by Sandra Hill
When Lulu was Hot
Cajun Series Prequel
Sandra Hill
Contents
Praise for Sandra Hill’s Cajun Novels
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Figgy Buttermilk Cake
Reader Letter
About the Author
Also by Sandra Hill
Praise for Sandra Hill’s Cajun Novels
“The action is fast, and the love scenes are wonderful… Do yourself a favor and pick up this very funny book. Then write to Sandra Hill and demand sequels.”
—All About Romance on The Love Potion
“If you like your romances hot and spicy and your men the same way, then you will like Tall, Dark, and Cajun... Eccentric characters, witty dialogue, humorous situations…and hot romance… [Hill] perfectly captures the bayou’s mystique and makes it come to life.”
—RomRevToday.com on Tall, Dark, and Cajun, a USA Today bestseller and named as one of the Top 10 Romances of 2004 by Amazon and Booklist
“Hill will tickle readers’ funny bones yet again as she writes in her trademark sexy style. A real crowd-pleaser, guar-an-teed.”
—Booklist (starred review, on The Cajun Cowboy)
“Hill’s thigh-slapping humor and thoughtful look at the endangered Louisiana bayou ecosystem turn this into an engaging read.”
—Publishers Weekly, on The Red-Hot Cajun
“4 Stars! A hoot and a half! Snappy dialogue and outrageous characters keep the tempo lively and the humor infectious in this crazy adventure story. Hill is a master at taking outlandish situations and making them laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine on Pink Jinx, a USA Today bestseller
“The riotous cast of characters...will keep you laughing from cover to cover…passionate encounters keep the sexual tension at a steady boil. The outlandish adventures of this wacky, wonderful family will make you wish you lived on the bayou!”
—FreshFiction.com, on Wild Jinx, a New York Times bestseller and one of Booklist’s Top Ten Romances of 2008
“Hill offers fun stories with lots of local color and sexual attraction.”
—The Houma, Louisiana “Advertiser” on So Into You (retitled Bayou Angel)
“With Sandra Hill you'll be laughing out loud at one moment and crying the next. But most of all you'll be smiling as her books just wrap themselves around your heart. Yes, these stories are like taking happy pills and Snow on the Bayou is one of the sweetest medicines around.”
—FabFantasyFiction.com on Snow on the Bayou
“Sandra Hill will have readers laughing—and crying!—through the bayous of her latest Cajun novel. Thanks to her witty metaphor-galore dialogue, eclectic characters and massive pet menagerie, she’ll have her audience craving sweet tea and a trip to the south in no time.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine on The Cajun Doctor
Copyright © 2017 by Sandra Hill
Digital ISBN: 978-1-941528-54-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-941528-55-6
Publisher: Parker Hayden Media
Imprint: Sandra Hill Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Art credits:
Cover Design: LB Hayden
Cover model: Zoomteam/DepositPhotos.com
This book is dedicated to all you loyal fans of my Cajun series who have begged me for years to give Tante Lulu her very own book. I resisted because there was tragedy in her life, what she called her Big Grief, and I write humor.
But then, I recalled what a wise editor once told me. In the best of all novels, the writer makes the reader cry, as well as laugh. So, that’s what I wish for you in this book. Tears and laughter. But mostly laughter.
God bless Tante Lulu! Don’t we all wish we had a relative like her in our own families?
Prologue
Present Day
Sentimental Journey…
Louise Rivard, best known up and down the bayou as Tante Lulu, was celebrating her ninetieth birthday. For the second year in a row.
Or was it the third?
Maybe the fourth.
Whatever! she thought. Age is just a number, like I always say. Some fools are old fogies at fifty, like rusted-out jalopies, bless their hearts, creepin’ along the highway of life. Me, on the other hand, I still have a bucket-load of va-voom under my hood, and miles to go before I bite the dust.
Bucket-load, bucket list, get it?
Ha, ha, ha! There’s a hole in my bucket, there’s a hole in my bucket…
Talking to herself was nothing new for Louise. Answering herself was another matter, especially when she answered in song. And, no, it had nothing to do with her age or that alls-hammer some seniors got. It was just that sometimes she was more fun than the people around her; so, she had to amuse herself.
Anyways, like she told her niece Charmaine last week, “Ninety is the new seventy.”
“If that’s true, then forty is the new twenty. Hal-le-lu-jah! Heck, I’ll settle fer thirty.” Charmaine, ever conscious of her age and appearance, had done a little boogie dance around Louise’s kitchen to celebrate. “Maybe I’ll have T-shirts made up fer mah beauty spas with that message. ‘Forty Is the New Thirty’ on the front, and on the back, ‘And We Can Help. Cut & Die Hair Salon, Houma, Louisiana.’”
Charmaine owned a string of hair salons and beauty spas in Southern Louisiana. A self-proclaimed bimbo with a brain, she was always looking out for the main chance.
Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily, in my opinion.
Actually, Louise’s birthday had already passed, and been celebrated in grand style with a pool party at her nephew Luc’s house. Even so, today her LeDeux great-nephews and -nieces, along with a few great-greats, were treating her to a belated gift, some kind of secret destination road trip. There were so many of the family tagging along that they were a highway caravan. Pick-up trucks, expensive sedans like Luc’s BMW, even Louise’s vintage, lavender Chevy Impala convertible, named Lillian, being driven by her great-great-niece Mary Lou, who was constantly pleading for first dibs on the vehicle in Louise’s will.
To which, Louise always answered, “I ain’t dead yet, girl. Mebbe I’ll get buried in it, ’stead of some boring wood casket. Wouldn’t that shock St. Peter if I came roarin’ through the Pearly Gates? Not to worry. St. Jude would be out front, wavin’ me in.”
St. Jude was Louise’s favorite go-to saint, the patron of hopeless cases. And, whoo-boy, had she run into a passel of hopeless folks in her time! Herself included, especially after…well, a long time ago.
Louise was riding shotgun in the first vehicle, an SUV driven by her youngest LeDeux nephew, Tee-John, “tee-” being a Cajun prefix for small or little. Not so young anymore, Tee-John, a cop from up Lafayette way, was what modern people called thirty-something. And he was far from little anymore, either.
Tee-John’s wife Celine sat in the back seat with their son, Etienne, who was thirteen going on twenty, a rascal just like his daddy
had been…and probably still was. Lately, Etienne insisted that his friends call him by the English version of his name, Steven. If Louise heard, “Call me Steve,” one more time when she talked to him, she was going to pitch a hissy fit.
“Ay-T-en is a perfectly good Cajun name, and you’re Cajun ta the bone, boy,” she often told him.
The rascal usually winked at her and said with an exaggerated drawl, “Ah know, auntie. Cantcha tell, ah got mah Cajun on all the time, guar-an-teed!”
As a contrast to their older brother, six- and five-year-old Annie and Rob were in the way-back seat, deaf to their surroundings with headsets connected to games on their cell phones. Etienne was expertly thumbing his way on his own phone, too, even as he talked. A multitasker!
What was the world coming to when children needed their own phones? Knowing Etienne, he was probably looking at nekkid pictures, or sending ones of himself. Lordy, Lordy, the boy was a trial. Girls up and down the bayou best beware when this boy got old enough to really get his Cajun on.
“Do you wanna know what yer surprise birthday gift is, auntie?” Tee-John asked her, once they were on the road.
“No, I wanna sit on my hiney playin’ twenty questions,” she griped. A trip to Baton Rouge was not her idea of fun, even if they went to some fancy pancy restaurant, or visited some historic site, or something else her family had in mind, like they usually did. She’d rather be working in her garden (she had two bushels of figs ready to be picked), or practicing her belly dancing (there was a competition coming up soon that she was thinking about entering), or playing bingo at Our Lady of the Bayou Church hall (where the jackpot this week was a Crock-Pot big enough to hold a small pig).
Ooh, ooh, ooh, an idea suddenly came to her. “Is Richard Simmons in town? Am I finally gonna meet my crush?” Since the exercise guru had disappeared from the public eye in recent years, she’d been worried about him.
Tee-John rolled his eyes, and she heard snickering from Celine. “Who’s Richard Simmons?” Call-me-Steve asked.
She shook her head with disgust. No one understood her longtime fascination with the exercise celebrity. She knew Richard hadn’t been handsome in the traditional sense, even when he was younger, but he had a positive attitude about life that she loved. And he had va-voom if anyone did! His jumping jacks still gave her tingles.
“No, you’re not gonna meet the famous Richard,” Tee-John said. “Your gift is a visit to a reenactment type event in Baton Rouge called, ‘The War Years: A Celebration’.”
“Big whoop! Another Civil War re-enactment! When are Southerners gonna realize they lost that war? And why would ya imagine I’d be interested? You’d think I lived back then, the way some folks keep bringin’ it up. ‘Didja ever meet Jefferson Davis, Tante Lulu? Ha, ha, ha!’ I ain’t that old!”
Etienne muttered something that sounded like “Wanna bet?”
She turned and threatened to swat “Call me Steve” with her St. Jude fan, then told Tee-John, “Besides, ya keep tellin’ me it’s politically incorrect ta refer ta Northerners as Damn Yankees anymore. So, why we gonna celebrate that war again? We, fer certain, cain’t be wavin’ no Confederate flags, ’less we wanna be called big-hots.”
Tee-John was laughing so hard he’d probably be peeing his pants. “You mean bigot, auntie. Not big-hot.”
“I know what a bigot is, fool.”
“Why do you bother correcting her?” Celine asked her husband, as if Louise wasn’t even there.
Actually, Celine, and all the other LeDeux women for that matter—Sylvie, Rachel, Val, and Charmaine—were kind of mad at Louise, claiming that she had put a curse on them to make them all pregnant at this late stage in their lives. All Louise did was make a chance remark to St. Jude, in their hearing, that it would be nice to have more babies around.
Last summer, they were sure they were all breeding, then the next month they weren’t, then they were, now no one was sure. Samantha was the only one not complaining, but she and Daniel were just getting started
How they could blame her for their wonky cycles was beyond Louise. It was all up to God…and St. Jude, of course. And, besides, everyone knew children were a blessing, not a curse.
In any case, Louise ignored Celine’s snarkiness and continued, “As fer grown men playin’ war games with antique guns? Pffft! And I ain’t gonna sit around watchin’ grown men whistle ‘Dixie,’ either, like we did at the Shrimp Festival last year.”
Celine kept trying to interrupt her, and finally got a few words in. “Not that war, Tante Lulu.”
“And, FYI, I don’t think there were many Johnny Rebs who took the time to whistle during the Civil War,” Tee-John added, before she shut them both up.
“Do ya think I’m a total idjit? I’d like ta f. y. i. ya with my f. a. n.”
Tee-John grinned.
Celine explained with a long sigh, as if Louise was the idjit in this car, and not them, “This is about the World War II era. There will be all kinds of venues related to the 1940s. Music, clothing, movies, dances, everything involving the home front.”
Tee-John backed his wife up by telling Louise, “You’re always tellin’ us stories about that time, when you were single. We thought you’d enjoy it.”
“Hmpfh! How’d ya hear about this?”
“A brochure came into the newspaper office, and I volunteered to cover the event.” Celine was a feature reporter for the Times Picayune in New Orleans. “It’s the first ever for Loo-zee-anna, but these kind of World War II celebrations are very popular all over the world, especially in Britain.”
“Isn’t there a World War II museum in Nawleans?” Louise asked.
“Yes, but this is different,” Celine said.
“People want to go back to a time when life was simpler and country pride was at a high,” Tee-John elaborated.
“Ya mean like Donald Trump wantin’ ta make America proud again?”
“Not even close,” Tee-John said with a laugh. “The 1940s were a time of austerity, as you well know. And people showed their pride and did their part by planting Victory Gardens, home canning, using ration books, buying war bonds.”
“I still have a garden, and I still can fruit and vegetables,” Louise said. “Big deal!”
Tee-John was the one sighing now. “We figured you were a young woman back then, and this event would bring back memories.”
He had no idea! The years from 1942 to 1944 were the happiest and most tragic of her life, leading to what she called her Big Grief. She would never forget. And she didn’t need any old war fair to jog her memories.
“It’ll be fun,” Celine said.
I’d rather stick needles in my eyes or watch a cypress tree grow.
“I hope they have tanks. I always wanted to climb into one of those tanks and shoot off a dozen rounds. Bam, bam, bam!” Steve/Etienne said.
“Don’t ya dare climb up on any machinery,” Tee-John warned. “You’re already grounded fer that tattoo incident.”
Tante Lulu chuckled. It was payback time for Tee-John, the wildest boy in the bayou. “Talk about bein’ grounded, I remember the time ya went ta that clothing-optional party, Tee-John, when ya were little more’n Etienne’s age.”
“Auntie!” Etienne protested. “Call me Steve.”
Tee-John groaned. “Did you hafta mention that party?”
Celine laughed.
“Whoa!” Etienne hooted. “Tell me more.”
“It wasn’t clothing-optional, it was underwear-optional,” Tee-John corrected.
“Oh, that’s better. Not!” Celine remarked.
“I’m not wearing any underwear,” Etienne informed them all.
Every person in the car looked at the boy, even his father through the rearview mirror, and the two “robots” in the way-back who pretended to be brain dead from cell phoneitis, but, apparently, heard everything. But no one said anything. What could you say to that?“
Doesn’t it hurt?” Rob asked finally. “One time I went ta school without
my underwear ’cause my Superman tightie whities were dirty, and the zipper on my jeans chafed my tooter somethin’ awful.”
“Ya shoulda put some of my snake oil ointment on it,” Louise advised.
“Ouch!” Etienne said. “You’re supposed ta arrange yer goodies ta the side.”
“Goodies? Eew!” Annie observed.
“Oh,” was Rob’s reaction. “How do ya do that arrangin’ thing?”
“That’s enough on the subject,” Tee-John ordered.
“Talk about!” Louise remarked.
And Celine smacked her son on the shoulder.
“What did I do?” Etienne asked, but he was grinning like a pig in honey-coated slop.
When they parked in the State Fairgrounds lot, a huge banner did, indeed, announce, “The War Years: A Celebration,” and Louise thought of something. “Y’know, Tee-John, lots of pacifists would be offended at a celebration of that war. It wasn’t all swing music and pretty hairdos. There was some grim stuff goin’ on back then. Yessirree. Like the Holocaust and Hiroshima, not ta mention all the soldiers that got killed.” Including one near and dear to her own heart, she couldn’t help but think. “’Course, we dint know ’bout the concentration camps and big bombs and all that till the end.”
“I can answer that,” Celine said.
Surprise, surprise!
“The event promoters put out a disclaimer ahead of time, stating that the war itself wasn’t being celebrated, but the home front and the culture of the times,” Celine went on.
Doesn’t she always? Go on, and on, and on.
“In fact, they’re making every effort to show respect for those who died and the vets who survived with special activities, like an honor guard of remaining World War II veterans, a D-Day commemoration, and so on.”