Bayou Angel

by Sandra Hill

  But whoo-boy, Grace was going to be pissed that he was involved. Good! He lived to piss her off.

  Andrea suddenly gave his face intense scrutiny. “Are you Grace’s boyfriend?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I saw your picture in her bedroom, and you two were looking at each other like...well, you know.”

  At one time, Angel would have been pathetically happy to know Grace kept his picture in her bedroom. Not anymore. His hopes had been shot down, stamped on, and buried.

  Surprisingly, the sun hadn’t set yet when he was again back on the highway. A road he hadn’t ever expected to travel again. And he wondered how he’d managed, once again, to get himself involved in what they used to call in the navy a SNAFU. Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.

  Royally, he added.

  He heard thunder in the distance and a bolt of summer lightning crossed the sky. He was pretty sure it was an omen.

  Even Angels have bad moods...

  Emotions were banging off the wall this evening, Grace’s, most of all. In fact, her fragile nerves were close to breaking.

  There was no word yet on the location of George Smith.

  Her daughter hadn’t shown her face again. Anywhere.

  Police Lieutenant Clifford “Tank” Woodrow, a friend of John LeDeux, was hitting on her. Bigtime.

  Angel hadn’t come to the party. MIA.

  She was seriously considering a return to the convent. Well, not seriously, but life had definitely been more calm and uncomplicated back there.

  On a happy note, the scene when Grace, Tante Lulu, and Samantha Starr had arrived earlier to show the Duval children for the first time their new house had been touching beyond belief. They kept weeping and screaming for joy at every little thing they discovered. The sunny yellow paint in Lena’s small bedroom, the Hannah Montana curtains in Ella’s equally small bedroom, the two desks complete with new PCs in the large bedroom shared by Lionel and Miles, the shower stall and tub in one of the two bathrooms, along with a supply of bubble-bath products. Then there was the furniture. And St. Jude canisters. And a satellite dish.

  Dusk was coming quickly over the bayou. The sumptuous Cajun dinner was over, though snacks were still out, and drinks flowed, both alcoholic and nonalcoholic. Few people had left, all basking in the joy of a job well done. Some were dancing to the rowdy Cajun music in the living room and out on the deck that wrapped around three sides of the house. Occasionally, Ella, dressed to the hilt in Hannah Montana attire, would manage to sneak in a Miley Cyrus song. And Lionel, with all his piercings, was especially attractive to the young ladies present. Even Miles was coming out of his shell, as he smiled and was more talkative than usual. Especially heartening was to see Lena engaged as a girl her age should be in a little flirtation with Andy LeDeux, the young New Orleans Saints football player. Right now a fast rhythmic song about a Cajun guy being in the doghouse was playing, and every time the music came to the stanza, “Knock, knock, knock, let me come in,” everyone sang along.

  A crowd was forming around John LeDeux, who was dirty dancing around his seemingly uptight wife Celine, trying to get her to dance with him. “C’mon, chère,” he coaxed in an exaggerated Dennis Quaid Big Easy fashion, “show me your moves. You know which ones, darlin’. Oh, yeah!” The funny thing was that their son, Etienne, was dancing around both of them, and he wasn’t half bad.

  “That little one, he is gonna be wild when he grows up, jist like his daddy,” Tante Lulu predicted. She had come over to stand next to Grace, wearing her fais do do outfit, which, in her case, was a square-dancing dress, with big crinolines. On her feet were flat ballet slippers. On her head, which came up only to Grace’s shoulder, was a mass of blonde Shirley Temple curls, tied with a band of pink ribbon and a bow on top. A Lawrence Welk dancing hobbit.

  “Angel should be here,” Tante Lulu said.

  “Are you blaming me?”

  “If the thong fits.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Word’s gonna come out soon ’bout Andrea, sure as God made little St. Jude statues. I jist doan see why ya couldn’t tell the boy yerself.”

  “Maybe because he would judge me and deem me an unfit female and mother.”

  “You doan know that.”

  “I certainly judge myself by those criteria. But, really, I have too much going on right now...too many crises looming to even think about a relationship.”

  “Since when does love wait fer the right time? When the thunderbolt—”

  “Who said anything about love?”

  Tante Lulu gave her one of her looks, the one that said you couldn’t fool her. “Sweetie, yer like Job with all the problems of the world weighin’ ya down. That wall ’round you gots ta come down. Too late fer Angel, I ’spect, but mebbe there’s other apples in yer orchard.”

  All those misplaced metaphors were enough to make Grace dizzy. And even though Grace knew it was too late for Angel, she didn’t like anyone else saying so.

  Tante Lulu was looking over Grace’s shoulder and smiling.

  Half turning, Grace saw the six-foot-plus Tank looming.

  “I’m juicy,” he said. “You could just call me Delicious...or McIntosh.”

  “Oh, good grief!” He was referring to Tante Lulu’s orchard remark. “Do you ever give up?” she laughed.

  “And thick-skinned. You can climb my tree any time you want, sweetheart. Wanna dance?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Yes,” Tante Lulu answered for her at the same time. “Show her how ta booger, Tank, Cajun-style.” Then she walked off—to harass someone else, no doubt.

  “She means boogie,” Grace said.

  “I figured.” He smiled down at her.

  “Are you Cajun?”

  “Honorary. C’mon, they’ve slowed the music down. We won’t have to make fools of ourselves.”

  So, Grace found herself dancing with the handsome cop. Not as handsome as Angel, of course. Still, maybe he could take her mind off the mess that had become her life.

  “Is it true that you used to be a nun?”

  That again! Grace rolled her eyes. “Yes. A long time ago.”

  “I used to be a priest.”

  At first she just stared at him, slack-jawed. Then she laughed. “Nice try!”

  “Hey, can’t blame a guy for throwing a pitch.”

  “Some game! What is it with men and this sex-with-a-nun fixation?”

  “Good girl on the outside, bad girl on the inside. Ultimate male fantasy!”

  “Not mine!”

  He put both arms around her waist and tugged her closer, forcing her to link her hands behind his neck. “So what are your fantasies?” he purred into her ear, at the same time lowering his hands to her butt and pressing her even closer. She felt every button on his shirt, his belt buckle, and something down lower.

  “Not that fantasy,” she told him, grabbing his arms and pulling upward to remove his hands from forbidden territory.

  “You still hung up on that Angel dude?”

  “I’m not hung up on anyone,” she lied. “How about you? You hung up on anybody?”

  “Nah, I’m just hung. Oh, that was bad. Sorry.”

  She shook her head at his crudity, then had to move his hands off her butt again.

  “Uh-oh!”

  “What?”

  “I smell a halo burning.”

  “I’m no angel,” Grace protested.

  “Yeah, but he is.”

  Grace turned in Tank’s arms, and, yep, there stood Angel in the doorway, staring at her behind, then raising his eyes, glaring like she was a world-class slut—Bathsheba tempting David in the temple.

  Without preamble, he walked up and told Tank, “Get your frickin’ hands off her ass.”

  Then he pointed an angry finger at Grace. “Get your flirty ass in the kitchen. I have something to tell you.”

  Flirty ass? Grace was too shocked to speak.

  “That is one badass
angel,” Tank said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Chapter 16

  When Grace takes a dive, beware the big splash...

  Grace didn’t immediately follow Angel into the kitchen, which was a good thing. In his present mood, he might very well have throttled her.

  Everyone kept coming up to him, handing him a beer, shaking his hand, expressing thanks for his stopping by, congratulating him on a job well done with the house. No one mentioned his leaving the state, avoiding it like the big white elephant in the middle of the room. Except Tante Lulu.

  “Still runnin’ away t’morrow?”

  He had a hard time not gaping at her attire. Beverly Hillbillies meets the Little People. “I’m not running. I’m just—” He stopped himself. There was no point in arguing with the old fossil.

  “She loves you, y’know.”

  “She has a strange way of showin’ it. Anyhow, I’m way beyond that.”

  “Pfff!”

  “Sometimes a guy just needs to fish or cut bait. My fishing days with Grace are over.”

  “Here comes yer trout now.” Tante Lulu chuckled as Grace approached. “Doan she look pretty in that yellow sundress with the white polka dots? Sorta like a red-haired speckled pup.”

  Not exactly the way he would describe her, since her outfit was strapless, with built-in cups on top and a wide belt cinching the waist, leading to a full, swishy above-knee-length skirt.

  “I don’t appreciate you giving me freakin’ orders,” Grace said right off.

  “I don’t appreciate the frickin’ way you’ve messed up my life,” Angel said right off.

  “And I don’t appreciate yer language, either one of y’all,” Tante Lulu said.

  “Me? What I’ve done?” Grace squawked as his words sank in.

  He grabbed her by the forearm and hauled her into the laundry room, just off the kitchen, slamming the door behind him, leaving behind a disgruntled Tante Lulu, who would have loved to be a third party to their argument.

  “Are you insane?” Grace yanked her arm out of his grasp and smacked him on the shoulder to emphasize her irritation.

  Propping her against the opposite wall in the small room, he tried to tamp down his temper. “I must be insane to be wasting my time on you.”

  “Who asked you to? I thought you’d be off to wider horizons by now, marrying another stewardess.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “They don’t call them stewardesses anymore. That’s considered sexist. They’re flight attendants. Besides, I’m aiming for a model this time. Or an actress.”

  “Oh? And is the only criterion an empty head?”

  “As long as she’s not a redhead.”

  She inhaled and exhaled several times. “What’s your problem, anyway? Why did you come back?”

  “For you.”

  She gasped and went into her stiff-as-a-poker, I-told-you-I-don’t-love-you demeanor.

  “Not for that, Grace. If you really want to know, I came here baited for bear, red-haired bear; truth be told, after spending half the day with your daughter, only to find you sucking tonsils with some Cajun boy toy.”

  “More like man toy,” she goaded him.

  “Believe me, babe, you do not want to goad me today.”

  “And I was not sucking—” Her eyes went wide and she put a hand over her cups...uh, heart, as understanding seeped in. Then she moaned. “You know about my daughter?”

  The tears welling in her eyes made them look like deep green pools seen through a hazy fog. And her lips were quivering.

  He refused to be swayed from his fury. “Yeah, imagine that! Now I’m not the only one this side of the Mason-Dixon Line left in the dark. Your big fat hairy secret is out, sweetheart.”

  “I never meant to exclude you. I just—”

  “Save it, Grace. I’m not interested in your lame excuses. The only reason I’m here is to arrange for you to meet your daughter. Then I’m out of here, for good.”

  “Andrea wants to meet me?”

  “Yeah, but don’t go getting all warm and fuzzy. She probably wants to tell you what a lousy excuse for a mother you are.”

  Grace winced. “Did she say that?”

  “Pretty much. As far as she’s concerned, you gave her away because you couldn’t be bothered and haven’t had a second thought since. In fact, you would have had an abortion, except you waited too long. Furthermore, she was told that you were a slut who had slept with so many boys you didn’t know who the father was. Does wild teenager ring a bell with you?”

  Grace inhaled sharply. “Oh, my God!” Then she inhaled sharply again. “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  She held herself tightly with arms folded over her chest and rocked back and forth in distress.

  There was a knock on the door. If it was Tante Lulu, he might very well pop her into the dryer and turn on the spin cycle. Knock a little sense into the interfering lady.

  But it wasn’t Tante Lulu. John popped his head in. “Angel?”

  “Not now, LeDeux.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” John said, clearly not sorry at all if the grin on his face was any indication.

  “I mean it, LeDeux. Get lost.”

  “I’ve gotta leave, but Luc asked me to give you something before he went home. I probably won’t see you again before you head back to Jersey tomorrow.” Digging in his pocket, he pulled out some playing cards, five of them, which he fanned out. A queen-high full house, three queens and two tens.

  “What the hell? Why would Luc give me these? And why now?”

  John shrugged. “He said you would understand.”

  Grace made a small sound of distress behind him. He turned to look at her and saw her staring, red-faced, at the cards he held. Where a few minutes ago her expressive face had reflected the pain of her daughter’s opinion of her, now she was mortally embarrassed.

  Why? He turned to LeDeux again for answers.

  “Yankee men are so thick, I swear y’all could take lessons from southern men. Especially us Cajuns. Do you need a thunderbolt to open yer closed mind, cher?” On those words, he had the good sense to leave before Angel belted him a good one.

  And suddenly Angel saw the light. Slowly, he turned his attention back to Grace, who would have bolted if he wasn’t closest to the door.

  “Grace?”

  She refused to look at him.

  He walked over and tipped her chin up so that he could see her reaction to the question humming in his brain. “Call me crazy, but was this your final hand in the poker tournament?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  She was lying. The blush on her face and the nervous fluttering of her fingers gave her away.

  Okay, these were the facts occurring to him like dominoes flipping over:

  —Grace claimed not to be in love with him.

  —Grace had kept the news about her daughter a secret from him.

  —Even if they were only friends, lack of trust was a relationship killer.

  —Grace, who had always been the soul of honesty when it came to card playing, had deliberately taken a dive in the poker game with him.

  —Grace had a daughter.

  On the other hand:

  —Grace had deliberately chosen to make love with him. How amazing was that?

  —Grace had not wanted him to find out.

  —Grace must have strong feelings for him, maybe even...

  —Grace had a daughter.

  What does it mean?

  His emotions had reached critical mass. Hurt, anger, disappointment, wounded pride, but also hope, and, maybe, still love. Or maybe not.

  But all he could say was, “Grace, you are going to be the death of me yet.”

  Bless me, Father...uh, Angel...for I have sinned...

  Warily, Grace walked around Angel’s motel room.

  Warily because Angel now knew her secret—well, most of it—and already he seemed to be judging her and findin
g her wanting. Wary because there was only one double bed, which posed some interesting possibilities. And wary because on the other side of the wall was her daughter, sound asleep now but capable of awakening at any moment.

  Grace was not prepared for any of those events.

  “The bathroom’s all yours,” Angel said. He had one towel wrapped around his waist and was using another to towel-dry his hair. The scent of fragrant soap, or shampoo, filled the air. And his belly button drew her eye like an erotic magnet.

  “I don’t have anything to sleep in,” she croaked, not about to bring up the sleeping accommodations. Let him be the one to decide.

  He rooted in a rolling duffel bag and pulled out a light blue Jinx, Inc. T-shirt. Despite its extra-large size, it would probably only hit the top of her thighs. Oh, well.

  “First, can I...can I see her?” Angel had already informed her that Andrea was expecting to meet her for the first time in the morning.

  “She might wake up. Are you prepared to talk tonight?”

  She shook her head, but then she persisted, “I’ll be real quiet, and I won’t turn on a light, other than the one in this room.”

  He hesitated, then opened the door, stepping back so that she could go through.

  Grace’s heart was beating so fast she could scarcely breathe. Andrea’s hair was red, like hers, but long, probably down to her shoulders, and no frizzy curls, thank you, God! Wearing an Atlanta Falcons football jersey with nylon boxers, Andrea was lying on her back with her arms thrown over her head. The covers had been tossed off.

  “She’s beautiful,” Grace whispered.

  Angel walked up on silent bare feet to stand beside her and nodded. “She looks like you, only a little taller.”

  “And thinner,” she observed.

  He chuckled under his breath. “She even snores like you.”

  “I do not snore,” she protested as he prodded her back to the other room with a hand at the small of her back. “Yeah, you do, but it’s more a snuffle than a snore.”

  “We know each other too well.”

  “Ain’t that the sorry truth?”

  She hadn’t meant it as an insult.

  Grace took a shower then. A long, contemplative shower until the hot water began to run tepid. Still no answer about what to do, but she felt more calm and resigned to accept what fate would throw her way. She did have the good sense to say a quick prayer to St. Jude to help her.