If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  Old man Breaux had again spoken to Armand of his "tiny little niece" who was coming for an after-Christmas visit. Armand wanted to feel a sense of anticipation for his future, but the present worries of the people that he loved too much overwhelmed him.

  Up ahead the sound of splashing water caught his attention. It was too loud to be turtles or gators. Was someone swimming? As they rounded a curve in the river, they spotted a woman doing laundry.

  A long rough-hewn plank extended from the bank out into the river where the woman sat straddled, her bare legs in the gray water. The mid- morning sun gleamed down, showing her in relief against the dark shaded woods behind her. With the square wooden battoir she pounded the clothes on the end of the plank mercilessly. The strong, rhythmic motions were born of much practice and competence, the task somehow passionate and feminine in its aspect.

  "Bonjour, Madame!" Armand hailed her, politely not wishing to come up on her unexpectedly.

  It was only when she turned to look in his direction that Armand realized the woman was Aida Gaudet. He was momentarily taken aback. He should have realized; certainly this was very near her father's home. And of course he knew that Mademoiselle Gaudet would have laundry to do for herself and her father, just as any other woman would. But somehow he did not imagine her, had never imagined her, as she was now. Garbed in a loose-fitting, near-threadbare work dress and with a gardesoleil sun-bonnet so functional and unattractive it was only describable as ugly, she labored hardily at such a mundane task.

  "Messieurs Sonnier!" she called out gaily, as if she were at a party rather than scrubbing dirty clothes on the end of a plank. "How are you?"

  Armand waved back silently and would have passed right by, but realized as the pirogue began to slow that Jean Baptiste was steering them closer. He answered her greeting.

  "Well mamselle, and you?"

  With an ease that belied the weight and clumsiness of the cargo, they pulled to a stop only a few feet from the end of the young woman's wash plank.

  "How lovely you look this afternoon," Jean Baptiste said to her. "With the sun shining down on you, you are beautiful as a painting in church."

  Armand had thought the same thing, but he was disturbed to hear Jean Baptiste say it.

  Aida giggled as if he told a great joke.

  "Thank you, monsieur," she said with exaggerated formality. "What you see before you is the very latest in laundering fashion. All the best clothes must be washed, so alas, the worst must be worn."

  The two laughed together easily. Too easily, Armand thought. It was no problem for Aida Gaudet to joke about her appearance, he realized. Even clad in such clothes, she was inordinately desirable. Her rolled-up sleeves allowed a man to feast his eyes upon the smooth, sun-pinked skin of her arms, prettily rounded with not a hint of skinniness, and the delicate femininity of her narrow wrists, small enough for a man to hold both in his own.

  It was upon her arms and wrists that Armand concentrated his attention because he was much too aware of her bosom, heavily spattered with water, the thin cottonade clinging to her abundant curves with unrelenting accuracy, and of the exposed flesh of her naked legs, only partially hidden in the murky water of the Vermilion River.

  Of course it was impossible for a woman to wash clothes without rolling up her sleeves and tying up her skirt and getting wet. But did a woman converse with men in such attire?

  To be fair Armand did recall several times when he conversed with Felicite as she did the wash. And of course he'd watched Orva Landry do hers. But that was not at all the same. Felicite was his sister-in-law and Orva Landry an old woman. He had spoken briefly once with Madame Hebert in much the same position that Aida was at this moment. But that had not seemed at all . . . at all the way that this seemed.

  They should move away. They should not speak with her any longer.

  Jean Baptiste kept talking. He kept smiling at her.

  She kept giggling.

  "Most women do their wash on Wednesday," Armand pointed out.

  Aida's cheeks brightened with embarrassment. "As do I, too," she admitted. "But yesterday, well, I . . . I just forgot that yesterday was Wednesday and then Thursday was upon us and . . . and so I have to do Wednesday's laundry on Thursday."

  As Armand listened to her explanation, it was all he could do not to shake his head in disbelief. The woman was completely devoid of any sense of reality. She must spend her life in a haze, unaware of anyone else.

  She did, however, have other qualities. Unerringly Armand's eyes were drawn to her bare knees just breaking the surface of the water. They were spread apart by the width of the plank. She was completely covered by the bunched fabric of her skirt. There was nothing inherently immodest in her pose. Still Armand's throat went extremely dry and his body tense. Her knees were spread on either side of the plank. Parting Aida's knees, spreading them apart, wide . . . The idea sizzled through him like grease on hot coals.

  He jerked his hat off his head and held it in front of him, ostensibly to run a hand through his hair.

  Aida looked at him, smiling shyly, as if nothing was amiss.

  "How is it going with Madame Sonnier?" she asked Jean Baptiste. "Her time draws near, I think."

  "She is well," he answered. "Her limbs trouble her somewhat, they are badly swollen it seems. Much more so than any of the other times."

  Felicite's limbs? Armand nearly scoffed aloud. Anger mixed unevenly into the heat of his arousal. His brother was thinking about limbs all right, but not swollen ones. He was looking at Aida Gaudet with her legs astraddle that plank and he was thinking the same thing that Armand was. Armand was sure of that. But unlike Jean Baptiste, Armand did not have a wife at home who loved him and cared for him. Jean Baptiste had no right to allow his mind to stray in such a direction.

  And she, since the most handsome unattached man was ignoring her, was encouraging the most handsome attached man.

  "Perhaps she should try some catmint tea," Aida suggested.

  "Catmint tea?"

  "It's said to help with swelling."

  Jean Baptiste offered a polite thank you. "I shall ask Madame Landry for the herb next time I see her."

  "Oh I can give you some," Aida told him quickly. "From my little garden. I grow my own herbs."

  "I didn't know that," Jean Baptiste told her.

  "It's just a girlish pass-a-time," she assured him. "I showed my garden to Monsieur Armand the Sunday he came to my porch. I enjoy watching the plants grow and flower. And I love the fragrances."

  "Ah! So it is then no wonder that you always smell so sweet, mamselle," Jean Baptiste said.

  With a pointed nod she accepted his compliment. "It will only take me a minute to get the catmint."

  She scooted back along the plank and then rose to her feet and dropped her damp skirts in one smooth nimble motion that revealed nothing untoward.

  "I will be right back," she called as she turned and raced up the path into the woods.

  Armand listened to Jean Baptiste's pleasured sigh. "She is as graceful as a deer," he said wistfully. Then he shook his head. "Poor Felicite moves like an ox."

  "Poor Felicite is your wife!" Armand almost snarled at him. "It would serve you better if you spoke of her with greater respect."

  Jean Baptiste turned to look at Armand as if the younger brother had suddenly grown donkey ears.

  "What in the world—" he began.

  "Poppa, are we home?" a sleepy Gaston asked from the top of the moss pile.

  "Non, petit," Jean Baptiste answered. "We have only stopped to chat with Mademoiselle Gaudet."

  Aida hurried up the woods pathway to the back door of her house. She wasn't sure how she was feeling—partially elated, partially embarrassed. Ostensibly she chose her washing site because it was close to the fence line where she hung the clothes to dry. But the fact that she was rarely seen there and that those who did pass by merely hailed her from a distance had always been a substantial side benefit. Laundry was not a pretty ch
ore and it was difficult for a woman to look her best while doing it.

  Now today, when she was not only garbed in her worst but splashed and spattered, the Sonnier brothers had deliberately sought her out for conversation.

  Jean Baptiste was not difficult, at least. He was such a warm and agreeable fellow. Felicite was certainly a lucky woman to have him for a husband.

  Armand, however, appeared today rather grim and humorless. While Jean Baptiste chatted and charmed, Armand looked at her as if she were a rodent caught in his corncrib. She had seen so much of him lately and it seemed inevitably when she was saying or doing something that made her seem like a fool. Compared to him, of course, she was not at all smart. He could read and write and he understood all about money and governments and the world outside. She didn't know any of that, but she did know that her engagement to Monsieur Boudreau was on a shaky foundation and getting more so everyday.

  And she wished she could talk to Armand about it—not only was he Laron's best friend, but as children they had been close.

  Laron hadn't so much as darkened her doorway since that Sunday that he failed to show up on her porch. A few days later Ruby had told her about Laron's trip to Bayou Blonde.

  She had no idea what had set him off in that direction or what his feelings now might be. But he had not hurried to beg her pardon. He'd apparently sent Armand to do it for him. A half-dozen times since then his best friend had offered a recitation of her fiancé’s virtues.

  Aida's mouth thinned unpleasantly. Maybe because she had never made demands upon Laron, he thought that he could treat her without respect. Well, she was not about to be publicly humiliated by him. She was not going to be made a laughingstock. If Laron couldn't even be bothered to come speak for himself, she seriously doubted that he would be eager to make vows with her. And if the betrothal was to be broken, Aida knew without question that it was she herself who was going to break it.

  Skirting the henhouse and the back shed, Aida made her way into the yard. Near the center of the cleared, nearly grassless area, used for household tasks and chicken scratching, was the tall circular- shaped cistern where rainwater was caught for drinking and cooking.

  Aida dropped to her knees and opened the lower store below the tank. There in that cool damp shelter she kept those roots, herbs and preserves that required such storage.

  In a near corner on a small shelf sat a sturdy cedar- lined box. She pulled it out on the ground in front of her and opened it up. Inside, packed in small earthen jars with wide cork stopper lids were the fruits of her labors, her harvest of herbs.

  Aida had always been interested in plants and flowers. Practically from babyhood she had kept a little garden of her own. There was something so purposeful, so reassuring in seeing the tiny green sprouts force themselves out of the dark earth to grow strong. Not content with cannas, zinnias, and marigolds, Aida had soon been planting lavender and rosemary and verbena, the fragrances of pretty girls.

  She had become seriously interested in herbs when a bee stung her cheek. Her face had turned red and raw and swelled badly, temporarily disfiguring her. Aida had been frightened. And her father, very worried himself, had poled her down to see Orva Landry.

  The old woman had been calm and self-assured. She'd crushed fresh savory and rubbed it over the injury.

  "You'll be fine in a few days," Madame Landry had said with complete confidence.

  She had been right. Within a week all evidence of the horrible sting vanished. Aida was impressed with that. But even more, she was impressed by the old woman's confidence. She envied the certainty that a person could have if she held knowledge within her grasp.

  It sparked an interest in the medicinal herbs. Gradually she had come to plant them in her little garden. She would pretend that she was a famous hoodoo woman, blending them together for make-believe charms and cures.

  Little by little she learned about the herbs used to treat her or her family or friends. She grew a little hyssop to ease her father's breathing when the scent of elm was in the air. And a plot of dill that soothed the ache in her tummy when she got overset. She raised lemon balm for headache and licorice to make the bowels move. Each season she added something new and the portion of her garden set aside for herbs had enlarged and spread until there was little room left for the pretty flowers that she once cultivated.

  She sifted delicately among the contents of the herb box. Each bunch of blossoms, bundle of leaves, or stash of seeds had been carefully dried or crushed or mashed into paste to keep it until the spring arrived.

  Aida easily found the catmint jar. The pale violet flowers inside were now faded to bluish-gray. The scent was pungent, almost spicy. The jar was completely full, Aida did not suffer often from female difficulties and holding water. She would send it all to Felicite, she decided quickly. If the poor woman's limbs were so swollen that her husband complained about them, then she was certainly in need.

  She held her crisp white apron out by the corners and emptied the jar into it. Folding back the corners, she ensured that unless she tripped and fell upon her face, she could transport the herbs without fear of losing any.

  She closed the chest and put it back on the cistern safe shelf. As she began to shut the door she spied an arrowroot tuber. After a moment's contemplation she placed it, too, within the folds of her apron.

  Aida shut the door and carefully reset the raccoon-proof latch. She hurried back down the woods path. The Sonnier brothers were waiting. They undoubtedly had not had a meal since breakfast and she should not hold them up unnecessarily.

  A meal? She glanced down to see two strings still upon her fingers. She must hurry to finish with her laundry. Her poor father must be famished already. She hoped he didn't show up at the water's edge and tell the men that she had forgotten him once more. Armand would truly be disapproving.

  Her brow furrowed once more as she considered the younger Monsieur Sonnier's incessant insistence that she and Laron marry as quickly as possible. If she did not know better, she would wonder if he was speaking for her own father or the parish priest. But Armand was supposed to be Laron's best friend. If that was so, why would he push so rigorously for a quick wedding? It was a troublesome question.

  "Here you are, monsieur," she called out as she came through the trees and spotted the men waiting on the pirogue.

  The little boy had awakened and he waited excitedly.

  "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gaudet," he called out.

  Aida couldn't help smiling back at him.

  "And a good day to you, young sir," she replied.

  The boat was pulled in as close to shore as the Sonniers would dare with such a load. Since Aida was dressed in her laundering clothes and already wet, it made perfect sense that she should wade out to them.

  She was barely ankle-deep in the water when she heard Jean Baptiste speak up. "Stay where you are, Mademoiselle. I will come to you."

  Aida opened her mouth to tell him not to bother, but didn't have time. With a hearty splash, Armand Sonnier was standing in the water.

  "I'll do it," he said to his brother.

  Aida watched with disbelief as Armand Sonnier made his way through the waist-high water toward her. When he reached her side he was dripping wet.

  "I was going to bring it out to the pirogue," she told him by way of apology.

  "I didn't want you to have to lift your skirt again."

  From his face, the reply seemed to have escaped him unexpectedly. Aida's jaw dropped open in shock.

  "I mean I—" He fumbled for an explanation.

  Aida felt as disconcerted and uncomfortable as she had ever felt in her life. Hurriedly she unhitched the apron from her belt and handed it all to him in the bundle.

  She chattered quickly. "The catmint will make a fine tea, but tell Madame Sonnier not to overboil it or it will be bitter to the taste."

  Armand nodded. He appeared unhappy and discomposed. And somewhat irritated to be feeling that way.

  "She needn't c
oncern herself with straining it too carefully," she continued. "Even consumed whole, it's not dangerous."

  He was standing too close to her, she thought. Well, maybe not too close, he was at least an arm's length away. But there was something distinctly intimate about being able to look directly into a man's eyes. It made her feel as if he could see right inside her. As if she had nowhere to hide.

  "I've put an arrowroot in there, too," she said, trying to cover her discomfort. "It's good for thickening a roux or a stew and it is said to build up the strength."

  "I will tell her," he said.

  "That's all the catmint that I have. If she needs more, perhaps Madame Landry will have some," she said.

  Armand raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, and perhaps it is Madame Landry who should be prescribing teas and roots."

  Aida felt the heat of embarrassment flame her cheeks. "Of course Madame Sonnier should follow the dictates of Madame Landry," she agreed quietly. "I ... I only thought to help."

  Her modesty seemed to check his annoyance and he appeared visibly to force his rather angry expression to soften.

  "Yes, well, I'm sure you did," he admitted finally. "When you showed me your herb garden, I had no idea that you had such a talent."

  "It is, as I said, just a pass-a-time."

  "But it is an admirable one," Armand said. "Laron will be pleased to hear that his bride-to-be has such interests."

  Aida secretly doubted that statement. She chose her next words carefully.

  "I am not altogether certain that pleasing Monsieur Boudreau is any longer my concern," she said.

  She saw his eyes widen.

  "Whatever do you mean, Mademoiselle Gaudet?" he asked.

  "Not having seen or spoken to the man in some time, I have no knowledge of whether he is even alive or dead," she told him.

  "He is very much alive, mamselle," Armand said. "Although he has not ... he has not been feeling quite himself. I expect him to be paying you a visit any day now. Perhaps you can make up a tea from your herbs to treat him, too."

  Chapter Nine