map, she drove the 35 mph speed limit. She’d heard the Westcott’s had a palatial-size home, however, given the size of the faculty, she guessed the gathering might be held outdoors. She glanced again at the directions as she neared the lake and navigated through the oldest part of town. It once had an Indian name, which translated meant “Alligator,” but as the town grew, the name changed to Lakeview in honor of the large body of water. Though, she’d been cautioned about wandering around the shoreline alone. A f
ew gators still made it their home.
The road meandered. Coming around a bend, she spotted the yellow Victorian. No white pickup in sight. Had farmer-guy bought the place? Maybe in a few months, if she got up enough nerve, she'd knock on the door and ask for a tour. Most folks with old houses liked to show them off, though she still didn’t understand why Meredith had chosen to sell.
“Give up Fleur de Lis?” she said, shaking her head. “Not wanting to be the Keeper is one thing, selling the place to strangers, well, that just won’t ever happen.”
Generations of family had lived there. Currently, four generations moved in and out as needed; their home would always remain in the family. Linds, Covingtons, and Dutreys would ensure its succession forever.
Once past the yellow Victorian, she chuckled, remembering farmer-guy’s stained straw hat. Charlie One Horse. Her brother had bought one in Gatlinburg, Tennessee during a family vacation, and then thought he had to have a swagger to go with the hat. She had laughed so hard she’d cried. He always managed to brighten her mood. He was one man she would remove from the enemy-male list.
“Daddy, too.” She contemplated the list of men she knew. Many had wonderful attributes. There was only one man she’d toss to the Devil as bait.
“Steven,” she hissed.
If they’d married, they’d be celebrating their sixth-month anniversary—maybe. Odds were that if she’d married the snake, they’d be on their way to a divorce anyway. As Granddaddy Lind always said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”
Steven hadn’t crossed her mind in a while. A welcomed relief to the agony and shame of learning that he was both a liar and a cheat. After breaking their engagement, she’d cried for days, but never confided the reason she refused to marry him. She couldn’t bring herself to say she’d found him in bed, the bed they picked out together, with another woman. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the unmitigated audacity to try to convince her that it wasn’t what she thought. Later, he tried to blame her with legal mumbo-jumbo about her part in the problem because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped!