Bayou Born (Fleur de Lis Series)

by Linda Joyce

  The girl looked up. Shocked pale-blue eyes locked with Branna’s. The girl reached into her skirt pocket, yanked out a small white cloth and with a quick swipe, wiped away all evidence of the red polish. Though the girl turned sideways, Branna saw her stuff the small bottle into her pocket. She waited to see what the girl intended next.

  The teen moved aimlessly around the store as Branna opened the door to enter. Bells tinkled, announcing her arrival. Branna intended to rescue the girl. If she paid for the polish, maybe that would set an example, and she’d stop an innocent from committing a crime. She’d heard too many times to count, from her mother and family, about how she must set an example.

  When she was barely two steps inside the store, the girl pushed past her at a run.

  “Wait!” Branna started after her, but the teen turned the corner, vanishing into the alley.

  But without her lace-edged hankie.

  A smear of brilliant red marred the delicate, pristine white cloth.

  Puzzled, Branna picked up the fallen cloth. The girl had stolen the polish. Why? No money? Her parents didn’t allow painted nails? Would the drugstore clerk know the girl? If she asked about her and the polish, would he call the police?

  She tucked the lacy cloth into her purse. If she ever found the girl, they’d talk about stealing. But more importantly, did she have a responsibility to tell the girl’s parents what she witnessed? That was something she’d have to think on.

  The large clock on the courthouse clicked to one fifteen. She hurried toward the Magnolia Café, half way down the block. James sat on the bench out front looking relaxed in golf shorts, polo shirt, and sneakers. Did he have a tee time later?

  “Have you been waiting here long?”

  “A minute.”

  “Did you see the girl run from the drug store?”

  “Yep.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “That away.” James pointed in both directions like Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz as a pair of joggers ran in opposite directions in front of them.

  “You’re no help. Seriously, this girl was young. Early teenager with braided hair down to her waist.”

  “No, didn’t see her.”

  Something about the girl and the polish just didn’t sit right, but she couldn’t figure it out. Lakeview wasn’t that big; in time she’d find the girl and have a chat.

  “You could’ve hollered at me when you arrived. I was only window shopping.” She sat on the other end of the bench from James hoping he was ready to eat.

  “I learned long ago never to interrupt a woman while she shops. Window or otherwise.” He stood and walked to the door. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  She entered first, careful not to touch him, wanting to avoid the wonderfully strange sensations that only heightened the appeal of this man. If she’d met him under different circumstances, she just might risk going wherever the attraction would take them. But new job, new boss, new town, and old entrenched values kept her from reaching for him.

  The coziness of the café invited folks to linger over a meal. Some tables had green and white checked tablecloths, others had traditional red and white ones. The lighting, fixtures crafted from antique gaslights, cast a soft glow. On the long windowless wall, a painted mural of a life-size magnolia tree laden with large, white velvety blooms wrapped upward and continued onto the ceiling. The mural created the illusion that diners picnicked outside beneath the tree.

  “Please follow me.” A hostess led them toward the back of the half-full café. The low din of chatter seemed to echo downward from the pressed-tin ceiling.

  Branna breathed deeply, taking in the aromas. Coffee brewing. Pie. Hot grease frying something. Not exactly the same scents wafting from Greta’s Cajun cooking at home, but comforting all the same. Her mouth watered. When her stomach rumbled, she covered it with her clutch. If it weren’t for the noise in the restaurant, James would have heard. That would be embarrassing.

  She slid into the booth where the hostess placed the menus. James sat opposite her. A jean-clad waitress in a pink shirt with a red-and-white-checked apron tied around her waist plunked glasses of water down in front of them.

  “Today’s special—fried catfish with cheese grits. Coleslaw. Biscuit or cornbread. What can I bring you to drink?”

  “I’m going to need a minute,” Branna said. The waitress raised an eyebrow at James. When he didn’t answer, she stuffed the order pad into her apron pocket and stalked away.

  Branna studied the menu. She wanted one of everything. The scents coming from the kitchen made her hungry stomach nibble on her backbone. She was no better than a Pavlovian dog. As Grandfather Lind would say, “her eyes were bigger than her stomach.”

  “Never had a bad meal here,” James said, folding his menu closed.

  “Good to know. I’ll bring my parents when they visit again.” She continued her perusal of the menu. “Fried chicken. Pork chops. Pot roast. Burgers and sandwiches. Oh, and the list of pies looks...”

  “Sara Nell won’t come back until you close your menu.”

  “Oh.” She folded the menu closed, mentally running through the list. Deciding would be impossible.

  The waitress appeared in an instant. She looked like the perfect candidate to work at a roadhouse. Blond, thin, yet shapely, with cleavage that made most men drool.

  “I’ll have the side salad, the garden-salad sandwich and lemonade. Fresh squeezed lemonade. You don’t find that every day.” She looked up into the waitress’ plastic smile, then handed over the menu.

  “Garden sandwich?” James asked. “Not the special? Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who only eats rabbit food. Or don’t you eat southern?”

  What did he mean by that? “Of course I eat southern cooking. I’m from Mississippi. My daddy’s family is from Loosy-ana. My comfort food may be different than yours—there was no seafood gumbo or jambalaya or stuffed mirlitons on the menu—but I promise you my comfort food is southern. I happen to like what the menu says about the specialty sandwich.” She cocked her head, daring him to challenge her decision.

  “Mur-la what?” the waitress asked.

  “Chayote squash or vegetable pear at the grocery store,” James answered. “I want the fried grouper sandwich with fries, please.”

  “Sure thing, Dr. Newbern.” Sara Nell smiled so bright, Branna blinked to cut the glare.

  “The Magnolia has the best fries in town. They peel, slice, and then bake the potatoes with a secret seasoning. The seasoning it the trick. That, and no frying.”

  “Fries that aren’t fried?” She ran her finger down the side of the water glass, nervously wiping away the condensation. Silly, but she would probably always link condensation with her first meeting with James.

  “I do watch what I eat.” She tried not to sound defensive, but at five foot three, most of the world was taller than she, and she had no place to hide extra pounds. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I want dessert. I can’t pass up homemade pie. A meal is sometimes made up of a tradeoff of calories.”

  For some reason that made him smile. The one that melted her heart. Made it beat more rapidly. When she looked away, James said, “I like to see a woman enjoy her food.”

  “Then watch me.”

  James raised an eyebrow.

  She hadn’t intended her response to sound like a challenge, but there it was.

  “So let’s get to the ‘get to know you’ part of this lunch. You went to an SEC school. But not Mississippi State. Why?”

  “It’s not where women in my family go.” She hadn’t expected twenty questions. She started to say she didn’t base her educational needs upon whether or not a school was part of the Southeastern Conference. Nor would she mention the scholarship she turned down to another SEC school, the scholarship her mother had squelched with guilt. “I followed in the footsteps of my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. Ole Miss admitted women in 1882.”

  She wondered what el
se James knew about her.

  Hearing the swoosh of the kitchen door opening behind the booth, she folded her hands in her lap. Sara Nell stood beside the table, arms laden with plates. With a clunk so forceful it made the bread on the sandwich jump, she set Branna’s food down, then flashed another bright smile before gently sliding James’ plate in front of him.

  “Ma’am, I made your fresh squeezed lemonade.”

  Sara Nell’s “Ma’am,” dripped with sarcasm. There couldn’t be much more than a year or two between them, so it couldn’t be an age thing, but what? Not wanting to cause a scene, she ignored the rudeness and poured poppy seed dressing over her salad. The growls from her stomach demanded food, otherwise, she might transform into a snarling beast now rather than a pumpkin at midnight.

  “Do you want anything else?” The waitress purred at James. Her lashes fluttered as though sending Morse code. What did the waitress expect James to say?

  She couldn’t remember when she’d experienced poorer behavior in a restaurant. But it would be impolite to point out to the woman the errors of her ways.

  “No thanks, just Miss Lind’s lemonade.”

  “You were born and raised here?” Branna asked between bites, wanting to shift the conversation. Sara Nell took the hint and trudged away.

  “Born in the only hospital in town. Raised about thirty miles west. I’m curious. Why does one go from event planning to full-time teaching?” James asked, then drug one of his fries through ketchup before eating it.

  “That was a smooth transition.” She put her fork down. Through all she’d battled to get this job and leave home, no one until James had asked that question. “I love books and learning. I believe knowledge is power. I find it fulfilling to watch someone learn something new, and then have them discover how to use what they’ve learned to enhance their lives. I want to be part of that process.” She’d never uttered those words aloud. Speaking them filled her with a sense of freedom.

  “But event planning to teaching?”

  “Do you doubt my ability?” she asked, worried that he might think her less than capable.

  “Nope. Not one bit. You’ve got the education, enough experience, more importantly the passion—and we need that in classrooms. Just wondered about the leap.”

  What was it her father had asked when she announced she was leaving? Something about whether or not she was taking a blind leap into the shallow end of a pool.

  “Ah, that. Well...let’s just say my prior job was part of the family business.” The last thing she wanted to discuss was family. Their ways weren’t an easy concept to understand—a large extended one steeped in old traditions in a modern live-for-the-moment world where everything was expendable or replaceable rather than treasured like antiques.

  “Part?”

  “What did you do before you came to teach at the college?” she asked.

  “I can take a hint. Family is off limits?”

  “I thought the purpose of this get-to-know-you lunch was a professional one. I take it, you’ve seen my resume. I’d like to steer the conversation in the direction of LCC. That’s the nickname for the college, right?”

  The corners of James’ mouth curled. He winked. “Yes. Questions are an occupational hazard of mine, Miss Lind.”

  His wink was an arrow to her gut. Tingles danced in her veins, the same as when he’d held her hand while they’d danced last night.

  What was happening to her? Better yet, what was wrong with her? He showed no signs of experiencing any odd sensations. He’d flirted at bit, but only a bit. The quivering in her gut made her want to run. She’d left Fleur de Lis in search of simple. Independence. No relationship tangles. Nor complicated emotions that made her squirm. That wasn’t what she signed up for. Where did she go to unsubscribe?

  Picking up her fork, she stabbed at the lettuce on the plate. Before the next stab, James tapped her hand with a single finger, and that mere contact sent a quiver up her arm.

  “What would you like to know about your new job or the college?”

  She raised her eyes to gaze at him. From across the table, he appeared totally at ease in his own skin while she twitched with panic in hers. She hadn’t had a date with a man, not that this was exactly a date, since before her engagement. The only man she’d dined with, other than the ones in her family for the last eighteen months, had been Steven. “Tell me everything.”

  James wasn’t flirting with her, just trying to put her at ease, right? She must have somehow misconstrued the signals. Dr. Brown had described him well—a mixture of ambition and easy charm. His kind of charm put her on edge.

  Steven had shown great talent at turning it off and on, making his moods sometimes unpredictable. “Slick as owl spit” was how Grandpa Lind described him. She didn’t know James well, but instinct assured her that he wasn’t at all like Steven.

  Which made him dangerous to her heart.

  James was exactly the kind of man she intended to avoid. She needed carefree and casual, but did her heart have a different mission? “Tell me about the expectations you had when you started teaching and how those have changed. What about the difference between theory and reality in the classroom?”

  She focused on her meal while James shared his teaching experiences.

  The second she finished her last bite of salad, the waitress arrived to clear away plates as if she’d been hovering behind them, watching and listening. Sara Nell offered James a grin that looked like a half-grimace, and then glared at her when James wasn’t watching as though she were the enemy before slapping dessert menus on the table.

  Branna perused the pie list, but her desire had waned. She would have preferred lunch without a side dish of “waitress attitude.”

  “All the pies are made here. What. Can. I. Get. You?” Sara Nell asked, hiking the attitude quotient higher.

  “They have a little elf-grandmother in the back who works her magic with pies,” James said. “Ladies first.”

  Sara Nell stood beside the table, shifting her weight from side to side, poised with pencil and pad.

  “I’ll have sweet potato pecan, please,” Branna answered, then closed her menu and slid it to the edge of the table without making eye contact with the waitress.

  “Excellent choice. I’ll try the lemon. If I share a bit of mine, will you share?” James said with a wink.

  It made her breath catch.

  “Fine. SPP and lemon.” Sara Nell left in a huff. Branna expected to see a puff of smoke. Or at least steam coming from both of the waitress’ ears.

  “I considered the pumpkin,” James said. “But I’m dubious about eating that after learning you shape shift into one at midnight.”

  “Cute.” She leaned on the table and motioned James closer. “Do I have food between my teeth or something?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Does my perfume smell repugnant?”

  James shook his head.

  “Does she treat all female customers like that?”

  “Sarah Nell?”

  “Yes.” Exasperated, she restated the obvious. “Sara Nell.”

  “Just ignore her.” James patted her hand. “She and I never had a second—”

  Before James finished his sentence, Sarah Nell appeared again. She plopped down their dessert plates and left in another huff.

  Branna checked her plate to be sure it hadn’t cracked in two. “Guess I don’t want coffee,” she said picking up her fork. “You never had a second what?”

  “Date.”

  That explained everything. “Dr. Brown said you had a lot going for you. For the record, I think I should tell Sara Nell that this is the opposite of a date. This is lunch between two colleagues because you missed the official work one.”

  “I’m sure she’d be happy to hear that. But it won’t make any difference where I’m concerned.”

  Taking a scoop, she spooned pie into her mouth. The smooth texture and rich flavor of the filling combined with the crunch of the nuts made her ta
ste buds dance. She closed her eyes to savor the flavor. It tasted like home. She took another scoop just to be sure her imagination wasn’t playing tricks. She had discovered a slice of heaven...in a slice of pie.

  “I don’t know when I’ve ever seen a woman enjoy her food more.”

  Submerged in a sweet-potato-pecan-pie brain fog, what could she say? She wouldn’t apologize for loving dessert, though she didn’t appreciate the teasing. When their eyes met, admiration shone in his. He wasn’t teasing, but totally serious. He enjoyed watching her eat.

  Embarrassed, she shrugged. “I love this pie. If it wouldn’t make me hungry all the time, I’d have candles that smelled like this in every room in my house. I’d bottle it and wear it as perfume. Pour it into my bubble bath. I always wanted to be the sweet-potato-pecan-pie queen.”

  James raised one eyebrow, then reached across the table and touched the corner of her mouth. A small piece of pecan dropped to the table as Sara Nell marched up. She gave Branna yet another glare and clinked the metal plate with the bill onto the table between them.

  “Call me,” the waitress purred at James before departing.

  Branna glanced at him, then to the spot where the waitress had stood before her departure. “The food’s great. The service—not so much. If I brought Momma in here, she’d have the owner by the ear, then give the entire staff lessons in decorum.”

  “Sara Nell, her nose is a little bent out of shape. She’s not usually this way. Besides, if you say something, you’ll get the woman fired.”

  Branna shrugged. “I won’t say anything, but she won’t ever wait on me again.” She didn’t blame Sara Nell for trying. She’d been a fool for a man once, too, but once in a lifetime was enough for any woman. Besides, she wanted a man who was the strong faithful type. She wanted the “and two shall be come one” in a relationship. Nothing smothering, but a man with whom life would have balance and would feel complete.

  “Shall we take our tour?” James asked, rising from the booth.