Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I need to talk to you about the Fa La La Cajun Christmas on the Bayou Celebration,” she said, shifting in the rocker to fully face him.

  He stood, walked down the stairs and sat on the second step.

  Dear Lord. How do I have a serious discussion with him when he’s a moving target? She promptly followed him down the steps and stood nearby. “Your island is important to the success of the celebration.”

  His response was to pick up a pair of running shoes, knocking them upside down against one another, before putting them on his bare feet.

  She moved to stand directly in front of him. “It’s quite a serious matter.” He looked at her tapping foot and smiled. Heat rushed into her cheeks. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. She pressed her foot soundly to the ground.

  “You’re wound up with too much energy, Doc.” He tied his shoes in a slow easy manner. “Let’s go for a walk.” He stood.

  She joined him as he started to walk away. Her phone dinged in her back pocket as she reached Hunter’s side. She read her text – it was from Edward. Do you want me to come to the island to assist you?

  Her phone dinged again. Another text. It was from her mother: Don’t let Edward go to the island. You’ll have a better chance to convince Hunt to change his mind if it’s just the two of you. We’ve met him. He’s safe. You won’t need your papa’s gun from the boat just in case you were thinking about that. Don’t forget to finger-comb your hair.

  And then there was a third text from her older sister, Sarah: He’s really handsome. Smile a lot and don’t shoot him.

  She’d been home for less than an hour and her family was already trying to tell her what to do and play matchmaker. Both reasons why she’d left in the first place.

  “Are we going to walk and enjoy nature or are you going to stay on that phone and ignore it?” Hunter said, frowning.

  “I need to change out of my loafers.” She motioned to the boat. Hunt, as her mother called him, followed her to the wharf. She put on her mother’s white rubber boots that were kept in the boat for when she went crabbing with Papa. Since she and her mother were about the same size, they slipped on easily. She lifted her phone to show Hunt and then put it in the storage space under the seat. She looked at the gun her papa kept there and rolled her eyes, thinking about what her momma texted. Insanity. She shook her head and met him back on land.

  “You’ve been away too long,” he said as they started their slow stroll toward the center of the island. “You should shake your shoes and boots to make sure no spiders have crawled inside.”

  She smiled. “I looked, but you’re right. Shaking exposed shoes is much better. I can’t even begin to tell you how many spider bites on toes and feet I’ve treated. Caterpillars too, for the same reason.” She looked at him, shading her eyes with her hand. “Where are we going and why are we going there?”

  He shrugged. “Have you really been away for over a year?”

  She sighed, nodded. “Yeah. I had things to do.” The sweet scented green lawn gave way to thick patches of fall marsh grass that were connected by the heavy clay mud of coastal Louisiana. The mud was dry and firm under their feet. Its heavy musty odor, which changed with tides and season, was released with every step they took.

  “There are always things to do.” His tone was more of understanding than mocking. “I wonder what things you had to do, Doc. I wonder if you still feel like you have other things to do too.”

  “There are always things to do,” she repeated his words. He laughed softly. “I have a thing to do right now,” she said, directing the conversation to the purpose of her visit.

  “To discuss the over commercialization of Christmas?”

  “To discuss the under-appreciation of tradition,” she replied.

  He laughed again, reaching for her hand to help her cross a small heavily vegetated stream. That simple, harmless gesture made her flesh rise with chill bumps while the hand he still held filled with an unexpected warmth. There were no medical or physiological reasons that should happen. She removed her hand from his.

  “You have my undivided attention, Doc. Tell me why I'm under-appreciating tradition.”

  “I’d be happy to.” She stopped walking and reached for his arm. Once again, she felt a jolt of heat where her hand touched him. Did he feel it too? When he stopped, she lifted her hand and tested the temperature against her forehead.

  “Feeling feverish?” There was amusement, not concern, in his eyes and his easy grin. What did he know about her rapid pulse and oddly elevated temperature sensations?

  She dropped her hand. “No. I feel fine. I just haven’t acclimated to the warmer temps and higher humidity here compared to New York.” He folded his arms over his chest and waited for her to speak again. “Traditions,” she said, as a reminder to him and herself. Now her face was beginning to feel flushed with his rich, coffee-brown, perceptive eyes so focused on her. She knew, in a way she couldn’t explain, that this man saw things with more insight than others did. “This Christmas celebration is a tradition for the people of Fa La La and all of the families who travel here year after year to enjoy it.”

  “Is it really a tradition or is it economy?”

  “Both,” she said honestly. “Just like shrimping, crabbing, and hunting are economy for the people of Fa La La, it’s also part of their. . .our tradition. We’ve been living off the land since the first Houmas Indian families settled in this area in the seventeen hundreds. This Christmas celebration is just another way to live off the land and follow our traditions. We gather together to make moss and palmetto wreaths, to bake homemade cookies with recipes passed down from generation to generation.”

  Oh, the cookies, Camille thought, surprised that the scent of pure vanilla extract, heavy cane sugar, and dry flour seemed to drift from her memory into the air. So did the vision of how they would lay freshly bleached sheets on the beds and place the cookies there after they’d come out of the oven. She felt the same excitement within her as she had when she was a child. She’d forgotten how much she loved baking cookies with her family.

  She cleared her throat, which had suddenly become dry with emotion. She smiled. “We’ve been working together and putting the Cajun Bayou Christmas Celebration on out here for a hundred years.”

  “Not always, in the way it was described to me,” he said, sounding annoyed. “You can’t tell me that a hundred, even forty years ago, Fa La La celebrated Christmas for a full month.”

  No. She couldn’t say that at all. That started in the mid 1980s when she was eight years old. It would serve no purpose to tell him that, though. “Why are you against us sharing our Indian and Cajun traditions and cultures during the Christmas season?”

  “I’m not really.” He tucked his hands into his pocket. “I’m not particularly fond of it happening so close to my quiet sanctuary, but I know I can’t stop it. But I can stop it from happening on my island.”

  “Your island. Can anyone really own property or even the sky and the earth?” She glanced at him to see if he was buying any of what she was saying. He just stared at her like he was listening intently, so she continued. “Indians believed that the land is our mother nourishing all…”

  Hunt laughed aloud. “Really, Doc? Is that the best argument you have? Massasoit philosophy about no man having ownership of Mother Earth? It’s a nice idea from an Indian tribal leader from Rhode Island in the 1600s. I live in the modern world where real estate transactions occur – you know, where I purchase a parcel of land from another person who has the ownership deed to it.”

  He laughed again and because she’d been totally ridiculous going there, she laughed too. Yeah. It was a desperate move from a woman who wanted to help and please her family.

  “Okay.” She held up her hands. “It just shows you how eager I am to get you to change your mind.”

  “How eager are you?” His voice dropped an octave. His pupils dilated as he looked at her mouth.

  She rolled her eyes
and started to walk away. “Not that eager. Now who’s being ridiculous? At least my Mother Earth philosophy spiel didn’t involve the exchange of body fluids with a stranger.”

  He walked alongside her. “Why is this island so important for the celebration? So you can show off cypress knees painted with Santa and Mrs. Claus? So you can roast marshmallows and paint a few kids’ faces? What does that have to do with tradition?”

  “It has everything to do with helping sustain a way of life that will be lost if the people here can’t afford to stay.” She stopped and faced him. “Why do you object to letting us come on your island, having a lovely bonfire, some live reindeer for the children to feed, and a lover’s path for couples? We won’t harm the island in any way.”

  He turned to face her. “Doc, this is a construction site. I’m building my home here.” He pointed ahead of them through a clearing where a floor and walls had been constructed on top of twelve-foot pilings. “Let your Christmas revelers go to the zoo and pet reindeer there. Let dreamy-eyed couples stroll on someone else’s property, and let them have bonfires in their own backyards. Not my island. This is my home.”

  “Hunter. Let’s find a compromise.”

  He gripped her by her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. “No compromise. I need my peace. I need my privacy. Why else would a man build a home in the middle of a Louisiana swamp?” He let her go.

  She gripped him above his elbows, where she could reach him with their height difference. She let her fingers bite as hard as his had. “This is too important for me to just give up because you try some masculine intimidation. I don’t intimidate easily. I’ve faced more dangerous men than you. Don’t think that because you want your privacy we can’t find an agreeable compromise.”

  She released his arms and he smiled. She felt like slapping that smile off his arrogantly handsome face. She looked away, needing to cool her temper. She had to be smarter and more in control of her feelings if she wanted to save Fa La La. She thought of baking Christmas sugar cookies with pecans and painting cypress knees like sweet angels. She faced Hunt again.

  “You need to know the people you’re drawing the line in the sand with, Hunt. My people. Your neighbors. Join us for Thanksgiving tomorrow. You and Luke. Come around eleven thirty. We eat at noon.” She looked up at a single graceful white egret that flew low over them, with the cypress tree branches draped in moss behind it. “This is a beautiful, peaceful island.”

  She walked away. As she boarded the boat to go back to Fa La La, she wondered what in the hell kind of compromise she could come up with to change his mind.

  HUNT FOR CHRISTMAS

  CHAPTER THREE

  Garlic, onions, and the spices that made Cajun food deliciously memorable greeted Hunt as he ascended the dark, chicory-brown stairs from the dock at water level up to the main walkways. He paused, looking around at the maze of eight-foot-wide boardwalks that were sturdily trussed over the bayou and marsh grass below. They passed in front of dozens of clean, weathered cypress board buildings topped with tin roofs. He had no idea where he was supposed to go from here to find Camille or the Thanksgiving meal she’d invited him to attend. . .and he’d accepted because he was curious. The beautiful Dr. Camille had piqued his curiosity about her and the people of Fa La La.

  Curiosity was what drove him to capture photos in the most challenging and dangerous situations. It wasn’t much different, he supposed, coming into this unique community where he was not the most favored neighbor – even though he was their only neighbor.

  The mercantile. He’d start at the one place he’d been before and see what happened. Shifting his well-used camera backpack on his shoulder and a bottle of California white wine in his hand, he headed to the Comeaux family store. It only took about fifteen seconds to reach it and the Store Closed sign on the front door. Hunt paused and inhaled deeply, enjoying the warm late morning air filling his lungs and the incredible scents from the meal prep not too far away. Of course in this small settlement, nothing was very far away.

  He listened for a moment. There was distant laughter, pots clanging, water running. . .and Camille’s voice. She was asking someone nearby if she’d made enough potato salad. It was coming from one building over. Hunt moved toward her voice.

  Rock music played from somewhere, far enough away that he could only make out the beat as he walked under the tall awning, covering the distance from the mercantile to the next building twenty-four feet away. That building, he assumed was the home of T-Dud and June. Come rain or shine, they’d be protected by the sturdy tin roof from home to work. Only a few other places that he could see, were covered awnings protecting the eight-foot wide walkway. He raised his hand to knock on the door.

  “Dere you are,” T-Dud said, coming from between the buildings and handing Hunt a can of beer. He put his heavy, beefy arm over Hunt’s shoulder and directed him down a walkway leading toward the back of the building that he’d heard Camille’s voice coming from. “We’re frying up da turduckens out here,” T-Dud said. “Wit what’s cooking outside and wit da gumbo and oyster dressing cooking inside, a man will think he’z died and gone to heaven. Sure smells good, huh?”

  Hunt’s stomach growled. “There’s your answer.” He laughed.

  T-Dud chuckled, stopping as they reached the back of the building. “Look who’s here,” he announced to the three men sitting on two glider swings on the walkway that overlooked the bayou. It was pleasantly shaded from the bright sun by the building next to them. Even in the shade and with the light breeze, it was a warm November day.

  Hunt recognized two of the men. One was T-Dud’s eighty-something-year-old father, Mr. Dudley, who was always at the mercantile whenever he went in. He was sitting next to the Buddy Holly eyeglasses guy who had arrived yesterday with Camille. Today he was dressed in black slacks and a black button-down shirt. Maybe he was the local priest. The other man, who wore jeans, red suspenders, and a blue plaid shirt, he’d never seen before. He’d have remembered him by his long gray and strawberry-blond ponytail. T-Dud and Mr. Dudley both wore their overall jeans with different Christmas-embroidered collared shirts. “Youz know Mr. Dudley,” T-Dud said, leaning against the newly painted rail wrapped in unlit Christmas lights, garland, and moss. He pointed his beer can at the strawberry blond. “Dat’s Pierre.” Then he nodded his head at the man in black. “And dat’s Edward, Camille’s friend. He works in da ER wit her in New York.” Not a priest. A doctor.

  Hunt put the camera bag and wine bottle on the ground to shake hands with the men. He was surprised that even Mr. Dudley made an effort to make him feel welcome, when he’d felt they tolerated him at best while he was shopping at the mercantile. They’d been friendly enough when they first came over to plead their case on the island, but with each subsequent visit their impatience and annoyance grew. He didn’t blame them – they were just frustrated as hell that he was holding his ground and they didn’t know how to rattle him loose. Camille must’ve told them to be on their best behavior so she could give it a fair try too.

  They were all wasting their time.

  “Is your friend coming?” Edward asked, holding his beer but not drinking it. He looked like a man who rarely drank out of anything other than glass or crystal. He also looked like a man who either was going through puberty again or was allergic to mosquito bites. Three huge, infected, raised marks on his left cheek glowed like the damn red Christmas lights on Rudolph’s nose.

  “Luke isn’t coming,” he said. “He got guilted into spending Thanksgiving with his sister in Atlanta. He flew out there this morning.”

  “You should be with family for the holidays,” Pierre said.

  “Where’s your family, Hunt?”

  “Just me. Both my parents are deceased and I have no siblings.”

  They all took a drink of their beers, except Edward. “Holidays are tough without family or missing a family member who isn’t with them,” T-Dud said, and Hunt got the feeling it was said with sincerity for h
im, but also for Edward to hear too. Was he responsible for keeping Camille from home?

  Hunt nodded to T-Dud. “I’m usually working during the holidays. It suits me.”

  “Not today,” Mr. Dudley said, waving his hand in a broad gesture. “Today, youz pass a good time wit us.”

  “Hunt, happy Thanksgiving,” Camille said as she walked out the back door of the building next to them and into a slant of sunshine. Or had she lit up the space around her with her bright smile? She was glowing. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

  Her silky black hair was clipped up and back by one of those toothy plastic contraptions he’d seen women wear. It exposed how fair her complexion was along the long column of her neck, the underside of her smooth jaw, and beneath her flushed cheeks. Hunt wondered if her naked flesh would be just as flawless and creamy. Not a good thought to have with her father, grandfather, and boyfriend next to him.

  As Camille greeted Pierre, Hunt got the camera from his bag and snapped a photo of her, and then the men around her. No need to let on to everyone there just how much he wanted to photograph her in that light and that space.

  Laughing, she playfully posed with Bob, then her grandfather, and Edward. “How fun. We have someone with more than a cell phone to take Thanksgiving photos. I hope you plan to share them.”

  “Quite a sophisticated camera for a hobbyist,” Edward said when Hunt placed the camera on his lap. “What is that, a Canon?”

  “Yeah,” Hunt said, not feeling a need to explain that photography was more than a hobby. It was a life’s passion.

  Camille asked him about Luke and as he told her, he noticed she was wearing Christmas colors – holly-green leggings, a dark red turtleneck, and black leather short boots. No harvest colors or cornucopia or pumpkins for the people of Fa La La. He glanced down at his clothes. Jeans, boots, neutral tan button-down shirt. Not a single hint of Christmas.

  Just the way he liked it.

  “You men aren’t overcooking the turducken are you?” Camille asked, looking from one man to the next.