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

by Pamela Morsi

  "We will find him," she whispered. "I am sure of it."

  "Have you had a vision of it?" she asked.

  Aida shook her head. The only vision she'd seen had been the one of Laron cutting the shorn field. That one was for Armand, if she could ever make him understand. She had no comfort to offer Helga.

  "But we will find him, I feel sure," she said.

  Helga nodded, but her face continued to be lined with anxiety.

  "Laron is a serious and thoughtful man," Aida told her. "Occasionally he gets mistaken ideas, like the plan to marry up with me. But once he has thought it through, he always knows the right way to go. It will be the same this time."

  Helga nodded hopefully. "I pray you are right," she said and then shook her head with worry once more. "But love clouds the judgment, does it not?"

  Her words were an unwelcome reminder of the morning in Armand's arms. She, loving him, had easily thrown caution to the wind. It was only his clear-eyed good sense that had prevailed upon them to resist sinful temptation. And she, loving him, had forced him to take vows that perhaps he did not want to make. Love did cloud the judgment, but she could not wish it away and would not if she could.

  Aida forced her thoughts back to Helga and patted the woman's hand comfortingly. "Try not to worry," she said.

  Helga smiled. "You are too kind to me," she said. "I have wronged you greatly and still you are kind."

  Aida shook her head. "You have wronged no one but yourself, I think," she answered. "Things will be fine, I know that they will."

  The woman gave her a wan smile, not believing, but grateful for the words nonetheless.

  "He said that you were pretty," she told Aida. "I think he did not do you justice. You are very beautiful."

  Aida shrugged. "The river here is beautiful and this country that we travel through. But I cannot love it. We can admire what we see. But we can only love what we truly know."

  "Yes, you are right. And I can see that your Armand does truly know your heart," she said.

  Aida blushed with shame at her words. If only what she said were the truth.

  "Hold on to the sides of the skiff," Armand ordered, startling them both from their reverie. "We are drawing into the bay now and must put over before we are swept to sea."

  A poling stick was only good when the water was shallow enough to catch the bottom with it. Armand deliberately kept close to shore where he had control,

  pulling with great strength and determination against the relentlessness of the sea.

  "Once we get to the east shore," Armand told them. "We will pull up until the tide turns. We need rest and food anyway."

  The two women clinging determinedly to the tiny skiff could not help but agree. As they approached the beach the danger lessened and the waves no longer seemed likely to tip the boat.

  "Look," Helga called out. "There is a fire on the beach."

  Aida followed her gaze and could see the blaze and one man standing on the sand.

  "This is a desolate area," Armand said. "It could be an outlaw or pirate."

  "It is Laron!"

  Helga spoke the words with absolutely certainty that belied the distance that separated them from the man.

  Aida shook her head disbelieving and then spied the long, cypress pirogue pulled up on the beach. Someone had braved the gulf waters in such an inconsequential craft?

  "I think she's right."

  Armand pulled toward the fire.

  "Ho! The beach!" he called out in French.

  The man in the distance turned toward them, waved, and called back.

  Orva Landry was smiling to herself as she sat alone on the end of the dock in front of her house. She'd packed her bag, everything that she would need, and calmly she waited. Father Denis had taken the children to the Heberts. Jesper Gaudet had been by to pick up his daughter and had been startled and furious and near mad as a rabid dog to learn that not only had she married without permission, she had run off with her new husband without so much as a word.

  Orva had finally made him see the sense of all of it and was sitting, waiting, humming to herself with pleasure. In the distance she already spied a pirogue headed in her direction. She waited knowing with certainty that Jean Baptiste would arrive shortly.

  Beside her on the worn cypress planks was the blueberry tart that she'd made him. She'd left it cooling in the back of the cupboard, careful to keep it separate from the one she'd made for her own supper. She certainly hadn't wanted to get the two mixed up. This one contained a dangerous potion that she personally had no wish to ingest.

  Of course, there had been no danger of that. Those naughty children, Armand and Aida, had eaten up every bite of hers. She should have hid it equally as well, she thought.

  She shook her head thinking of those two. What a surprise they turned out to be. No matter how long she lived a woman could never tell who would ultimately end up with whom. Those two had been in the soup for a good long time now. All they had needed was a little push.

  That was what Jean Baptiste was getting tonight, she thought. Just a little push.

  "Heave to the boat, Jean Baptiste!" she called out. "I'm going upstream with you."

  "Bonsoir, Madame Landry!" the young man said, surprised as he eased his pirogue closer to her dock. "It would be my pleasure to take you up."

  "What a day it has been," she said. "I suppose you have heard."

  "Just now," he said. "They say that my brother has married Aida Gaudet and the two have gone down the river with the German widow to find Laron Boudreau."

  Orva nodded. "They should be all the way downriver by nightfall," she answered.

  Jean Baptiste maneuvered closer, ultimately getting close enough to throw the old woman the rope. She deftly tied the boat and stood, ready to board.

  "I cannot think how such a thing has come to pass," he told her.

  The old woman chuckled.

  "Strange times are brewing," she replied.

  The young man helped her into the pirogue and settled her in front before untying and easing off from the dock.

  "I made you this blueberry tart," she said, indicating the dish beneath the white cloth.

  "For me, Madame?"

  "Just for you," she told him, nodding as she pulled back the towel that covered it allowing him to admire the treat.

  Jean Baptiste's eyes widened with appreciation. "It looks wonderful. I suspect I'd better save it for after supper."

  "Yes," she agreed. "Definitely you must wait until after supper."

  "Where are you headed tonight, Madame?" he asked.

  "Well, first to your place," she said. "Then beyond. I aim to take your children upriver with me."

  "My children?" He looked at her questioningly.

  "Your old Tante Celeste hasn't seen those little ones in a month of Sundays. I heard the voices tell me that tonight is the night to visit."

  Jean Baptiste's expression turned grave. Anytime the voices spoke of anyone, there was cause for concern.

  "You don't think the old woman is ill, do you?" he asked. "Perhaps we should all go and spend time with her, Felicite and I, too."

  "No, indeed not," Orva insisted. "Felicite's time is too near. And you'll need to be with her. I'm to go and take your three little ones. You are to merely drop us off and return to your wife. Jacque Savoy will bring us back tomorrow or the next day."

  Jean Baptiste nodded a little uncertainly. Tante Celeste lived very far up the river, they'd be lucky to make it there by nightfall. If it seemed a very long trip for one or two days, however, the young man was not brave enough to question the traiteur about it.

  "Pierre, too?" he asked curiously. "You want to take the baby also?"

  Orva nodded. "All three of your children will go with me."

  "I'm not sure Felicite will like that," he said honestly. "He's yet very small and still taking tit from time to time."

  Madame Landry laughed. It sounded almost like a cackle. "Don't worry, Tante Celeste and I w
ill manage fine. And Felicite will do as I tell her. It's time that you two spent an evening alone together. Sometimes it's necessary for a couple to learn the truth about how important they are to each other."

  Jean Baptiste looked at her, speculation now evident in his eyes.

  "You are up to something, are you not?" he said.

  She smiled up at him. "That I am."

  He hesitated, his brow furrowing in worry. "Are you to tell me, or must I be kept in suspense?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Actually, I intended for Armand to speak of it, but as I suppose he cannot I must do it myself."

  "What was Armand to tell me?" Jean Baptiste asked.

  Orva gazed at the young man for a moment and then chose her words carefully.

  "Armand was to say that there is a love charm in this tart."

  Jean Baptiste looked at her astounded and then laughed out loud.

  "A love charm?" He shook his head, disbelieving. "You've made me up a love charm? Old woman, I've been married five years and have nearly four children. Do you think I am in need of such a nostrum?"

  She smiled slyly. "I think you need what's in this tart."

  Jean Baptiste still shook his head.

  "I love my wife, Madame," he said.

  "I never doubted it," she answered.

  "Then why make a love charm?"

  "Are you not interested in making love?"

  Her question brought him to blush. They passed the rest of the trip up to his house in near silence. Orva was smiling to herself. She knew enough about life, and about men and women, to closely guess at the young man's thoughts. He had married young, much in love, and now saw himself burdened with duty and responsibility. He would willingly take the opportunity to have an evening alone with his wife. An evening when they might pretend, for a few hours, that they were the carefree lovers of their past.

  True to expectations, Felicite was not keen on allowing the children to go off overnight with her. But Orva insisted and Jean Baptiste was even more adamant. In just a few moments the Sonnier children, baby Pierre included, were sitting in the pirogue, heading upriver for an unexpected visit to Tante Celeste. Felicite stood at the end of the dock watching and waving to them as they left.

  "Don't give these little ones so much as a moment's worry," Orva told her. "There will be plenty to think about this night, I promise."

  Madame Landry cuddled the little ones close to her and kept them quiet and calm as she told them stories. It was a curious fact that the youngest of the community loved Orva and were drawn to her. Once they came to understand the ways of the traiteur and the voices and the notion of spirits and charms, a fearful distance was created that could never quite be bridged. For that reason, Madame Landry, always took the early opportunities to love and be close to the little ones of the parish.

  Orva had never had children of her own. She'd actually been married twice, but there had been no issue from either union. She did not regret that, nor was she saddened by it. Her life was filled with important tasks to be accomplished. It was uncertain if she could have been as effective as a treater if she had also been a mother. The nearest she had come to motherhood herself was being godmother to Armand.

  Vividly she remembered the small, sickly little baby that they had brought her. No one had believed that baby would live. Truthfully she hadn't believed it herself. But she had been determined. Why had God given her the treater's skills if He had not meant her to be able to save this special little life that had been placed in her arms?

  She had saved him and she had made him strong. And she had watched him grow into a wise and just man. She was proud of him. As proud as any true parent might be. And she loved him. She had every hope that his new life, his married life, would bring him much happiness. And what she did this night was as much for him as it was for Jean Baptiste and Felicite.

  It was full dark when they arrived at the little shack up high in the dark bayou. They almost missed the place. Tante Celeste had long since gone to bed and there was no light to spot the location.

  Jean Baptiste had seen it, fortunately, and with a little maneuvering and a lot of noise, they had managed to tie up the boat at the broken-down old dock.

  Tante Celeste came out of her house, shucked down to her smallclothes to see what was going on.

  "I couldn't be more surprised if tree frost turned into real silver," the old woman declared.

  "We've come to pass-a-time with you," Orva told her. "I brought these little children and the two of us will have to try to take care of them for a day or two."

  Tante Celeste ushered the sleepy children into the house as Jean Baptiste hastened off.

  "You go on home now," Orva said. "And soon as you get to the house you eat up that tart I made for you."

  He chuckled. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "I mostly always do," she replied.

  "Maybe I should share a bite of it with my wife," he suggested.

  "No, don't do that," Orva cautioned.

  "Felicite's not been interested in laying close with me for some time," he confided quietly.

  Orva shook her head firmly. "Every bite of that tart is for you. Don't let that woman have even so much as a taste of the crust."

  Jean Baptiste nodded agreement.

  "Heaven will be taking charge of your wife's body this night, telling it exactly what to do. You'll not have to worry on that account," Orva said. "This charm is meant strictly for you."

  In the moonlight Orva couldn't plainly make out his face, but she sensed his embarrassment.

  "Madam," he whispered his reply. "I don't know what you've been thinking but my ... my body has never failed me in that way. I can always . . ."

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure you can," Orva conceded. "This treatment is not for curing impotence. I know full well that is not the problem. It's something entirely different. You just go on home to your wife, Jean Baptiste. Eat up every bite of that tart. And believe me, within a few minutes the way your body will be acting is going to be like nothing you've ever felt in your life."

  With a lighthearted chuckle and a shake of his head, Jean Baptiste stepped into his pirogue.

  "So it is your aim to make a memorable night for us," he said as he pushed off from the dock.

  Orva nodded and waved as she called out to him.

  "Young man, your whole life long I don't believe that you will ever forget it."

  As Jean Baptiste and the little pirogue headed downstream in the full dark of moonlight, Orva could hear the young man whistling.

  She almost felt like whistling herself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Laron!" Helga stood in the pirogue calling out his name while they were still buffeted by the surf. She waved eagerly to him and she jumped from the skiff to the beach, heedless of the water.

  He stared for a long moment and then ran into her arms.

  "Helga! My love, my own sweet love."

  He gripped her against his chest almost desperately close to him and whispered her name over and over.

  She was crying with pent-up anxiety and relief.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. "Are the children all right? Has anything . . . anything happened?"

  "Only that I missed you," she answered. "Only that I missed you so much."

  Armand helped Aida onto the beach and together they pulled the skiff safely out of the tow. By unspoken agreement, the two successfully managed to keep their eyes on each other, affording Laron and Helga a brief moment of privacy.

  "How did you get here? Where are the children?"

  "We came after you," she told him. "The children are with your sister. Madame Landry said for her to care for them."

  "Madame Landry?"

  "I didn't know where else to go," Helga admitted. "I thought her the person most likely to know what to do."

  Laron nodded tacit agreement.

  "We left her place just this morning."

  "You came all this way today?"

  "We w
ere headed for the German coast," Helga said.

  "In that worn-out old skiff?" Laron directed that question to Armand. "You would have never made it."

  "It was all we had," he answered.

  "Perhaps Madame Landry knew that we need only make it here," Aida suggested.

  "Mademoiselle Gaudet?" Laron noticed her for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

  "I . . ." She hesitated and then glanced over at Armand. The sight of him seemed to give her courage. "I am Mademoiselle Gaudet no longer," she said. "I am Madame Sonnier."

  Laron's jaw dropped open in disbelief and then he leaned over and heartily slapped Armand on the back.

  "Bon Dieu!" Laron exclaimed. "My friend, you never said a word."

  "There was no word to say," Armand admitted. "I asked her to wed me and she has."

  Laron took Aida's hand and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "Best wishes, Madame," he said.

  "Thank you," she replied, almost shy. "We ... we just decided recently."

  "It must have been very recently," he agreed. "So it was Armand who was the other man you loved."

  Aida blushed a vivid scarlet and did not reply.

  Laron turned to regard Armand once more. "And when were you wed?" he asked.

  Armand gave Aida a little guilty glance. "Today, this morning."

  "What?" Laron was genuinely shocked. "And this is how you choose to spend your wedding night?"

  "You are my friend." He gave a nod toward Aida. "Our friend. Madame Shotz needed to go in search of you. So of course we wanted to help."

  "Your people and your friends have been very kind to me," Helga said. "I would have come to you, come to find you, if I'd had to swim. Thankfully there was that little boat. Monsieur Sonnier made it fly over the water. For that I will always be grateful."

  Armand shrugged.

  Laron reached out and shook Armand's hand. "Thank you," he said simply. "I will always be grateful, too. If something happened to Helga, I . . ."