They grunted and groaned in mock offense, but T-Dud walked to where three huge deep fryers were positioned under a hinged pulley with a rope and thick J-hook. “Five more minutes. Da turkey and duck are done, just waiting on da chicken.” He laughed.
“Don’t youz worry about da men,” Mr. Dudley told her. “You just make sure da gumbo is ready.” Hunt walked to the fryer and snapped a few photos of the amber oil roiling around the golden brown turkey. He changed the setting, hoping a little less brightness of the image would bring to mind the mouthwatering scents of the salty crispness of the skin and the sweet, tenderness of the meat. He also took a few shots of T-Dud.
“I’ll let the others know they can head over to the Hall,” Camille said, then turned to the bayou, where splashing could be heard. She leaned over the railing. “You boys come on up now. Dinner’s just about ready.” Hunt went to stand next to Camille. “Those boys are always in their pirogues fishing, frogging, or just messing around,” she told him.
“Who are they?” He’d observed the five dark-haired boys, who appeared to be between thirteen and fifteen years old, from his island.
“The tall one in the middle is my brother’s son, Jean. The rest are my cousins.” She looked at Hunt as he took photos of the boys laughing and splashing each other with their push poles. “We’re all cousins or siblings or related somehow here.”
Edward moved to stand next to Camille, his shoulder touching hers. She didn’t look at him and Hunt got the feeling that they did not have a passionate relationship. “One close-knit family,” he said, in a tone that neither indicated that he thought it was a good or bad thing. “How can it not be when everyone lives so close to one another. Kind of like a mini Manhattan in the swamp.”
“It can be too much family sometimes,” she admitted, as her mother walked through the door. Hunt saw by the way the older woman’s head came up and hurt was reflected in her eyes, she’d heard her daughter.
He snapped a photo of her. Then said hello and handed her the bottle of wine. She thanked him and asked everyone to go inside and help carry the prepared food to the Hall. The Hall, as Hunt discovered, was a huge four-season room in the middle of Fa La La. It was the hub of this small community, the gathering place, around which all the other buildings spread out like the spokes on a wheel. The houses, the mercantile, the couple of sheds, and the boats tied up below were all connected by the people who raised their families, worked, and played in this moss-draped swamp.
The savory smells of cooked meats, roasted vegetables, and rich vanilla and spiced desserts permeated the air. Women rushed around straightening silverware on the tables, filling glasses, and generally fussing as the men ambled in to take their seats.
Hunt hesitated at the door, not sure where he was supposed to go. The Hall boasted a big-screen television, sofas, cushy chairs, and several long tables. Enough tables to feed fifty to sixty people, he estimated. Were there that many people who lived in Fa La La?
God, he hoped not.
What he noticed most, though, were all of the Christmas decorations. Every inch of that room, as it was everywhere on Fa La La, was covered in lights, moss, evergreen, or fabric. There were signs, too, hanging on driftwood planks: Joyeaux Noel Jambalaya, Snow-Covered Beignets, Mrs. Claus Hot Chocolate, and Papa Noel Gumbo. “This is where we sell most of the food and drinks to our visitors,” Camille said, when she noticed him looking at the signs. “We used to sell hot chocolate and coffee, along with the ingredients for s’mores, on the island.” She smiled, but said no more about his island. “Everyone gets together each day of the Christmas celebration to prepare the food for that night. Except today. Most of the food was prepared yesterday.”
As family and invited friends walked in, Camille introduced Hunt to them. Aside from many looking at one another after they greeted him, they didn’t act like he was the Scrooge that kept his island off their beloved Christmas Celebration activity schedule. Many, he noticed, did have suggestions for Camille about moving back to Fa La La, staying in New York, dating a local man instead of Edward, cutting her hair, curling her hair, and having babies before she was too old. She never told them to mind their own business, as he would’ve. She just smiled, although he saw how it bothered her in her eyes.
“Ayeee,” T-Dud and Pierre shouted as they, along with a few of the teenage boys, carried the turduckens in on ceramic platters. Compliments were given and suggestions were made as gumbo, potato salad, oyster dressing, green beans, corn, and other family favorites were served…and eaten. Hunt was seated next to T-Dud, on his left, and Camille, on his right. June and her thirteen-year-old grandson, Jean, sat across from him. He ate, took photos, laughed, and enjoyed himself in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. He didn’t typically do crowds or personal gatherings unless he was behind the camera lens and he was paid to be there.
A few times, Hunt looked at Edward, sensing the man’s unease. Edward tried to make conversation with Camille’s elderly great-aunt and her middle-aged daughter, who were seated across from him. But there were strained lulls as each tried to find a topic that suited them both. Camille, who sat between Edward and Hunt, would jump to his rescue from time to time, but that seemed to annoy Edward more than the lull in conversation. Hunt didn’t mind the quiet moments between small talk. Especially when he wasn’t forced to participate. He enjoyed observing and listening best.
When he could eat no more, Hunt excused himself and walked outside, returning to one of the glider swings on the walkway. He leaned back and set the swing in motion as he looked out at the glassy brown bayou. The shadow of a black duck, flapping its wings without pause, slid over the bayou until duck and shadow disappeared from view behind a grove of cypress trees.
“Mind if I join you?” Camille asked. Hunt stopped the motion of the swing and patted the seat next to him. Once she sat, he set the swing into an easy glide again. “I ate too much.” She patted her flat tummy.
“It’s the thing to do for Thanksgiving.” He smiled. “There were so many choices, so I didn’t make any and ate it all.”
Camille laughed. “Last Thanksgiving, I had swordfish over rice while on a ship in the South Pacific. I pretended I was eating turkey and rice dressing.”
“Last Thanksgiving, I ate bananas, crackers, and beef jerky while I was in the Borneo rainforest.” He laughed. “We weren’t too far away from one another.” He looked at her and her brows were furrowed as if she was trying to figure out what he was doing in the Borneo rainforest. “So what were you doing on a ship in the South Pacific?” he asked.
“Hopefully making a difference.” She unfastened the clip in her hair. The strands fell like a silk curtain, the ends lifting in the early afternoon breeze. She rubbed her fingers against her scalp and sighed. “When I left here, I needed to immerse myself in work that was meaningful, with people I didn’t know. So I contracted with a medical ship for three months. It sailed from one remote island to another, treating the medically underserved and neglected. It was exhausting, upsetting, and rewarding.”
“I’ve read about those medical ships.” He’d never actually come across one in his years working around the globe. “Why did you need to surround yourself with people you didn’t know?”
“Long, boring story. Let’s just say well-intentioned people can do things to make you want to find a new home address. At least for a little while.”
“I like boring. I live on a deserted island.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I left here because I needed to let the dust settle a bit after a non-breakup with a man, a relationship that the entire parish thought was preordained in the stars.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I don’t know why I told you that much. Like I said, boring.”
“So far, I’m not bored.” He rested his arm on the back of the swing. “What is a non-breakup?”
“Ah, that’s where it gets a little complicated.” She laughed softly, sounding resigned. “Ben and I weren’t a committed couple with dec
larations of love. We were just the two people everyone, and I mean everyone, thought belonged together. I guess we went along with those ideas from time to time, until Ben actually found the woman of his dreams. She is a lovely person and perfectly suited for him.”
“Let me guess.” He leaned forward a little to look at her fair, expressive face better. “It was the talk of the town. . .I mean parish. You couldn’t go anywhere without someone speaking to you and around you about it. And, from what I observed inside, your family took it on as a mission to right the wrongs that were done to you.”
She turned a little to face him, her bright blue eyes wide. “Yeah, exactly that.” She waved her hand in dismissal again and lifted her chin. She was about to change the subject. Hunt suspected, that she’d said more than she was comfortable with, especially to a man she hardly knew. “So, tell me, Hunt. Why were you in Borneo?”
“Photographing Bornean orangutans.” He looked at her sideways in mock surprise. “Why? What did you think I was doing there?”
She laughed at his teasing and her blue eyes seemed to sparkle. He liked seeing that, rather than the sadness that was there moments ago. “So you’re a photographer? I assume not the wedding and senior portrait kind.”
“You assume correctly. I’m the 'I go where you pay me money to go’ kind.”
“Interesting. So you’re motivated by the almighty dollar?” She stood, walked to the railing. “So.” She turned to face him before continuing. “If I offer to pay you a lot of money, would you let us use your island for the Christmas Celebration?”
Hunt wanted to tell her “hell no” flat out, but because his belly was full, thanks to her, and because he was enjoying her company, he'd play along with her for a while. “How much?”
Her brows lifted. “How much would it take?”
“How much do you have?”
She twisted her pretty mouth, creating a dimple in her right cheek. “Not much.” She sat on the glider swing again. “If Fa La La took money from what it earns each night to pay you, it would just be taking from Peter to pay Paul.” She clasped her hands together. “Unless you charge us a reasonable fee or take a percentage of the island entry fee, I don’t see how it’ll work.”
“It won’t work.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Unless you can figure out how your Christmas circus won’t slow down the construction of my home and won’t disturb my privacy, I don’t think there’s a resolution that’ll makes us both happy.” He stood and put his camera in its bag. “So. I vote to make just me happy.”
Camille’s cheeks flamed as pink as cotton candy. “You never had any intention to try to work things out with me, did you?”
“I never told you I would.”
“You’re an impossible man.”
He took a step closer to her until he could smell the sweet vanilla from the bread pudding on her breath. “Camille, I like you. I think you’re intriguing, pleasant to be around, and gorgeous. But I’ve worked too damn hard and frankly in too damn many dangerous situations to not enjoy what I have. I want my home on this beautiful remote island. That makes my island a construction zone that’s too dangerous for John Q. Christmas enthusiast, Mary his wife, and his twin daughters to roast marshmallows and huddle around a pile of burning old wood.”
Camille started stuttering, words of frustration and anger not coming to her. Hunt, feeling a bit of guilt for putting her in this state, while at the same time thinking she looked so damn cute in it, leaned to close the inch between them and kissed her sweet mouth. When she didn’t push him away, he changed the angle and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, enjoying the soft texture and plump fullness. He sucked ever so briefly on her bottom lip, feeling the sensuality of it deep in his belly and other places that made him male. Then he stepped back.
Camille, who had closed her eyes, opened them in a delayed look of surprise. She shoved him back another step.
“Is everything okay here?” Edward asked, walking up behind Hunt. “Camille?”
“Everything’s fine.” She narrowed her eyes at Hunt.
“Cami, we’re about to have a final meeting about tonight’s opening for the Cajun Christmas. . .” Her mother stopped speaking and walked to stand next to Hunt. He slid his camera bag onto his shoulder. “Oh. You’re leaving. We’d hoped you’d join us for the meeting.”
“No, ma’am. I have to go.” He faced June. “Thank you for having me over for Thanksgiving. The food and company,” he glanced at Camille, “were wonderful.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then kissed Camille on the cheek too. He turned and started to walk away. “Edward, watch out for those mosquitoes.”
HUNT FOR CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER FOUR
It turned out that it wasn’t mosquitoes that Edward had to watch out for. It was wasps. Two had found him as he walked from the mercantile to the Hall, carrying the paper napkins Camille’s mother had asked him to retrieve. He was helping set up for the evening guests when he let out a howl that sounded like a wounded coon in the marsh.
“The Texían got stung by a gep,” her eight-year-old niece, Molly, shouted, rushing to the boat dock where Camille had been loading the large thermoses of hot chocolate they served to the boat riders in paper cups. She knew that the Texían, the outsider, Molly was referring to was Edward.
“It’s swelling really bad. Granny wants you to come quick, before he dies.” Her middle sister’s daughter was known to have a flair for the dramatic; it was why she got to dress as a snow princess, where there was rarely any snow, and hand out treat bags to the visiting children. Dramatic or not, Camille had heard the howl and knew Edward had been injured.
Camille ran into her parents’ kitchen, where Edward had been taken. He was sitting at the kitchen table, looking from her mother to her sister, Kim, as they spoke. He was alert and healthy, albeit a bit confused, following their conversation about the worst wasp stings they had. Like her daughter, Molly, Kim was pretty animated and dramatic when she spoke of stepping on a nest of mud daubers.
“I stopped them from putting a wad of wet tobacco and toothpaste on the stings on my palm. I wasn’t interested in unsupported country medicine mainlined into my body,” he told Camille over the women’s conversation, but they went silent after he spoke. “Not that I don’t appreciate your effort,” he added, trying to make up for the insult to her mother and sister. But, what about her? She felt offended by his comment too. He looked at Camille. “It hurts. I got stung twice.”
Kim, who had a narrow-eyed expression of total irritation, sat up, ready to tear into Edward, but her mother touched Kim’s arm to keep her from saying anything. Both women remained quiet, although their body language said they’d been offended. Camille knew they didn’t say anything because they cared about her, and didn’t want to cause a problem for her and the man they all thought was her boyfriend. How had she ever forgotten how loyal and considerate her family was? Why had she just focused on about how overbearing and opinionated they could be?
“Actually, Edward,” she said, lifting his hand and turning it over to make sure there were no other stings elsewhere on his hand. She kept her voice even and void of emotion. “Tobacco has a high alkaline composition, while toothpaste has both baking soda and glycerin that can help neutralize the venom. It’s a clever use of what’s around a home to treat a common injury.”
Don’t get angry with him because he isn’t used to a different way of doing things, she reminded herself. Camille did a quick medical assessment of Edward. He was upright, breathing, and speaking mostly coherently. She went to the kitchen cabinet near the door where the medical supplies she provided were kept. Kim stood too.
“Molly and I have to finish filling the Santa’s treat bags. The boys got into the box and ate half of them.”
“They’re going to get a lump of coal for Christmas, when Santa hears about this,” Molly assured Camille as she followed her mother out of the house.
“And Molly’s going to be the one to tell him ab
out it,” June added with a smile so full of grandmotherly love, Camille felt it in that womanly place that craved having children of her own.
“What are your symptoms, Edward?” she asked, carrying the medical bag to the table and opening it.
He sat completely still, his palm facing up and resting on the table. “Give me a second to assess.”
“His hand is swellin’ really bad,” her mother said filling in the silence. “Red. Rashy.”
“Localized pain. Stiffness.” He moved his fingers. “Yeah, there’s definitely pain.”
“How’s your breathing?” Camille placed the Epi-pen on the table next to him in case she needed it.
“Labored. But clear.”
“You’re probably just anxious. Take deep breaths and relax.” She placed a single small pill on the table and took his pulse. When she finished, she slipped on the medical exam gloves from the bag. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“Other than possibly bee stings, no,” Edward huffed.
“Are you having any trouble swallowing?” She handed him the pill from the table. “Any symptoms for anaphylaxis?”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck. Then he opened his mouth for her to examine it. “I can swallow.”
“Take the pill. It’s diphenhydramine. Mom, please give him a water.” June rushed to the refrigerator, then handed him a bottle of water. She took it back immediately, because his hand was too swollen to open it and the other hand was holding the pill. After she removed the cap, she handed it back to Edward and he took his med.
Camille cleaned the wounds. “The stingers are still in.” She took the sterilized tweezers from the medical bag and gently used them to remove the tiny stingers. “I can’t tell if I got the venom sac too. Probably a moot point by the way you’re having a large local reaction.” She pointed to the red rash across his palm and up to his wrist.
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 33