by Pamela Morsi
Brightly honest blue eyes!
He was staring straight at her.
Aida lowered her gaze immediately, but couldn't keep it down. Glancing up again, she saw she had been right. He was looking at her, straight at her, right at her. She couldn't turn away. He must have seen her watching him, examining him. He must be able to see right inside her. He must know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. The flesh on her body mottled with goosebumps. Her womb quivered like jelly. Her bosom was tight and high, the nipples puckered beneath the covering of her clothes. She didn't even know what she was thinking or feeling. Aida wasn't sure if she could still breathe. Her lips parted, inviting air into her lungs, but the lower one trembled, trembled with something akin to fear.
"Of course, if all else fails you can rub parsley into it. Armand? Are you not writing this down?"
Madame Landry's words penetrated to both of them. When he glanced away, Aida found that she could, too. Determinedly she concentrated her attention upon her own lap. She ached there. It was unfamiliar, unfathomable, and physical. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together.
He didn't like her, she reminded herself. He thought her foolish and frivolous. He wanted her to marry his best friend. But what did that look, that intensity, what did it mean? A lot of men had looked at her. But no man had ever looked at her like that.
Tears welled in her eyes. She wasn't sure if the emotion she felt was sadness or joy. Armand Sonnier looked at her and her whole world was changed.
"Now to make a charm against it," Orva continued, "you slice a real thin piece of old smoked bacon, the older the better. You stitch it into a piece of flannel and blacken it all over with pepper. Warm it until it's all as one and then fasten it with a string right into the craw of a man's throat."
"We are going to the fais-dodo," Armand told Laron determinedly. "And you are going to patch things up with Aida Gaudet."
Laron was poling the pirogue in the right direction, the evening's entertainment was to be at the home of Thertule Guidry, but he was distinctly uninterested in the outing.
Armand was sitting in the bottom of the boat. Armand was his best friend in the whole world. But Armand didn't have any idea of the way things were in his heart.
"I will go," Laron told him. "This is my community and family. I never want to be separated from them. But I no longer intend to wed Aida Gaudet. I will have Helga, Armand. I will have Helga or no one at all. You are my friend and the sooner you accept that, the better it will be for everyone."
Armand shook his head. "Laron, it just cannot be. I know that you love her. I have known that for a very long time. But you cannot have her."
"You once said that I could."
Armand nodded. "I did say it, careless words, I said. But I was wrong."
"Perhaps you are wrong now," Laron suggested.
"I don't think so," he answered. "I don't think so. She is married, Laron. That cannot be changed. He may have been no good, he may have left her, but he is still her husband and there is just no way that it can ever be undone."
Laron didn't reply. There was a way it could be undone. Laron had thought long and hard about that way. But he did not mention it to Armand. There were things a man knew about himself that he could not reveal even to his best friend. Laron knew that he was going to have Helga Shotz, openly, honestly, sanctioned by God and man. She was going to bear his name and he was going to be her husband. He knew that.
And he also knew the only way for it to happen was for her to be a German widow indeed. Laron had decided. He must kill Helmut Shotz.
"I think you have underestimated Mademoiselle Gaudet," Armand continued. "She is so very pretty that we have all failed to notice all the other fine things about her."
"Hmmm." Laron was noncommittal.
"I myself have been guilty of this. Certainly the woman is no great intellect. But I have allowed myself to be so blinded by her physical appearance that I have not noticed her innate good sense. I told you that Madame Landry is teaching her the charms and cures."
"So I have heard."
"She may not be clever, but she is diligent and determined," Armand continued. "It is the most a person could expect of another human being."
Laron was no longer listening. He was remembering.
He had tried to stay away. He knew that it was the thing to do. Until he could offer himself, until he had something to offer, he should keep his distance. Not just for her sake, or for his own, but for the children.
He ached for Jakob's loving little-boy kisses, for Elsa's wide-eyed admiration, even for Karl's oft-times sullen companionship. The children loved and needed him and he realized, perhaps too late, that they were part of his heart.
But even more he required Helga. He could not recall the day, the hour, the moment when he first knew that he loved her. But he did and there was no stepping back from it.
The previous day he had been able to stand it no longer. He'd poled his way up Bayou Tortue hoping for a glimpse of her. He could be content with not even a word but he was starving for the sight of her. But it was not to be.
As he approached the house a longing stirred inside him as familiarity warred with separation. He noticed a section of rotting shingles on the roof and thought to himself that he'd get Jean Baptiste and Armand to help him replace them. Then like a direct blow to the chest he recalled that it was not his house and that his help, even his presence, was no longer welcome. Who would help Helga now? Who would see that the roof over her head was sturdy and that she had stores for the winter?
Elsa was in the yard pounding grain with the pile et pilon. She was young and strong and straight. A daughter any man would be proud to call his own. Her blond braids swung and slapped her back like ropes as her arms worked the pestle up and down into the hollowed-out log mortar. Across the distance of the water, Laron could hear the pop and shatter of corn being cracked. In memory he could taste once more that strange German version of fried coushe-coushe that Helga had so often served him for breakfast.
"Oncle! Oncle!"
Laron heard the cry before he saw the little fellow who uttered it. Jakob had come around from the far side of the house. He carried a carved gourd crawfish trap, but he cast it aside carelessly and raced to the end of the dock when he spotted Laron.
"Oncle, where have you been?" he called out. "We have missed you so much."
Elsa, too, had set her work aside and followed her brother, a little uneasily, to the end of the dock.
Laron had not intended to stop. He had thought merely to pass by, to see from a distance those joys that he used to hold close with such casual unconcern. But he could not merely pass by. Not with young Jakob jumping up and down with delight on the dock. He steered the pirogue in the direction of the children. He even cast the line to Jakob to secure for him, but he did not disembark.
That did not matter to the little boy who eagerly threw himself into Laron's arms. It took all his balance to keep the pirogue from tipping, but he wouldn't put the boy aside. It felt much too good to hold him close. Tightly the child hugged his neck, punctuated by a smacking kiss at his temple.
"Mama said that you would not come back," he told Laron. "But I knew that you would. You love us and I told her so."
"I do love you," Laron whispered as he felt the tears well up in his eyes. "I do love you all, and that is forever."
"Karl said you are going to be like our poppa," he continued. "Not dead really, but as good as dead to us."
"I am not at all and in no way like your poppa," Laron assured him, deciding for himself as the words came from his mouth. "No matter what happens between your mother and me, I will never be dead to you until I am dead in fact."
"Oh Monsieur Boudreau!" Elsa tearfully threw herself into his arms also. "Mama is so unhappy. Now you are back and everything will be wonderful again."
The misery in her tone belied the hope in her words, but Laron could only press her tightly against him and pray that it could be
so.
"Get in the house!"
The command was forceful and abrupt. All three looked up to see Helga's oldest son standing on the porch steps; the flintlock rifle Laron had given them for protection was in Karl's hands at the ready.
"You children get in the house!" he repeated.
"Shut up, Karl," Elsa hollered back. "Who made you the boss of anything?"
"Oncle is here," Jakob told him. "I'm not going into the house without him."
"You two mind your brother," Laron told them quietly. "Go on into the house. He and I need to talk."
"He thinks he's the man of the house," Elsa complained. "Ordering us all around and Mama crying every night."
"Go on inside, princesse," Laron said. "Your mother is in the house, is she not? She may need you beside her."
Reluctantly the two stepped away. Elsa took Jakob's hand and they made their way past their older brother. Elsa didn't resist snapping one more word of dissent at Karl. Jakob took that opportunity to look back in longing at Laron, still standing in his pirogue.
The children hesitated momentarily on the porch and then passed through the curtained doorway into the house.
"Hello, Karl," Laron said finally.
"Mama wants you gone from here," the boy answered.
"Did she tell you to bring the gun?"
The youngster was momentarily nonplussed. "It's your gun, I know. Do you want it back?"
Laron shook his head. "No, no, certainly not. But it is meant for killing game and birds, not Acadians."
Karl raised both his chin and the rifle muzzle in challenge. "Any Acadian who comes here to make my mother cry deserves killing."
Laron almost smiled. The boy was a defender, a protector of the family. A man could ask no greater thing from a son.
"I am leaving now," Laron told him. "But I wish you to give a message to your mother."
Karl looked skeptical but nodded.
"Tell her that I am going to make it all right. Once and for all time, I am going to make it right."
And he would, Laron vowed silently once more as he poled himself and Armand toward the ever increasing volume of music along the river. He was going to make it right.
"She is very sweet and genuine, actually," Armand was saying. "Certainly a man cannot look at her without feeling a degree of lust, but it is not as if she draws it to herself or even desires that attention. A woman cannot be held responsible for her own beauty any more than she can be condemned for plainness."
"If you think she is so wonderful, Armand," Laron interrupted, "then perhaps you should set your own sights in that direction. I am no longer interested."
"But Laron—"
"We are here already," he announced. "I fully intend to talk to her, my friend, so please do not bend my ear any further about it."
The fais-dodo was in full swing. Dancers twirled on the most even spot of the Guidrys' high ground. A huge fire was lit in the outside hearth, but it was not as much for cooking as for fending off the November chill in the air. The space at the end of the dock was overcrowded; the two men stepped out of the pirogue and were forced to wade the last steps to the bank, dragging the boat up behind them.
"I'm getting wet," Armand complained.
Laron laughed at him. "If you insist on wearing those resplendent Creole trousers, then you must learn to live with your damp pant legs."
His friend growled back at him good-naturedly.
They were met upon the bank by friends and neighbors with happy greetings and slaps upon the back. Laron, who had not been seen among them since his now well-known foray to the Bayou Blonde, was greeted with both warmth and curiosity. He'd stepped over the bounds, but he was back in the fold. All were willing to forgive and forget, and could do so easily.
Laron laughed and talked and communed with them. He enjoyed these people and this place. He cherished being a part of them. They were his family, some literally and others in his heart. He loved them. But he loved Helga more and he had things to accomplish. It was time to do those things.
He made his way to the edge of the dancers, his eyes taking in, with pleasure, the beauty of Aida Gaudet. On Granger's arm she danced with delicate grace. She was a treasure to behold, all light and prettiness as shiny as morning. She was a swirl of eye-catching color, all red and blue and yellow. Any man's attention would be drawn to her. He understood how his own once had been, too. He had thought to possess her, to press that lovely body against his own and fill it with his seed. He no longer had the desire to do that. He could look at her dispassionately now and know that she was human. He could be sorry that he was going to abandon her, but he would not regret the loss.
The music ended and the dancers clapped politely. Aida spotted him in that moment and paled. He never approached her early in the evening. He always watched her have her fun until he was ready to take his obligatory dance. Tonight he stepped forward immediately.
As if knowing that a Passepied was not Laron's main interest, Ony Guidry took that moment to put down the fiddle and seek out a cup of coffee.
"We must talk," he said to her.
"Yes," she answered, nodding.
Laron hesitated momentarily. Should he take her into the relative privacy of the nearby trees, or would that be unconscionable for a couple who were just about to become unengaged?
He led her a little away from the other young people, but kept in full sight of every person present. He wished suddenly that he had practiced what he had to say, but he hadn't truly gotten much past the decision to say it.
"My dear Mademoiselle Gaudet," he began formally. "It seems that I have done you a great wrong. I—"
Laron hesitated. Aida wasn't even looking at him, she was searching for something inside her sleeve.
"We have known each other from childhood," he continued a little warily. "And we have been betrothed for some time so I feel that I must speak plainly. I . . ."
She was still trying to retrieve something from her sleeve.
"Mamselle?"
"I have it here someplace," she said. "I purposely put it right here in my right sleeve so I would not lose it."
Laron's brow furrowed with curiosity. "I believe that is your left sleeve," he whispered.
Aida looked up at him wide-eyed. "Yes, yes it is. Oh dear, sometimes I just get so rattled. Just one minute. I have it here—"
She began immediately digging inside the other brightly colored sleeve. A moment later she pulled out what appeared to be a wad of multicolored rags. She pressed them in his hands.
"I know what you are going to say, or at least I think that I do and it is not necessary. I ... I cannot marry you, Monsieur Boudreau, because I . . . think I may love someone else. And I believe that you do also. I think, however, that I should call it off. Everyone will think it is because of your adventure at the Bayou Blonde. That should keep the gossips occupied and we can try to sort out our lives as best we can."
Laron spread the wad of rags across his hands. It was a miniature collection of male clothing. A tiny shirt, a little coat, and a pair of culottes that would more likely fit a mouse than a man. He had been sacked, handed his vetements. In the traditional way, he had become the rejected suitor. He had shown himself too small in her eyes.
Strangely he caressed the tiny blue jacket and then looked up at her. She was very young, very pretty, and very anxious.
"I didn't realize that you could sew," he said.
"I can do anything that I have to do," she answered.
There was a gasp beside them and they both spotted Ruby beside them, staring in horror at the jilting suit. The small sound had captured the attention of others around her and within a moment's time there was a complete silence in the company and every eye was staring at the couple with shock and disbelief.
Laron leaned closer, not willing for any to hear.
"Thank you, Aida," he whispered. "I'm going away this night and won't be here to face the gossips with you."
"I can handle them,"
she answered. Her brow furrowed in concern. "Where are you going? Not to Bayou Blonde."
He shook his head. "Down the river to the German coast," he answered. "I'd rather no one knew, but I have business there."
She nodded. "Best of luck with your business, monsieur," she said.
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "And best of luck to you, mademoiselle. I think I will find you more agreeable as a friend than I would have as wife."
She smiled at him, that tiny shy smile that could slay the heart of any man on the Vermilion River.
"Indeed I think you shall," she answered.
He stepped back, bowed formally, and walked away. The silence around the gaily lit party was near complete. Laron walked straight to his pirogue, looking neither to the left nor to the right. No one spoke a word or moved to stop him.
Suddenly Armand broke free from the group and hurried after him calling his name. Laron kept walking. He kept his face devoid of expression but he wanted to scream for joy. Free! He was free! Now it was left only to make her free also.
"Laron!"
Armand was hurrying behind him. He would not let him merely go without a word. But Laron was already ankle-deep in water before he finally forced himself to turn and speak to his friend.
"I am leaving," he said simply. "Do not be concerned for me. And tell my sisters not to worry. I won't be at Bayou Blonde."
"Laron, you cannot do this," Armand insisted. "I will not allow you to throw you life away. You cannot break this engagement."
He held up his handful of little clothes. "I did not break it, she did. It seems, my friend, that the lovely Aida thinks she loves someone else."
Chapter Eleven
Armand had great hopes for the fais-dodo. It had taken a bit of arm twisting to get Laron to attend, but he'd done it. Armand was certain that familiarity, duty, and the lure of the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River would do the rest.