by Sandra Hill
When she opened her eyes, she about fell off the table. Roy was indeed a “Roy,” as in Roy Rogers. Honestly, what kind of masseur wore low-riding jeans, a cowboy hat and boots, and no shirt, just one of those handkerchiefs tied around his neck? Charmaine’s kind, she immediately answered herself.
“Is this a joke? Like one of those stripper surprise-party thingees?”
He laughed as he began to lay out his goods—oils, loofas, and other scary things, including something that resembled a vibrator with pointy, fat rubber bristles. “No, I’m not a stripper. I’m a licensed massage therapist, working on my doctorate in sports medicine at Tulane.”
“Are you sure you’re not a Chippendale dancer?”
“I can barely do a line dance.”
Like dancing is the most important asset for a Chippendale!
“One of the Village People?”
“I’m not gay.” His chin went up with pride. “Do you want to request a different therapist? I often get your reaction. People tend to judge by appearances.”
Oh, that was a neat verbal maneuver. Perfect way of backing her into a corner. “Of course not. Let’s get on with it.” But if you call me ma’am even one time, I’m outta here.
She barely squeaked when he flicked on the tape deck, not to soothing ocean sounds, but a country music CD, Rascal Flatts singing “I Melt.” Just a coincidence, she was sure.
As he began to work her shoulders with oily fingers, humming along to the music, she did squeak and gasp out, “I don’t suppose we could get a picture of you giving me a massage.”
“That’s some turnaround.” He chuckled. “I don’t know. Why?”
“There’s someone I’d like to send it to.”
Chapter 21
Everything was turning out just ducky...
Angel was returning to Louisiana for the second time since he’d left Grace’s cottage two weeks ago.
When he’d been back last week, he’d met with a realtor and an architect. Just one of the ducks he’d needed to put in a row.
Another duck had been the sale of his Jersey condo. He’d expected to just list it, with most of the furnishings, but because of its prime oceanfront location, it sold in two days. For a cool million. A clean cut from all his East Coast ties.
He was driving his pickup truck, loaded with clothes and personal belongings he wanted to keep, towing his Harley. He’d sold his vintage Corvette. A very expensive “duck.”
Nesting in his glove compartment was another duck, this one bearing the name of Cartier. Though he would always have a fondness for Walmart.
He’d even checked on Grace’s parents and found they were both dead, for more than five years now. Sad to say, no great loss.
He’d made a stop in Philly before beginning this final road trip to take care of the Greek duck, who’d been very interested to learn he had a daughter. Angel hadn’t been sure how he would react, and he’d wanted to spare Grace and Andrea the hurt if there was to be a rejection.
Angel was making sure that all of Grace’s loose ends were tied up before he hit her with his agenda. But that had been one duck that might very well waddle back to bite him in the butt. Alexander Pappas was divorced, good-looking, if you liked Greek gods, and wanted to know way too much about Grace. When Angel turned a bit uncooperative—okay, surly—Alex asked what his connection was to Grace. And Angel had answered unabashedly, “Fiancé.” That wasn’t really a lie. Quack, quack!
So he was finally, finally back in Louisiana, about to put all his cards on the table and hopefully hit the jackpot. He passed Tante Lulu and Grace’s cottages on Bayou Black. No cars in either driveway, but then, he hadn’t expected any. There was a foundation board meeting in New Orleans today. Continuing about a half mile past Grace’s place but not as far as Remy’s, he pulled a hard left onto an overgrown dirt road that led to Sweetland, a decrepit, falling-down Creole mansion that had once belonged to a sugar planter—before the Civil War, no doubt. In the bayou tropical climate, it hadn’t taken much to make a once-beautiful setting look like a jungle, but it was still possible to see its underlying beauty. In fact, he had pictures of the way it had been back then. Once cleared there would be a wide alleé leading down to Bayou Black under the canopy of twenty enormous live oak trees, probably two hundred years old, which formed once majestic columns on either side. The house itself was white under all the grime, with intricate fretwork, broken in places, and an ornate slate roof in remarkably good condition. It was three-storied with two wide staircases on either side of the front, meeting in the center of the second, or main, floor of the house. There were many outbuildings, including some that had been slave quarters at one time.
Angel had passed this fallen monument to the Old South every time he’d gone back and forth to Remy’s houseboat. He had to admit, the house and surrounding land gave the term fixer-upper a laughable new meaning. And snakes...man, oh, man, reptiles had a regular commune going here. Still, something about the property pulled at him. He wondered if it would pull at Grace, too. He hoped so, because as of today, he was the proud owner.
He undid the hitch and put the motorcycle in one of the sturdier sheds. It would probably be covered with snakes by the time he got back. Note to self: Buy a machete—or snake mace. He was going to stop at Grace’s cottage to take a quick shower and change his clothes. He knew where the key was hidden.
Then: Time to go tell Grace a story about ducks.
He had something sweet to show her...
Two weeks had gone by, and Grace was entering the Starr building in New Orleans for a foundation meeting. Andrea had dropped her off before going to the LSU campus in Baton Rouge for some advanced freshman placement testing. Andrea and Andy LeDeux were going out to eat somewhere afterward before heading back to Bayou Black. Tante Lulu and Remy had offered Grace a ride back.
In fact, Tante Lulu had advised her to wear a “party dress,” since they would be going to Remy’s house for cocktails and a buffet dinner to celebrate something or other. Tante Lulu wasn’t exactly clear what.
So, Grace was wearing her white halter sundress with the red peonies, despite the memories associated with it. Maybe she would meet some new guy tonight and make new memories for the dress. Maybe even Tank. On the other hand, maybe not. The thought of making love with anyone other than Angel, or even going to the trouble of starting a new relationship, was oddly repugnant. Still, she had to start somewhere. Just not yet.
Grace took a seat at the table next to Tante Lulu, who squeezed her forearm in greeting. Luckily, the meeting was just starting.
There were only nine people here today, and Grace suspected that Samantha was disappointed at Daniel’s absence, even if only because she liked to needle him. Aside from Grace and Tante Lulu, on their side of the table were Luc, René, and Remy. On the Starr side were Samantha, Stanley, Aunt Dot, and Angus.
After reading the minutes from the last meeting, Aunt Dot called on the treasurer. Angus, the computer techie, gave them figures on how much had been earned from various sources—donations, the Swamp Tavern auction, the poker tournament, bank interest—offset by expenditures, mostly for Starr Wishes at this point. Samantha asked Tante Lulu to report on the Duval children, even though they weren’t specifically a project of the Hope Foundation.
Tante Lulu stood, her proud little figure adorned in her very own version of party attire—a dressy lavender pantsuit with matching low-heeled pumps and, yes, lavender-tinted gray hair. Lavender enamel covered her fingernails, which had little painted violets on them. She must have spent the entire morning in Charmaine’s beauty salon.
Stanley’s white suit had a lavender-sprayed carnation in the lapel. That must mean he would be coming with them to the party. To her chagrin, she had to admit these two senior citizens were having more luck in the love department than she was, though that image didn’t bear much deliberation.
“The chillen are fine,” Tante Lulu concluded after telling them all that had been done, highlighting with gle
e her jail stint for justice. “We learned lots of stuff from this project,” she said. “Mostly that we gotta do more ta keep families t’gether before it reaches a crisis like the Duvals. We’re workin’ on ideas.” She beamed as everyone applauded her efforts before she sat down.
Then came a discussion of the Arnaud family and what the foundation might be able to do for them. They were going to be so pleased.
Samantha reported on wishes that had been granted that month, and date-important ones—as in, terminal illnesses—that were coming up. Aunt Dot told them about her efforts to create a database of families with critical needs.
“What we need is a house or sumpin’ where families kin go ’til somethin’ permanent is available,” Tante Lulu interjected. “Sorta like a halfway house.” The strange thing was that Tante Lulu stared at Grace meaningfully as she made this statement.
Grace was so bemused by that prospect that at first she didn’t realize someone had slipped into the chair next to her. She smelled his aftershave before she realized who it was.
“Hi, honey. I’m back.”
Slowly, inch by inch, she turned to see Angel sitting there, a clean-shaven, hair-trimmed, neatly-dressed-in-golf-shirt-and-khakis Angel, who had the nerve to wink at her. The jerk! To the others at the table he said, “Sorry I’m late,” even as he was reaching for Grace’s hand.
Without thinking, she smacked him on the chest, so hard he was knocked back and his chair tipped over, landing him on the floor. As he stood, adjusting his chair, the fool grinned at her. “I missed you, too, baby.”
Everyone in the room was staring at them as if they were crazy.
They were. At least, she felt crazy.
“Guess you’re not gonna pucker up.”
“Get lost,” she hissed under her breath, turning her attention back to the table. “Get on with the meeting,” she directed Aunt Dot.
“Uh...well, uh, as I was saying—” Aunt Dot sputtered.
“Let’s get out of here.” Angel was leaning close to her ear, a hand on her shoulder.
She pointedly removed his hand. “Touch me again and I’ll bite off your fingers, one by one.”
“Maybe we should adjourn ’til later,” Samantha suggested.
“No, that’s okay.” Grace was mortified to be causing so much distraction, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“Grace and I will step outside for a minute,” Angel said.
“Over my dead body. Hey! Stop it.” He had lifted her bodily from her chair and tossed her over his shoulder, her dress having ridden up so high her butt was practically exposed.
“Dare I hope you’re not wearing underwear?” Angel said to her butt.
They created quite a scene as she yelled and kicked the whole way down in the elevator, through the lobby, and out to the parking lot. “I’m going to kill you,” she warned when he opened the passenger door on his truck, the bed of which was loaded and covered with a tarp. Before she could escape, he shut the door and clicked the child-lock mechanism, which precluded her jumping out.
Once he came around the driver’s side and was behind the steering wheel, he inhaled and exhaled several times before turning in the seat to stare at her. “I’m back.”
“Big deal!”
He laughed. The jerk laughed, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily, then set her back, before she could whack him a good one.
Turning on the motor, he pulled out of the parking lot. “Put on your seat belt, honey.”
“Where are we going?”
“Bayou Black. I have something to show you.”
“You have nothing that I want to see.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive. Where the hell have you been?”
“Jersey, Philly, other places. I had lots to do.”
What had he been doing—especially in Philly? But she was too proud to ask.
“I sold my condo, most of the furnishings, my Corvette, and my fishing boat.”
“You sold your Corvette? You love that Corvette.”
“I love other things more.”
That was such a loaded remark she didn’t dare ask what he meant.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you by staying away so long.”
“Were you punishing me?”
He frowned his confusion.
“For turning you down last year?”
“I didn’t think of that. If I had—no, I needed to make a complete break with my East Coast life.”
“Did you get my messages?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t call you back. I was afraid you would try to talk me out of what I was doing. I had to get my”—he grinned at her—“ducks in a row.”
With a killing glower, she told him what he could do with his duck, and it rhymed. After that, she refused to talk to him for the long drive back to Houma, then on to Bayou Black. When they passed Tante Lulu’s cottage, and hers, too, Grace looked at him. “Where are we going?”
“Decided to talk to me again, huh?”
“You are really annoying me.”
“In a good way, or a bad way?”
“Aaarrgh!”
“I love it when you growl.” He pulled onto a dirt road that had a broken-down sign saying “Sweetland.” When he was up to the small clearing in front of a mansion, he stopped the motor. “We’re here.”
“Here where?”
“Home.”
“Whaaat?”
“I bought this place.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Can’t you see the potential?”
“What I see is a million-dollar redo. In fact, a complete teardown.”
His shoulders drooped.
Grace stared at him. She was so angry, and so glad, to have him back. She could tell that her lack of enthusiasm hurt him, but why was it so important to him that she like this dump?
With a deep sigh, he got out of the truck and came around to open her door. “I’ll show you around.”
“Is it safe?”
He grinned at her. “Mostly, except for the snakes. I’ve given names to some of the bigger ones. Wait ’til you meet Wilbur.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Nope. Now, first, look at the house. Really look at it.” He pulled a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to her. “This is the way it will look when I’m done.”
Okay, it had been a charming mansion in its day. “When? Twenty years from now?”
“Oh, you of little faith!”
“And you have so much faith all of a sudden?”
“I got religion, thanks to Tante Lulu.”
“Does she know about this?”
“As of this morning she does.”
Something occurred to her suddenly. “Is this why you’ve been in contact with Realtor Barbie?”
“Yeah.”
She smacked him on the shoulder.
He pretended that it hurt. “What was that for?”
“For making me think you were a two-timing son of a—”
“You were jealous?” He kissed her, short and quick, jumping back before she could slap him again. “Anyhow, be careful on the steps. If you walk over here, closer to the house, they’re more sturdy.” When they got to the top and what would be a wide covered verandah or galleria that went all around the house, repeated on the third floor, he told her, “This is the main floor,” he said, after they entered the double front doors. “Down below on ground level are the kitchens, storerooms, servants’ quarters, and so on. Up here are a ballroom, salons or living rooms, and a dining room. The next floor has six bedrooms.” Grace looked around the foyer and had to admit, the house had some merits. Though painted over, the carved woodwork and the banister leading to the second floor were magnificent.
“Some famous furniture maker, when he was down and out, did all the interior woodwork and the fancy fretwork outside.”
“They could be restored,” she murmured as she continued the tour.
The random pla
nk cypress flooring was also battered and stained but intact. Walking around slowly, she noticed the ceiling medallions and crown molding. The marble fireplaces. The old windows, in some cases ten feet high, with wavy glass, but beautiful, looking out onto what had once been gardens, overgrown now, but showing color here and there, especially the various roses.
“There’s a bunch of interesting stuff in the attic. I decided to wait to open it with you.”
She nodded.
He took that for another positive sign. Please God! When they were standing in a back bedroom, he pointed to a bunch of buildings some distance from the house. “The old slave quarters,” he said. “I’m thinking about making them into bungalows, complete with little kitchens and bathrooms.”
“I don’t understand any of this.” She turned to look at him.
He inhaled deeply, for courage. This was do-or-die time for him. He had to get the words just right. He took both her hands in his and was encouraged by the fact that she didn’t draw away. “I want you, Gracie. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember. But I knew as long as I had the fallback position of a home and job back in Jersey I would never be committed to moving forward. With you.”
She said nothing, but at least she hadn’t shot him down. Yet.
“I tried to think what I could do if I moved here. I knew you wouldn’t want to leave Tante Lulu and the traiteur work, not to mention your daughter. You need a stable home base. I do, too, by the way. Anyhow, I decided I like working on houses, and I think I would have a talent for restoration. What I don’t know, I could learn.”
“But why such a big place?”
He saw the fear in her eyes. “I want kids, Grace, but they’re not a necessity. Andrea would be enough. Still, I have to tell you, I would do my best to convince you that one—okay, two—more babies would make a great family for us.”
Tears pooled in her eyes, and fear. So he barreled ahead, to get to the good stuff.
“How would you feel about us providing temporary homes”—he waved to the slave quarters—“to families in crisis?”
