by Sandra Hill
He was wearing a tux for the first time in his life, as were Jensen, Famosa, Franklin, and LeDeux, his groomsmen. Jonas, his best man, wore a dark Mennonite suit. He’d agreed to participate in an English wedding, even stay for the reception; that was compromise enough in his Plain book.
Claire had Tante Lulu, of all people, as her maid of honor, with Ronnie, Lizzie, Laura, and Lily serving as bridesmaids. Jonas and Laura were openly dating these days; as a result, Jonas had joined him in being labeled “That wild Peachey boy!” among the Amish in Sinking Valley. Jonas’s Sarah and Fanny were flower girls.
Boner and the four cats, not to mention a pigload of Priscella’s kittens, wore lavender bows around their necks to match the bridesmaids’ gowns. He’d told Claire that lavender was a gay color for a boy dog to wear, but she’d answered that rumor said that Napoleon had a few questionable tendencies himself.
Ronnie’s pregnancy was beginning to show with a little rounded belly. The way she and Jake stared at each other, well, he could only hope he and Claire would be as happy. He wouldn’t be surprised to see these two next down the aisle. Then again, maybe not. They claimed to be happier than they’d ever been during their previous four marriages.
To everyone’s amazement, his father gave Claire away. Dat was bending in ways Caleb never would have expected. Oh, he maintained his Amish ways, albeit as a Mennonite now, but he’d opened up his heart and his mind to new ways. Mam had electricity and a brand-new washing machine now; you’d have thought it was a pot of gold. Dat tried not to be too prideful driving his new, shiny red John Deere tractor. Dat had even taken Caleb and his brothers fly fishing last week, while the women worked with Claire, completing her bride quilt. That and all the crap Tante Lulu had sent was causing his hope chest to overflow. Bottom line: Claire was getting the family she’d always wanted, in spades.
He should have felt claustrophobic, having been a loner for so long. But he didn’t, as long as he maintained his distance. Unlike Claire, he could take his family only in small doses.
He stood now, leaning back against a tree, a longneck dangling from one hand, on a small rise overlooking the farmyard festivities. Claire came huffing up the hill after him, her gown bunched in both hands up to her knees to avoid it dragging in the dirt.
When he held an arm out for her, she dropped her gown and snuggled up against him, smelling like the sweet outdoors. Fresh. Flowery. Sexy as hell.
She’d gone traditional for her wedding attire, as well. He’d half expected her to show up in some Indian maiden outfit, but instead she wore this frothy white concoction that made her appear good enough to eat. Literally.
“Are you having second thoughts?” she asked in a small voice against his chest.
“Never.” He kissed the top of her head. “I just needed a breather.”
“How about that poker-playing friend of Jake’s, Angel Sabato, showing up here? In a skull and crossbones T-shirt. With all those tattoos. On a Harley. Whoo-ee! I thought your Dat would have a heart attack.”
“Save your whoo-ee’s for me, sweetheart.”
She smiled. “Jealous?”
“Hell, yes.”
“I heard him ask Jake if he could give him a job with Jinx, that he was ready to ditch the poker circuit. Do you have any objection to that?”
He shrugged. “It’s not my call.”
“Is it true that he posed for Playgirl magazine one time . . . in the nude?”
He just laughed. “You want nude, I’ll give you all the nude you want.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
They both remained silent after that, just savoring being alone for the first time that day.
“I know you didn’t want all this,” she said, waving a hand to indicate all the activity below. “Somehow it got out of hand.”
There was sort of an invisible dividing line down below between those open to music, dancing, and booze, and those who shunned the entertainments as worldly. Actually, there were quite a few English on that side, too, which surprised Caleb.
“That’s okay, babe. There’s still the honeymoon to look forward to.”
“Which one?” She laughed and reached up to give him a quick kiss.
He grabbed hold of her on the rebound and pulled her in for a real kiss. Only then did he say, “The second one. In Barbados.”
He, Claire, and a whole contingent of family and friends were headed for Philadelphia tomorrow morning to give moral support to Lizzie, who had made it through to the top twenty-four of auditions for American Idol. He and Claire laughingly referred to it as their first honeymoon. It would be memorable, that was for sure. Lizzie—who billed herself as J-Lo meets an Amish Faith Hill—would be performing her first solo as a finalist.
Tante Lulu was going to be her chaperone. How that came about was a story in itself. Wait till Simon Cowell collided with the Cajun bulldozer. American Idol would never be the same. René LeDeux had been coaching Lizzie musically. In fact, his band, the Swamp Rats, was performing right now.
Lizzie would be singing the Rascal Flatts hit “I Melt” for her introduction to the public. To his embarrassment, Mam had asked him last week, “What does that mean, Caleb? She melts. How? Like an ice cube?” Dat had whispered in Mam’s ear then, and she’d swatted his arm, saying, “Oh, you! Nobody would sing about that.”
“I do have a surprise for you, honey,” Claire said, raising her face to look at him.
Uh-oh! “I like surprises.” Not!
“We’re going to have our own special wedding night.”
Special being the key word. I hope. “With all these people around?”
“I found a private place.”
Better and better. “Dare I hope it’s a Marriott with a heart-shaped jacuzzi and complimentary champagne?”
“Well, there will be champagne, and candles, and fur rugs.”
Hoo-yah! “Sounds good to me.”
“I built us a wigwam up on the ridge.”
About the Author
Sandra Hill is the best-selling author of more than twenty novels and the recipient of numerous awards.
Readers love the trademark humor in her books, whether the heroes are Vikings, Cajuns, Navy SEALs, or treasure hunters, and they tell her so often, sometimes with letters that are laugh-out-loud funny. In addition, her fans feel as if they know the characters in her books on a personal basis, especially the outrageous Tante Lulu.
At home in central Pennsylvania with her husband, four sons, and a dog the size of a horse, Sandra is always looking for new sources of humor. It’s not hard to find.
Two of her sons have Domino’s Pizza franchises, and one of the two plays in poker competitions. They swear they are going to write a humor book entitled The Pizza Guys’ Guide to Poker.
Her husband, a stockbroker, is very supportive of her work. In fact, he tells everyone he is a cover model. In fact, he made that claim one time when she did a radio interview and swears the traffic around their home was heavy for awhile as people tried to get a gander at the handsome model. Then there was the time he made a blow-up of one of her early clinch covers with a hunk and a half-naked woman and hung it in his office. He put a placard under it saying, “She lost her shirt in the stock market . . . but does she look like she cares?”
So be careful if you run into Sandra. What you say or do may end up in a book. If you want to take the chance, you can contact her through her Web site at www.sandrahill.net.
The love and laughter
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Chapter 1
Home, home on the . . . bayou . . .
It was dawn on Bayou Black, and its inhabitants were about to launch their daily musical extravaganza, a beautiful performance as ancient as time.
The various sounds melded: a dozen d
ifferent frogs, the splash of a sac-a-lait or bream rising for a tasty insect, the whisper of a humid breeze among the moss-draped oaks, the flap of an egret’s wings as it soared out from a bald cypress branch. Even the silence had a sound. The only thing not making any noise was the lone human inhabitant, John LeDeux.
But not for long.
“Yoo-hoo!”
About five hundred birds took flight at that shrill greeting, not to mention every snake, rabbit, raccoon, or gator within a one-mile radius.
John jackknifed up in bed and quickly pulled the sheet up to the waist of his naked body. He was in the single bedroom of his fishing camp, another name for a cabin on stilts over the bayou. He knew exactly who was yoo-hooing him. His ninety-two-year-old great-aunt, Louise Rivard, better known as Tante Lulu. Who else in the world says “Yoo-hoo”?
He should have known better than to buy a place within a “hoot ’n’ a holler” of his aunt’s little cottage. She took neighborliness to new heights. And “hoot ’n’ a holler”? Mon Dieu! I’m turning into Tante Lulu.
By the time the wooden screen door slammed, putting an exclamation mark on his aunt’s entry, he’d already pulled on a pair of running shorts. He yawned widely as he walked into the living room, where she was carrying two shopping bags of what appeared to be food. Not a good sign.
But this was his beloved aunt, the only one who’d been there for him and his brothers during some hard times. He’d never say or do anything to hurt her feelings. “What’re you doing here, chère?” he said. “It’s only six-thirty, and I don’t have to report for work till ten.” John was a detective with the Baton Rouge police department. It was a two-hour drive to town, and most nights he stayed in an efficiency apartment he rented there, but some nights, like last night, he just wanted to be home.
“You gots bags under yer eyes, Tee-John,” his aunt said, totally ignoring his question. Tee-John—Little John—was a nickname that he’d been given as a kid, way before he hit his six-foot-two.
She went into the small kitchen and unloaded her goodies. French bread, boudin sausage, eggs, beignets, red and green tomatoes, garlic, okra, butter, Tabasco sauce, and the holy trinity of Southern cooking, celery, onions, and bell peppers. That was just from one bag. His small fridge would never hold all this crap.
“Yeah, I’ve got bags. I didn’t get to bed till three.”
“Tsk—tsk—tsk! Thass one of the reasons I’m here.”
“Huh?” He sank down into one of the two chairs, breathing deeply in the smell of the strong chicory coffee she’d already set to brewing.
Now she was whipping up what appeared to be an omelet, with sides of sausage and fried green tomatoes. It would do no good to argue that he rarely ate before noon.
“I may be old, sonny, but I ain’t dumb. Even here in the bayou, we hear ’bout all yer hanky-panky.”
He grinned. “Do you see any hot babes here?”
“Hah! Thass jist ’cause I walked in on you las’ month with that Morrison tart, buck naked and her squealin’ like a pig. Ya prob’ly do yer hanky-panky elswheres now.”
“You got that right,” he murmured.
“Why cain’t ya find yerself a nice Cajun girl, Tee-John?”
“’Cause I’m not lookin’, that’s why. Besides, Jenny Morrison is not a tart.”
His aunt put her hands on her tiny hips . . . She was only five-foot-zero and ninety pounds sopping wet. “Does she have yer ring on her finger?”
His eyes went wide. “Are you kidding? Hell, no!”
“Ya gonna marry up with the girl?”
“Hell, no!” he repeated.
She shrugged. “Well, then, yer a hound dog and she’s a tart. Hanky-panky is only fer people in love who’s gonna get married someday.”
That was the Bible, according to Tante Lulu.
“Best I bring ya some more St. Jude statues.”
“No!”
She raised his eyebrows at his sharp tone.
“Sorry, but come on, auntie. I’ve got St. Jude statues in my bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, porch, car, and office. There’s St. Jude napkins and salt and pepper shakers here on the table, St. Jude pot holders by the stove, a St. Jude wind chime outside, a St. Jude birdbath, and God only knows what else.”
“A person cain’t have too many St. Judes.”
St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless causes and his aunt’s favorite.
“I’m not that hopeless.”
She patted his shoulder as she put a steaming mug of coffee in front of him on the table. “I know that, sweetie. Thass one of the reasons I’m here. I had a vision las’ night.”
He rolled his eyes. Here it comes.
“It mighta been a dream, but it felt like a vision. Charmaine says I should go to one of those psychos.” Charmaine was his half sister and as psycho as they came.
“Psychics,” he corrected.
“Thass what I said. Anyways, back ta my vision. Guess who’s gettin’ married this year?”
“Who?” He asked the question before he had a chance to bite his tongue.
“You.” She beamed.
He choked on his coffee and sprayed droplets all over the table.
She mopped it up with a St. Jude napkin.
“Any clue who the lucky lady will be?” he asked, deciding to go along with the nonsense. He wasn’t even dating anyone steadily, and he for damn sure didn’t know one single woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
She shook her head. “That wasn’t clear, but it’s gonna happen. The thunderbolt, she’s a-comin’. Best ya be prepared.” The thunderbolt she referred to was some screwball thunderbolt of love that she claimed hit the LeDeux men just before they met the loves of their lives.
“No way! And just to make sure, I’m buyin’ a lightning rod before I go in to work today. Speaking of which, I’ve got to take a shower. Can you put a hold on that breakfast for about fifteen minutes?”
“Oui, but first I gots to tell you my news.”
“Oh?” The hairs stood out on the back of his neck. The last time she had news to announce, she’d popped a surprise wedding on his brother René. Or maybe it was the time she and Charmaine had entered a belly dancing contest. “I thought the vision was your news,” he teased.
She smacked his arm with a wooden spoon. “Stop yer sass, boy. My news is that I hired Jinx, Inc., ta come ta Loo-zee-anna.”
“The treasure-hunting company? They’re coming here?” John had worked one summer for the New Jersey operation that hired out to find lost treasures—sunken shipwrecks, cave pearls, buried gold, just about anything.
She nodded. “We’s gonna hunt fer pirate treasure out Grande Terre way. Too bad ya gots to work. It should be fun.”
“You’re talking about Jean Lafitte, I suppose. Don’t you know that treasure legend is just that—a legend?”
“We’ll see. I gots clues what no one else has.”
That is just great! Probably another vision. “How are you involved?”
“I put up two hundred thousand dollars fer half the profits.”
He inhaled sharply. “That’s a lot of money.”
His alarm must have shown in his voice because she shot back, “It’s my money to spend anyways I want.”
He put up his hands in surrender. “Absolutely. When is this venture going to start?”
“Next month.”
“Okay. That’s great, really. I wish you all the luck.” That’s what he said, but what he thought, standing under the shower a short time later, was, The bayou is never going to be the same again, guaranteed! And treasure hunting is never going to be the same after being hit by Tante Lulu. Talk about!
The menu at this nightclub was edible . . . uh, incredible . . .
Celine Arseneaux took a deep breath, then started across the crowded parking lot of The Playpen in suburban Baton Rouge, trying to ignore the fact that she was all tarted up like a high-class call girl.
The getup had been the bright idea of Bruce Cavanaugh,
her editor at the New Orleans Times-Picayune, designed so that Celine would meld in the crowd at this upscale club, which provided sexual favors to both men and women, all run by the Dixie Mafia. Thus the black stiletto sling-backs, the sheer black silk hose, and the black slip dress with red lace edging the bodice and hem, not to mention flame red lipstick. Her shoulder-length boring brown hair had been blown and twisted into a wild curly mane. Normally, her idea of dressing up was new jeans, lip gloss, and a ponytail.
No way would she ever be confused for the award-winning journalist she was. Nor would she be taken for the mother of a five-year-old child. Nope. She was a woman on the make for a little action . . . illegal, paid-for action.
“I look like a Bourbon Street hooker,” she’d complained to her fellow reporter Jade Lewis just a half hour ago as she’d helped plant the tape recorder inside her push-up bra and adjusted the tiny camera into the rose-shaped gold-and-rhinestone brooch at the deep V of her front. “I didn’t even know I could have cleavage.”
Jade had laughed. “Not a hooker. You look too high class for that. With the diamond post earrings and that brooch, you look like a bored upper-class gal with a wad of dough looking for Mister Studmuffin.”
“A desperate housewife?”
“Something like that.”
So now Celine walked up to the doorman, who resembled a pro wrestler in a tux, and flashed the small card she’d been given for admission. Apparently, no one could enter the private premises unless they were with a member or had obtained one of the cards, cards that were impossible to obtain without being carefully vetted. How Bruce had gotten hers she didn’t want to know.
The big bruiser studied the card, then stepped aside and held the door open for her. She could hear soft music up ahead—no sordid bump-and-grind business here. A hostess, who could have passed for a runway model in a trendy culotte, inquired, “Black, white, or blue?”