“Oh, child, you’re so like your mama at her age. So full of life and smart. Why, that girl could outthink just about anybody, then charm them into not caring. And curious? Well, you’ve not seen curiosity until you’ve seen Marie.” Tante Flo held Cleo at arm’s length and shook her head. “I miss her so, but it’s like a little bit of Marie still lives on in you. You’ve been a blessing.”
Cleo gave her a sideways look. “Even when I’m a busybody?”
Her aunt pretended to study the question with great concern. She chuckled. “When you put it that way, well. . .”
A movement outside the window reflected in the pier glass over the sideboard caught Cleo’s attention. It was Uncle Joe, and he seemed to be pacing. The murmur of his deep voice rattled the windowpane, but the words were undecipherable. The tone, however, sounded decidedly angry.
“Oh dear,” Tante Flo said softly. Her gaze met Cleo’s. “I think we ought to walk ourselves to the other side of the house and see to supper. You stir the étouffée, and I’ll mix up the hush puppies.”
Cleo snatched the basket and followed her aunt out of the parlor. An ache had begun in the pit of her stomach. No matter how good Tante Flo’s cooking was, she doubted she’d be partaking tonight.
❧
“Monsieur Trahan, if you’ll just calm down, I’m sure we—”
“Calm down?” Joe stopped his pacing and stood at the far end of the porch, hands on hips. “Calm down?”
Planting his feet firmly on the porch boards, Theo stood. “Sir, I think there’s been some misunderstanding here. I’m not sure what I’ve done to set you off but—”
“Sit down!”
Although he was the bigger of the pair and younger than Joe by a decade and a half, Theo did as he was told.
Joe began to make a path across the porch again, passing the window where Theo had spied Clothilde standing moments ago. She was gone now, or at least she had the good sense to observe from a less visible spot.
Theo turned his attention away from the house and off toward the horizon. The rain seemed to be coming in fits and starts, blowing hard, then tapering off. Right now, there was nothing but a light drizzle falling from the eaves—a good time to make a run for home.
Except that his respect for Joe Trahan wouldn’t let him move from the porch until he’d heard what Joe had to say. Judging from the way the man had taken up his pacing once more, he might be there awhile.
While he had no idea what had set Joe off, he knew better than to try and say anything to further aggravate him. One thing he knew for sure: Bringing the basket back was a mistake.
Theo leaned back and heard the chains protest and clank. His stomach growled, joining the chorus of noises. Off in the distance, a flash of lightning zigzagged through the evening sky. The fresh smell of rain teased his nose and warned him that the lull in the weather soon would end.
He’d most likely be going home tonight hungry and wet.
Finally Joe stopped short and grabbed a straight-backed chair and shoved it near the swing. He turned the chair backward and settled on the seat, resting his arms on the back. Eyes narrowed, he stared at Theo as if he expected Theo to know what had brought on his fit of anger.
“Anything you want to tell me, boy?” He shifted positions slightly but never broke his stare. “Because in my experience, a man owns up to his misdeeds up front. Now am I mistaken about judging you as a man?”
What in the world is Joe Trahan talking about?
“Sir, I’m not sure how to answer that. Is there something in particular we’re talking about? Something I’ve done that’s got you riled up?” A thought dawned, and along with it a possible explanation for Joe’s anger. “Have you been talking to Alphonse?”
The older man looked puzzled. “What does your brother have to do with this?”
“Well, I just thought that maybe he. . .that is, considering I am supposed to be able to. . .” As Joe’s confusion became more apparent, Theo stopped talking altogether. “Never mind.”
Perhaps that secret was still safe. If so, then what was the trouble?
Joe made a slashing motion through the damp air with his hand. “Let’s get right to it, young man. You got a problem with plain talk?”
Theo sat up a little straighter and squared his shoulders. “No, sir. In fact, I prefer it.”
“Good.” Joe grabbed the back of the chair with both hands, turning his knuckles white. He lowered his gaze and seemed to be studying the floor. “This isn’t a conversation I ever hoped to have.”
Theo’s stomach complained again, and a gust of wind blew cold raindrops down his back. “Whatever it is, I’d appreciate if you’d get on with that plain talk.”
Joe nodded and looked up. “That I will.” He let out a long breath. “This is in regard to my niece, Clothilde.”
Good. Finally a topic he could warm to.
Joe must have heard his pesky niece was snooping around the cabin today. Serves her right to suffer her uncle’s ire. The only puzzle was why Joe seemed to be taking out a share of that irritation on him.
He pointed his finger at Theo. “Unless you can give me a good reason why my niece came home this afternoon with her clothes in a mess and her hair full of dust and pine needles, the next man you’ll be talking plain with is going to be the reverend.”
Theo opened his mouth to say something—anything—in his defense. Instead of allowing him to speak the words that would get him out of this mess, his mouth went dry and refused to work.
“Say something, Theophile Breaux, before I get my shotgun and loosen your jaw.”
“Go ahead and tell him, young man.”
He looked past Joe to where Clothilde’s aunt stood at the front door. Again he failed to force words of innocence from his mouth.
She strolled across the porch to rest her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Joe, the funniest thing happened today out at the cabin.” Meeting Theo’s gaze, she nodded. “Don’t be afraid to tell him about that hole in the roof my niece caused you to make. I got a good laugh out of the story when Cleo told me this afternoon.”
Theo nodded. “Yes, well, you see, I was patching the roof over on the north side.”
“That weak spot over the parlor?” Joe asked.
“Oui.” Theo paused to swallow hard, praying the words wouldn’t leave him again. “I was leaning over to make sure those nails were in straight when I spied a flash of yellow over to the east in the thicket.”
“Clothilde,” Joe said under his breath.
“Yes, sir, it was. I figured her for just hiding out and watching a spell, but she surprised me.”
“I whistled.” Clothilde stood at the door, leaning against the frame. “Well, I did,” she said when her aunt and uncle turned to face her.
“So you didn’t know she was underfoot?” Joe asked.
“No, sir. Before I knew what happened, there she stood at the bottom of the ladder, talking to me as if I’d seen her walk up.” He continued to stare past the Trahans to their niece, eyes narrowed. “Which I didn’t.”
“I made plenty of noise. I didn’t want him to think I was spying.” She stared right back at him. “I thought you heard me.”
“I was hammering.” While he had heard whistling, he had no recollection of thinking it might be the Trahan girl.
Clothilde toyed with the end of her braid. “Not constantly.”
“Enough for any normal person to know a man was working.” Theo felt his blood begin to boil. “Last thing I expected was for you to change your mind about never seeing me again and pay me a visit while you were out on your stroll.”
“I wasn’t out for a stroll. I went to town on an errand.”
“Which you failed to complete until I brought the basket back.” Theo stood. “For all the grief it’s caused me, I should have waited for you to come and get the stupid basket.”
Joe rose and pushed the chair away. “I believe I’ve heard enough.” He took his wife by the hand. “Why I thought th
ere were shenanigans between these two is beyond me. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more mismatched pair.”
Flo offered a smile before she headed for the door. Joe disappeared inside, leaving Theo alone with Clothilde Trahan. At that moment, he decided taking his chances with the storm brewing on the other side of the porch rail was preferable to staying and risking another five minutes with the female tornado.
“Theo,” Joe called. “Come on in here and get yourself some supper. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”
Theo looked up at Clothilde. The object of his thoughts stood arrow straight with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. He felt about as welcome as that big cottonmouth.
“Merci beaucoup, sir, but I believe I’ll just go on home.”
Joe appeared in the doorway and pointed at Clothilde. “Get on in there and set this young man a plate. It’s the least you can do, considering you nearly killed him this afternoon.” As Cleo pressed past to disappear inside, Joe turned his attention to Theo. “Good thing my mother’s bed never got moved out of the parlor after she passed on.”
“You knew I fell through the roof?”
“Boy, that much was obvious.” Joe shook his head. “What I didn’t know was what part my niece played in the whole mess and where she was when you landed on the mattress.” He paused. “Or where she ended up afterward.”
Theo let out a pent-up breath and smiled. “I’m sure you can see you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your niece and me.”
The older man gave him a level stare. “I see nothing of the sort. Watch yourself with that girl, or next time your fall won’t be off a ladder.”
❧
Only later, across the kitchen table from Clothilde Trahan, after spending several hours sharing a meal and conversation, did Theo realize what her uncle had meant. By then, it was too late.
He’d fallen hard for Clothilde Trahan—and this time it had nothing to do with a hole in the roof.
The realization hit him somewhere between the shrimp étouffée and hush puppies and the sweet cake gateau de sirop. He’d been minding his own business, sipping chicory coffee and listening to Joe and his wife finish each other’s sentences and laugh at each other’s silly jokes, when he felt the wall around his heart begin to crack.
I want what they have. He suppressed a groan as he snuck a peek across the table at Clothilde Trahan. And I want it with her.
She smiled, first at her aunt and uncle and then at him. He tried and failed to return the gesture.
Lord, please take this feeling away. You and I have a deal, and it doesn’t include Clothilde Trahan.
Until He did, Theo knew he’d just have to stay out of her way.
Ten
Cleo swiped at the bottom of Uncle Joe’s coffee cup with the dish towel, then set it on the drain board to dry. Once again, Cleo had only one cup to wash. Nearly a week had passed since Uncle Joe had had company in the morning for coffee.
And by company, she meant Theophile Breaux.
No sight of the Breaux fellow graced the front porch, nor did he come around on Sunday after church to talk to Uncle Joe. The only time Cleo had seen Theophile Breaux had been Sunday morning during services and then only from a distance. Rather than sit with his family in their usual third pew from the front, the carpenter chose to slip in the side door as the opening hymn began and sneak out the same way when the last strains of the hymn of invitation ended.
His behavior seemed even stranger since they’d spent such a lovely evening with her aunt and uncle—after the incident on the porch, that is. Cleo had actually begun to think that Theophile Breaux just might be a nice man.
The ruffled curtain swayed in the stiff, north wind, winter’s last dance before spring dawned on the bayou. Cleo suppressed a chill and inhaled the sweet scent of Easter lilies. She and Tante Flo spent hours babying the beautiful blossoms and had been rewarded with a bountiful crop.
They’d bloomed early, and as long as a freeze didn’t come along before Easter Sunday, there would be plenty of fragrant white blossoms to decorate the altar at church. Before spring ended and the heat of summer set in, she would have to think about separating them out and creating a new bed with what they didn’t give to neighbors and friends. Come winter, the process of growing the lilies would begin all over again.
Cleo wiped her hands, then tossed the dish towel over the drying rack. One chore down. What to do next?
She could polish the silver, but her aunt usually shared that job with her. Good conversation and frequent laughter often took place over the shiny pile of forks and spoons.
Tante Flo had gone to take a mess of freshly fried chicken to the Landry family down the bayou a ways. They had a new baby, born just last Wednesday.
Although Tante Flo claimed dropping off a meal was the neighborly thing to do, she always seemed to be most eager to visit the new mothers. Cleo suspected it might have something to do with the babies her aunt loved so much.
“She should have been a mama many times over. Too bad all she got was nosey old me.” Cleo chuckled and reached for the broom. “I hope I do better than that.”
As she swept the cobwebs out of the corners, she allowed her mind to drift to a time and place far in the future where she had a home of her own and a passel of children. In her mind, a brown-eyed son smiled up at her while a daughter with dark curls crawled at her feet. She pressed forward in time until she could imagine children of various sizes running and playing on the green lawn. Finally, a pair of twins—one a girl and the other a boy—chased butterflies past thick patches of Easter lilies.
“I’ll have a boy first and name him Ernest. The second, of course, will be a girl with dark hair like her mama. I’ll call her Angeline.”
She closed her eyes and smiled. The broom became her partner in an imaginary dance watched by the children she’d have someday.
Swaying to music only she could hear, she pictured her groom.
And saw Theophile Breaux.
Cleo’s eyes flew open, and she dropped the broom. “Oh my,” she said under her breath. “That’s odd.”
As she reached for the broom, a clanging sound made her jump. The mail boat.
Dropping the broom in the middle of the kitchen floor, she raced out the back door and headed for the little dock on the bayou. The arrival of a mail boat was rare—only once a month if that often—so the warning bell only had to be sounded once. Before the boat could dock, Cleo stood waiting for whatever the postman brought.
“Mademoiselle Trahan?”
“Oui. C’est moi.”
As the portly, gray-haired gentleman dug down into a seemingly bottomless leather pouch marked United States Mail, Cleo tried not to fidget. Several times he examined letters or parcels through his thick spectacles, only to drop them back into the pouch. She found her patience nearly at an end when the fellow triumphantly pulled out a fistful of letters and thrust them toward her.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.” She gathered the letters in her apron and raced toward the house.
“You’re welcome,” he called as he stepped back into the mail boat.
Waiting until she reached the kitchen to look at the letters was near to impossible, but somehow Cleo managed. When she finally reached the kitchen, she lifted the hem of her apron and let the papers spill onto the table.
Two notes from relatives and a postcard from her friend Margie covered a third envelope with a familiar return address: New Orleans.
Cleo lifted the letter from the pile and stared at the writing. Beneath the name of the college was the unmistakable handwriting—and name—of Uncle Joe’s friend.
She dropped the letter onto the stack and took a step back. What to do? Waiting until Uncle Joe returned from his meeting with the reverend occurred to her, but only for a moment. Those meetings could take half the afternoon. And wait for Tante Flo? Well, that could mean she might not see the contents of the letter until after supper.
Inching forward, Cleo picke
d up the letter with her thumb and forefinger and held it to the stream of sunlight spilling through the kitchen window. Only the slightest outline of decidedly male handwriting appeared.
She sighed. In order to read the letter, she must open it.
Cleo dropped the letter into her pocket and made a neat stack of the remaining mail. Rather than read the letter immediately, she decided to wait in hopes that Uncle Joe might cut his visit short and return soon.
Actually, she hoped he didn’t cut his visit short, but somehow delaying her plan to open the letter seemed better than doing it immediately. Retrieving the broom, she finished the job of sweeping out the kitchen, then patted her apron pocket. The letter felt stiff beneath the soft fabric.
With another glance out the kitchen window to ensure neither her aunt nor her uncle approached, Cleo slipped upstairs to her bedroom. She made short order of opening the letter. Actually reading it, however, took a bit longer.
First she had to close her eyes, and then she decided to pray. When she opened her eyes, she grasped the envelope and wedged it open. Barely breathing, she pulled the letter out and unfolded it.
Her eyes scanned the opening lines:
Dearest Joe,
It is with great pleasure that I received your letter of 4 March. For that reason, I felt a quick response was in order. Thus, I held the postman in waiting until I could write a brief note of. . .
The lines of handwriting on the page began to shake. When she realized it was her hands that quivered, she released the paper and let it fall to the coverlet.
“Maybe I don’t want to know this.” Cleo held her breath, then let it out slowly. “It might be bad news.”
She stared down at the letter. Just one more sentence, maybe two. If the news is bad, I’ll reseal the letter and return it to the stack.
Taking care to lift the letter by the corner, she leaned back against the wall and tucked her feet beneath her. Another deep breath, and she began to read again:
. . .a brief note of delight that you are committed to the education of the children in Latagnier. You and I have long believed local schools are sorely needed in remote areas of Louisiana, and I am most interested in helping you to fill the position of teacher that the new school will require.
Bayou Beginnings Page 6